the beauty of writing

There are many reasons why I write, and sometimes there is simply no reason at all. As for what I write, the genre of my pieces, I am not very sure about that myself, yet. Sometimes as I sleep, the slumber wakes in me some ideas, so wonderful and yet crazy, drawing and colorful and yet boring, and often times these ideas dissolve with the night and are gone as I wake up. But what remains of my dreams, both the dreams of my sleep and those that my mind creatively imagines when I am awake, I put to my electronic paper, the word document, or at times, scribble the random thoughts on any scrap I get.

Sometimes, I am aware that what I write is of no consequence to world, that it is simply going to make no difference, and yet I cannot control this addictive passion of writing. I love the way ideas rush into my head, a new contemplation,  as I put my thoughts in magical words; words, that can express so much, and every single idea in so many ways.  Perhaps that is why it has such power, and yes, writing can do anything in the world, make it or destroy it. It can shape a person, transform him entirely, make a man or simply break him- it can even move mountains, and yes, a pen is more powerful than a sword.

I do not write with any intention, not to become known, not for monetary gains not for appreciation, but merely for the joy that comes with it- the exhilaration that it sends trembling through my every vein seeping into my heart, the epicenter, and it’s very magnitude capable of triggering a tsunami. Paper has patience, it is endowed with acceptance, and I feel compelled to take for granted its kindness at least a little and update it with everything my mind yearns to say.

 I was just as ignorant, till very recently, about the power of writing, of wording my thoughts, as an unborn would be, till I tried it myself. I only ask of you too, to give it a shot, you never know, you may find yourself drawn to writing.  But I know just as I sure as my own self, that many will find pleasure in this beautiful art, for ink can make shapes of our thoughts in every language, even in the unsure ones of animals and the breezy sway of the plants.

Even if ages come and go, even if rocks start moving, or aliens invade earth, writing will remain, and it will enlighten every era that has yet to follow. Writing would and must not ever die, for with it will be wrenched away all the freedom of humanity, of every living thing.

But as for me, I will write, express with my words. And I will keep going till my brain is succumbed and my writhing hands can no longer speak.