I am not a good writer. I don’t aspire to be one. I write because I need it. Like food, I have an appetite for black ink screeching my thoughts out.
They appear and then woof! Some stay a bit longer. But they just pass. They come into your room silently, knock some things over, draw on the walls, help you find lost stuff under the cot and while you are busy looking at what they are doing, they are gone. Leaving you a trail. A road which finishes at nowhere. You can take it anywhere you want.
That’s where imagination joins in. Either you can make wonders, or something upsetting. Both ways, you grow. I don’t look for a perfect finish. Because there aren’t many. I don’t write about happiness a lot. Because it’s not everywhere.
In the end, there is no end. Like we eat till we die, I will keep on writing till my thoughts are alive and my fingers can bear the pain to screech them on the heart of paper.