Writing. Well writing is all about passion. Its about the hidden feelings which were safely secured until you decided to pour down the secrets on a piece of paper.
One day, me and my new friend were having a conversation about who we really are…
“Who are you?” The new friend asked me.
“I am a vagabond, I travel through words” I replied.
“Oh, I see you are a writer then.”
“No I’m just a child with a pen, I’m a lost soul with a paper. I am what many say.. a mystery”
“You sure do sound mysterious, did you have a sad past, a unfortunate incident. I have heard people in pain often write about their darkness that resides in them ?”
“Well my friend I was not raped , molested, robbed , nor have I starved , been betrayed by a lover ”
She made a face after hearing me out.
“So what’s the problem? ”
I smirked, ” The problem is that I’ve understood almost everything about this world. I have not starved because I have spent my money carefully. Not raped because I have always been scared of a strangers touch. I have always followed the rules: of dressing up sensibly, avoiding rave parties, of always keeping a spray in my bag. A lover never betrayed me because I trusted no one. I sure had boyfriends, yet I couldn’t trust them, I couldn’t sneek out with them to a lonely theatre or ask him to come to my house whem I was alone.”
“My friend, I’m tired of this bloody world. I escape to my own safe, secure, pure world every night. The words acts as a portal to a different world of magical love and happiness. I can be anything and everything on those sheets which contains my story, my world. Oh yesterday I was a painter, I had gone to a dense forest and painted day and night. Last month I was a daughter who had not lost her father. I envy her everyday for I miss my daddy so much. I.. I have pen, a paper and my passion. I won’t trade it for anything in this world. I love to be a vagabond, and will always remain to be one until I draw my last breath.”