Assaulted by multiple thoughts, I write every time. I am not left alone ever. It’s a pulsating feeling of restlessness. I am nothing but a burning desire to be what I am meant to be, a timeless immortal written word. I close in my mind’s eye and pledge to reach there not knowing how and not knowing when. Bracing the wings of my imagination with the harness of rationale, my pen moves. The ink flows slowly sometimes and rapidly at others. The words that form are as uneven as the pace but kaleidoscope and asymmetrical, not necessarily beautiful but true nonetheless as real as my journey inwards. Soon I am looking at reflection of my psyche, my world turned inside out.
Each word reflecting labour and pain of delivery haunts me, the creator besotted by his own creation. A feeling of admiration rises from within and am entranced for a while observing the lines on paper which ran through my head a while back as a signal of my nerves, channeled by life and blood. A small prayer moves to my lips and I thank my creator who I don’t know but I do hope would look at me as admirably as I look at these words.
