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[2kriti]

I know exactly what I would do with immortality: I would read every book in the library.

Mark Jason Dominus (via wordsnquotes)

[2kriti]

About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter

BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI

he lives in a house with a swimming pool

and says the job is

killing him.

he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to

get rid of

him. his novels keep coming

back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams

“go to New York and pump the hands of the

publishers?”

“no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a

small room and do the

thing.”

“but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to

go by, some word, some sign!”

“some men did not think that way:

Van Gogh, Wagner—”

“oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him

paints whenever he

needed them!”

“look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and

this guy walks in. a salesman. you know

how they talk. drove up in this new

car. talked about his vacation. said he went to

Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who

wrote it. now this guy is 54 years

old. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s only

opera.’ and then I told

him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he

asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and

you don’t know anything!’”

“what happened

then?”

“I walked out.”

“you mean you left him there with

her?”

“yes.”

“I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a

job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and

they think right away, ah ha! he’s too intelligent for

this job, he won’t stay

so there’s really no sense in hiring

him.

now, YOU walk into a place and you don’t have any trouble:

you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a

job and they look at you and they think:

ah ha!: now here’s a guy who really needs work! if we hire

him he’ll stay a long time and work

HARD!”

“do any of those people,” he asks “know you are a

writer, that you write poetry?”

“no.”

“you never talk about

it. not even to

me! if I hadn’t seen you in that magazine I’d

have never known.”

“that’s right.”

“still, I’d like to tell these people that you are a

writer.”

“I’d still like to

tell them.”

“why?”

“well, they talk about you. they think you are just a

horseplayer and a drunk.”

“I am both of those.”

“well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you travel alone.

I’m the only friend you

have.”

“yes.”

“they talk you down. I’d like to defend you. I’d like to tell

them you write

poetry.”

“leave it alone. I work here like they

do. we’re all the same.”

“well, I’d like to do it for myself then. I want them to know why

I travel with

you. I speak 7 languages, I know my music—”

“forget it.”

“all right, I’ll respect your

wishes. but there’s something else—”

“what?”

“I’ve been thinking about getting a

piano. but then I’ve been thinking about getting a

violin too but I can’t make up my

mind!”

“buy a piano.”

“you think

so?”

“yes.”

he walks away

thinking about

it.

I was thinking about it

too: I figure he can always come over with his

violin and more

sad music.

[2kriti]

If you are a writer, and you have a novel idea that you are excited about writing, write it. Don’t go on message boards and ask random Internet denizens whether or not something is allowed. … Who is the writer here? YOU ARE. Whose book is it? YOUR BOOK. There are no writing police. No one is going to arrest you if you write a teen vampire novel post Twilight. No one is going to send you off to a desert island to live a wretched life of worm eating and regret because your book includes things that could be seen as cliché. If you have a book that you want to write, just write the damn thing. Don’t worry about selling it; that comes later. Instead, worry about making your book good. Worry about the best way to order your scenes to create maximum tension, worry about if your character’s actions are actually in character; worry about your grammar. DON’T worry about which of your stylistic choices some potential future editor will use to reject you, and for the love of My Little Ponies don’t worry about trends. Trying to catching a trend is like trying to catch a falling knife—dangerous, foolhardy, and often ending in tears, usually yours. I’m not saying you shouldn’t pay attention to what’s getting published; keeping an eye on what’s going on in your market is part of being a smart and savvy writer. But remember that every book you see hitting the shelves today was sold over a year ago, maybe two. Even if you do hit a trend, there’s no guarantee the world won’t be totally different by the time that book comes out. The only certainty you have is your own enthusiasm and love for your work. … If your YA urban fantasy features fairies, vampires, and selkies and you decide halfway through that the vampires are over-complicating the plot, that is an appropriate time to ax the bloodsuckers. If you decide to cut them because you’re worried there are too many vampire books out right now, then you are betraying yourself, your dreams, and your art. If you’re like pretty much every other author in the world, you became a writer because you had stories you wanted to tell. Those are your stories, and no one can tell them better than you can. So write your stories, and then edit your stories until you have something you can be proud of. Write the stories that excite you, stories you can’t wait to share with the world because they’re just so amazing. If you want to write Murder She Wrote in space with anime-style mecha driven by cats, go for it. Nothing is off limits unless you do it badly. And if you must obsess over something, obsess over stuff like tension and pacing and creating believable characters. You know, the shit that matters. There are no writing police. This is your story, no one else’s. Tell it like you want to.

Rachel Aaron (via relatedworlds)

Yeah, so, this answers a lot of asks I get. It’s also why YW focuses on technique and style, and less on content and research.

(via clevergirlhelps)

This is so important

(via freddlounds)

File this under things I don’t remember reblogging, and another post where my comment isn’t sourced (but obv it was me cause it says YW!).

(via yeahwriters)

[2kriti]

"Throw up into your typewriter every morning. Clean up every noon."

Happy Birthday, Raymond Chandler!

[2kriti]

Graduating soon? Here are 5 Pieces of Advice Likely to Be Ignored by New Grads. (Don’t worry it will all make sense in a few years.) Oh, and congratulations! 

[2kriti]

Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.

