I am just thinking what are all my writings were and are. And only I know those are forgotten memories, jotted allegories, sleepless nights, dreamed days, long trodden roads, mystified sins, encrypted visions, love, lust, broken relationships, unsatisfied wants, jealous, crime, pride and lack of words. There is no reason I write, not even one, but something pulls me towards that eternal pen, wear the hat of a writer and get drenched in the falls of words.
It is all about beauty to arrange many words in order to form a sentence with no mistakes and read it out to make some sense. But that is not writing is all about, at least up to me. Mistakes are acceptable, juggled words are manageable, errors in spelling are changeable, but what makes a word or a sentence or paragraph as a writing is what the writer puts in to it. It is the special ingredient that makes the food delicious. It is the drop of poison that makes the entire body die, it is a piece of his heart, be it broken or not, that a writer adds makes it a writing.
Every word is a pain, every word is a pleasure, those are neither be created not be destroyed like energy. They just exist. Words chooses its writer, the story choose its teller. The beauty lies in the words of the beholder. Only the most experienced one with the life can be a writer, words are blood oozing from the scars; happens only to a writer.
If it takes hundred colors to paint a picture, it takes only one for a writer for art is words in colors and writing is colors in words. Everything is a fiction, for a writer, everything is a fantasy be it real or virtual. He puts in the character he lives with and he lives with the character he framed. Next to God if somebody can change the characteristics of somebody is a writer. He changes them to have peace with them. The character could be killed mercilessly when he no more could handle; you cannot punish the writer.
A writer is not a wild animal which gets satisfied with its stomach full. He is cruel than those, crueler than any hunter, wilder than a man eater. Given him the poison he changes it to elixir if it tastes good for him; present him the elixir that tastes bitter he changes it to water. A writer never completes his work, when he feels that something he wrote is complete then he will be no more a writer.
Perplexity is his attitude; solitude is his mannerism, to see the unthinkable is his style. A writer sees the world with his third eye, the all-seeing-eye.