Sometimes I feel dead inside. A feeling of nothingness lurks me from around the corner, grabs my senses and throws me into a void. I write the feeling away. The keyboard becomes my best friend and every word pulls me back into this crowded world.
Many people ask me when do I write? Why do I write? Do I have a schedule? Do I have a plan?
I never know how to answer that question. I sometimes believe that I can write myself away; divide myself into little pieces and place them neatly on a page for others to discover. Writing has always been a part of me; you cannot schedule a piece of yourself, just like you cannot schedule your feelings towards something, someone. I write to unleash my darkness, to fill that void, to feel alive. I write when nothing else makes sense except my fingers racing on the keyboard. I write because I need to.
Everything we do is a choice. Every frown, smile, touch, gesture is a choice. Every word we speak out loud is a choice. Most of the times we hate those choices and most of the times we try to take the easy way out. There is no easy way out. That’s just a beautiful mirage created by our twisted selves.
So, why do I write? I need words to fill my life; because stories make us who we are; because shelves would feel lost and sad; because this is who I am and what I chose to be.
Why do you do what you do?