Benjamin Franklin (via observando)

[2kriti]

If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at, You can let them look at you. But do not mistake eyes for hands, Or windows or mirrors. Let them see what a woman looks like. They may not have ever seen one before. If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch, You can let them touch you. Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for. Sometimes it is a bottle, a door, a sandwich, a Pulitzer, another woman -  But their hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian, or a muse, or a promise, or a victim or a snack. You are a woman - Skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweat You are not made of metaphors, Not apologies, not excuses. If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold, You can let them hold you. All day they practice keeping their bodies upright. Even after all this evolving it still feels unnatural, Still strains the muscles, holds firm the arms and spine. Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you, Admit they don’t have the answers they thought they would by now. Some men will want to hold you like the answer. You are not the answer. You are not the problem.  You are not the poem, or the punchline, or the riddle, or the joke. Woman, if you grow up the type of woman men want to love, You can let them love you. Being loved is not the same thing as loving. When you fall in love, It is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping. It is realising you have hands. It is reaching for the tightrope after the crowds have all gone home.

Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of woman men will hurt. If he leaves you with a car alarm heart, You learn to sing along. It is hard to stop loving the ocean, Even after it’s left you gasping, salty. So forgive yourself for the decisions you’ve made, The ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night, And know this. Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours. Let the statues crumble. You have always been the place. You are a woman who can build it yourself. You are born to build.

[2kriti]

Letters I wrote, never meaning to send..

[2kriti]

Sometimes the aromas waft into the brain unlocking hidden corners of ideas..

[2kriti]

Awesome Prompt - Part 1

Fiction Prompt

Our characters reveal themselves through their actions--not only in dramatic scenes that involve death, injury, or heartache, but in small, subtle ways too. Show how a character in your fiction eats. Is the character's demeanor ravenous and paranoid or slow and sophisticated? How your character eats, appreciates, and relates to food reveals much about his or her upbringing, emotional state, and intellectual disposition.

----------

Going to attempt this later today!

[2kriti]

A Personal Letter

I was coming home on a Saturday night after a late night out of wining and dining with friends. It was past midnight and the next subway train was 15 minutes away. 15 minutes of waiting in New York seems like a lifetime. And that too for a subway. I wasn't sure how I would get through what seemed like a sheer torture of a situation. I would have to play mindless candy crush until I got home (probably an hour later after boarding the train).

And so I slowly trudged over to the benches hoping to find an empty seat, but not expecting it. I saw that 4 out of 5 seats were occupied and the fifth one had a magazine over it that seemed like it held someone's place. I took a chance and asked the two people sitting next to it if the seat belonged to a friend of theirs, if the magazine was somehow associated with them. They said no, I seized the opportunity and sat down.

I was about to discard the magazine, but I decided to read it instead. At first I studied the pictures intensely. I could feel the guy sitting next to me judging me for staring at photographs as though I was stupid. But to be honest, I had to kill 1 hour and 13 minutes and I wanted to minimize my candy crush time. As I stared, I found myself fascinated with the pictures. It was a photo essay about Americans who were living Kerouac-esque lives. Not caring about money, travelling with their dogs, boyfriends, spouses, strangers. How do some people live so differently in this world that is all the same for everyone?

And then, before I knew it, I was drawn deep into the static written word. I had almost forgotten what it was like to read on paper. Forgotten the idea of getting lost in someone else's thoughts. I mean isn't that why we love literature in the first place? It gives a break from your self? And what's so wonderful is that you don't know what's going to happen. You cannot imagine where it will go. And so often, it takes you somewhere new. I miss that sense of a wild journey with consequences previously unthinkable. 

So I read about a military man dating a pacifist. A poor person, smart but unable to afford education battling with the daily struggles of life. Perhaps my favorite was a short personal essay titled Two-Wheeled Greek Chorus. 

The last piece I read was an account of a girl being pushed in to the world of social media. A 10 page fiction piece. I got off the subway, still 3 pages to go. I walked up 6 blocks on Lenox Avenue, head buried in paper. As I got to my apartment, I stopped on the street outside and finished the story before turning the lock and entering my home. 

[2kriti]

Sometimes the world should be a little blurry and a little dreamy...after all, that is what stories are made of.

[2kriti]

What Sanskrit has meant to me

Such an interesting article about language and its evolution!

[2kriti]

The Last Leaf (By O Henry)

Posting this because I've been meaning to read it for a while now.

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account! So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony." At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted. That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places." Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house. One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow. "She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?" "She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue. "Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?" "A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind." "Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten." After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime. Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep. She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature. As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward. "Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together. Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks. "What is it, dear?" asked Sue. "Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now." "Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie." "Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?" "Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self." "You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too." "Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down." "Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly. "I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves." "Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves." "Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back." Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above. Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker. Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings. "Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy." "She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet." "You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes." Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock. When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade. "Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper. Wearily Sue obeyed. But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground. "It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time." "Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?" But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed. The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves. When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised. The ivy leaf was still there. Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove. "I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook." And hour later she said: "Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples." The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left. "Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable." The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all." And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all. "I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."

