Draw me, sketch me….

Draw me, sketch me, make a portrait of the being that is me

Show me who I am, what I do, which way I should go

Show it to me through your art, tell me who I am

Write me, read me, scan me, make a novel out of me

Let me know who I am, what I do, which way I should go

Let me be known through your creativity who I am

Won’t you do this for me, this much I ask from you

Would you do this for me, I ask nothing else from you

Show me, let me know- would you?- Draw me, sketch me,

write me, read me, make a portrait, write a novel out of me.


What is writing to me?

Many people have asked me- What is writing to me?

Well, that’s a very simple question with a very complex answer which is dynamic in nature.

Writing- writing is writing to me. What else could have been the best answer to this particular question?”

“To write is writing”- would it be the better answer?”

Well, I haven’t put much thought to it but I think I should.

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is passion, the passion to mark my words with something I feel deeply attached with. It is the passion that helps me in incorporating my thoughts in some identifiable shape which are otherwise always messed up. Writing is the passion which helps me deal with the situations in daily life. Writing- the passion to achieve the highest limit I can think of achieving to come out as a better person, a better interpreter. Writing is the passion for me to strive, struggle to reach that limit and then, set an even higher limit to achieve.

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is knowing, knowing myself in a better way. I can never realize rather I will never realize who I am as an individual if there was an absence of writing in my life. Writing is the way of knowing the hidden thoughts deeply set up in the intricate structures of my mind which I can only know while writing by putting them in appropriate words. Writing is the way for me to know my ambitions, what I want to achieve in life. What I write is real- my writing denotes the real me. Writing, therefore, is a way of knowing everything I want to know. That is the easiest way I can formulate all this much into.

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is expressing, expressing myself to me. Well, expressing myself in general is knowing myself. But sometimes it becomes so much difficult to know yourself even through writing, it is the time when you have to express yourself without giving a second-thought to what comes to your mind from within your heart, you just write and write- thereby expressing yourself. It is such a beautiful exercise but deeply addicting- it may be of great significance but may be it would show you the side of yourself that you couldn’t know- the side which had been hiding which all of a sudden sprints out, the resultant thoughts may not be so pleasant.

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is reading, reading what I want to read. Now that is surely going to confuse you. But yes, its true. It isn’t complex. Writing to me is reading- when I want to read something, give a vent to my thoughts reading something peculiar to my interests, then there is nothing better to read but my own creations. So, writing is a way of reading and amusing myself by way of reading what I write. Easy?

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is compulsion, compulsion to write. It compels to write- writing compels me to write. As I have earlier written that writing has dynamic meanings for me- hence, particularly even though when I don’t want to write- the germ of writing that I am rearing in me compels me to write. Once you keep on writing, it doesn’t always come out to be a leisure activity- sometimes, it becomes compulsory for you to write for no reason in particular at all. I have to write, that means I have to write- that comes out to be a message from the inner-self with no explanation, no reasoning.

What is writing to me?

Well, writing to me is passion, way of knowing and expressing myself, it is reading to me and henceforth, it is a compulsion to me.

Do tell:- What is writing to you? What does it mean to you?

The End and the Arising Questions… OH!

Why is it so?- We realize someone’s importance in life only when that person is gone or is about to go.

Why is it so?- We can’t make the first move…everyone wants the other person to make the first move.

Why is it so?- I miss someone and now want to talk to that person… oh! but that person is gone in a way that the person would never return.

Things unsaid… Talks unfinished… Friendship futile…

It would not be morally good on my part to share this story but may be, I need to see what other people think about it…

A girl I met in school, a girl i befriended(sort of anyway), a girl i talked to about each and every class gossip, a girl who stopped communicating, a girl who went away- flew away towards eternity after a short period of time…

Now I think why I ended our friendship? Just because she also ended it. Why I couldn’t start anew and be a friend of hers… Oh- these questions, these mere questions- they don’t hold any importance now..

Its been 7 months… but still these questions arise in my mind……

I want to know where does the pride come in way of friendship? Why we resolute to maintain silence?

Oh! Why is it so “the end” enlightens us and makes us realize our mistakes……

That night I received the call from a friend conveying to me that ‘she’ has gone…. Just gone like that.

And since then, I am looking for these answers…. to these questions that arise and go but I know they would arise again until when I get the answers.

There is no particular answer…. no particular answer would satisfy me…

The relation- the friendship which could have been revived is gone forever- it can only be talked about….

I still have kept a diary on which we played some silly games some times….

Oh! The time has gone….. The end had to come…..

Hope… To understand

Hope… To know the truth

Hope… To grab the light

Hope… The answers would come

Truth… The end would come

Truth… There is an end to everything

Hope… I would understand

Its existence

Its beauty

Its darkness

Its Light

Its Truth…