Sometimes I write, not for me, not for you but for the words. The words that stay huddled inside me, playing millions of games, weaving stories, singing poems, whispering to me their innate desires of embracing the blank page lying in front of me. But that’s not how it is most of the times; there are days when I struggle, a part of me die, as I lie on the bed and watch those blank pages cry; these are the days I try to pour out the emotions I’ve locked inside me only to pick few and make sense out of them. Sometime I do, sometimes I don’t.
And there are nights, when all that comes out are few sighs devoid of any kind of emotion or words, like an ode to the perfect abyss I hide inside me. These are the times I struggle the most; the times they describe as the writer’s block.
But these are the times, which remind me of the sun that shines every morning questioning me if I’d pen down its rays on the paper. There’s this dry leaf lying by the windowsill, it stares at me innocently, wondering if I would be the one who writes the tale of the fallen leaf. There are strangers dropping words and stories at every corner of the street, and who am I to not pick them up? The wind that blows and knows all the secrets from the far away land, who am I to not hear those whispers and tell them to the world? I have a night sky full of stars aligning themselves to form the most beautiful dreams, those dreams fall from the sky and take form of the words. Who am I to not read them? I am nothing.
I am nothing in the grand scheme of things, and this is my last chance. I have to give these words a shape, a story, and maybe, they’ll carry me with them forever. If I don’t, someone else will.
So that’s why I write, not for me, not for you but for the words.