WRITING

Life seems to be shrunk between past and future and when such thing happens, obviously the view of present remains blurred and congested. With tumbling-walk on the road of life and in the hue and cry of expectations and concerns, life seems like a burdened rock tied to neck. It has been long when I heard the voice of myself but now, is it not too late? ...too late to rejuvenate these dead tissues.

With the last line of above paragraph, I felt my thoughts jumbled, my finger seized and emotions dried. I don’t know why and how, but it is none of my business. I just want to feel myself which never releases out due to inexplicable weight of life and I want to see something which I cannot see when I see myself in mirror daily morning.

For me, writing is like seeing and it is also one that vaporizes the grime from my soul. I believe till I can put my fingers on the keyboard or can hold a pen, I would be never blind nor would my soul be too heavy to carry my life.