Writer's confession
AVOIDING WRITING, LIVING AND WHY IS IT ESSENTIAL FOR SOUL? Again a white unharmed page stares back at me. Again I don't want to ruin it with my interpretations of things, because that's the excuse I use most of the days for not picking up the pen, for not ruining a page. Who needs to know what I think? Why does it even matter? Isn't that what everything narrows down in the end, mattering! For a better part of my time, that's how I convince myself to not think about that itch in my hand, that continuous knock on the door. Leave it, don't pay attention. And by the simplest act of ignoring I let those ideas rot, turning themselves into black tar, tar that covers every inch of my brain's room. Because believe me I have let a lot of those ideas there, waiting for them to decompose, giving them time, not to bake but to end. I have never been gentle with those stories. I have starved them of an audience, I have locked them away labelling them too personal to share,