[2kriti]

Wanna be a writer? Find a different way to say “I’m going to the store” every single time you say it. Come up with nicknames for all of your friends. Ask people questions, welcome conversation from an outside perspective, do not drop a topic until you are satisfied. For every different room in which you find yourself on every single day, point out at least one thing that is there, but shouldn’t be there, and why it shouldn’t be there. Then take maybe ten minutes a week to get it down on the page. Writing only takes a long time when the only time you think about writing is when you are writing.

Toni Morrison (via ethiopienne)

[2kriti]

Pink Voices - A Poem

  She walks around

Only to see

Pale pale blue mixed with cherry

Falling down

There is no need

Lavender and aubergine

Pastel rain on a tea green leaf

The grey ground of a thief

Azure clouds of the evening sky

Lemon yellow shy

Green stripes and black peas

White white day and red hot chillies

Hell or heaven, alive or dead

She hears pink voices in her head

Fluorescent blinks

And a shudder

Peaches plums and another

Candy green ink

Rainbows cover

A chocolate skinned lover

Pastel rain on a tea green leaf

The grey ground of a thief

Azure clouds of the evening sky

Lemon yellow shy

Green stripes and black peas

White white day and red hot chillies

Hell or heaven, alive or dead

She hears pink voices in her head

[2kriti]

How I Became a Writer

I think I’m a good person. I care about the people I love. I try to be the best I can be. Sometimes, I will do things that I don’t want to only because I see why they might be necessary. I also believe in things. There are things that matter to me. Like love and equality. Like dreams and raindrops. Music, literature and an undying love for numbers. 

But sometimes I can be very selfish. And even though I am never selfish with people, I think the things I’m selfish about hurt me the most in the long run.

I discovered that I loved writing when I had my first fight with my best friend at age 13. I wrote a poem that was just bare emotions. Even now, 13 years later, I’m proud of myself for not rhyming the words. Not mincing time and forcing it to fit a mold. I wrote as I felt. Emotions dripped on a page till it tore into small pieces. And while you couldn’t read the words anymore, the feelings were everywhere. And I had felt better. But I didn’t call myself a writer then.

Then I reached 16. That wonderful age when the world begins to open up. When you know you’re destined for great things. I felt and dreamed as I never had before. 16 was wonderful! I stood up for myself for the first time. People respected me. I met my real best friend – the one that will probably know me better than myself. Till death do us part. We explored the world together, challenged each other. And I had so many thoughts and emotions and feelings. I hated the world! I loved the world. Everything was felt so intensely. And when my thoughts couldn’t be contained in my head anymore, I wrote. I kept them in outside spaces, so that I could clear up my mind to soak up new truths. I realised that I was actually becoming someone. When did that happen? Who was I? I put pen to paper and wrote about who I was. And hopefully, who I would become one day. But I didn’t call myself a writer then. 

At age 20, I had studied literature for three years. I had met those people who would love me no matter what. Gone through college. The passion simply growing with the passing of the years. I had written by a lake. Written by fire. Written by rain. I had written upside down and right side up. I wrote while hanging from a monkey bar and while climbing the swing. I wrote a story, enacted in front of millions. It was my life, and no one even knew. They cried, they laughed. They held my hand and asked how I knew, so intimately what had happened in their lives. And I didn’t reply. But it was because it had happened in my life. Shared experiences. How else would I have known? I was sad that you had to go through that. Again and again and again. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you through that. But it had been written. And I didn’t call myself a writer then. 

At 25, I fell in love for the first time. And it was and wasn’t everything I thought it would be. Who knew love was like that? I listened to Joni Mitchell and echoed that I didn’t really know anything at all. And then my heart shattered into a million pieces. And one by one, I picked up the pieces. Glued them back together with time and desperation. They would refuse to fit together. And everyday I would negotiate and entreat. I would fight and barter. To convince them to fall back into the right place so I could put it all back together again. I tried to write then. I sat with a pen filled with ink by a paper empty of words. And nothing came out. No feelings felt in the words that would dissipate. No opinions, I didn’t know who I was. I had no idea who I had become. Was it possible to know less about yourself as you aged? 16 had seemed so much clearer. The thoughts were so loud in my head that my head hurt. And I wanted to unburden myself. But nothing came out. Caught between numbness and wordless pain, I did not know what the paper should hold. I had run out of words.

So I drew pictures. Sunsets and fish. Flowers and clouds. My writing had evolved over the years. But when I draw, I am still a child. If Picasso studied me he would be fascinated with my stick figure vision of the world. And when I ran out of pictures. I stared at the doodled page empty mouthed.

Out of words. Out of pictures. When I had emptied it all. Emptied out the brain. Cleaned out the cerebrum and the cerebellum, I was left with one notion. I was a writer. I called myself a writer then.

But I had been selfish. 

I only wrote when I needed it. To express the sadness. To feel the passion. As a place to keep the thoughts that wouldn’t fit in my brain. To tell my story through your life. I had used the art to serve my purpose. But never used myself to serve the art. I realised too late what it meant to me. After the best friend fight. After the passion and the literature, after the empathy. After falling in love.

Things I’m selfish about hurt me the most in the long run.

I call myself a writer now. But alas! I have no words left.