What Keeps Me Going
I sought a sanctuary in my pen, no matter how unsmooth it may be. I seek refuge in my notepad, no matter how stale it gets. I find my savior in my writing skills, no matter how flawed they seem. The amount of love that resides in me for writing, in any form it may be, is sort of incomparable and endless. There are times when I want to write all day, without even letting it bother me how absurd or thoughtful my piece sounds. I sometimes don't even make much sense. I know my weaknesses. I an aware of the perfection I lack. I know how uncanny my writing seems sometimes. I realize how I wouldn't even like it a bit if I were someone else reading it. But I write. I know my flaws. But I still write anyway. I write whatever crosses my mind, whatever I'm able to pen down, the most or least that I can produce. Sometimes with putting in all the possible effort I can, and sometimes while not even bothering to proofread once and give a thought about what crap I've been composing all along. I write, and I write. On any paper I come across, on the bordered pages in my fancy diaries, on the end of my textbooks, on my palm, on the desk, on my blog, on my iPod notes, and anywhere, and literally everywhere. I am in such a strong grip of this obsession that I am powerless to resist. But then, I, sometimes, have this sort of dilemma as to what should my piece of writing be about and I can't make up my mind from the peep of endless possibilities. The idea of choosing a particular thing to give a thought about and then type out those thoughts come across as too troublesome sometimes and result into my creative downfall ultimately. And suddenly, I begin to anguish over the whole idea. It shan't sound any more absurd. The obsession slowly drifts away. I don't want to do it anymore. I stop writing, and even reading at times. It bores me to extent that I don't even seem to stand it. I don't feel like bringing myself to it. For days, weeks and even months. I satisfy myself telling how my hobbies are only undergoing an evolution, and how it's not a big deal. But deep down, I know I'm lying to myself. It's just fooling to justify my laziness. Because writing isn't a hobby, it's my way of life. It's not a habit, it's my refuge. And I can't move away from it. And so a part of me let the true self of me be induced again. And I write. I write for a reason. I write for the sake of it. I write to convey my message. I write to voice myself. I write to pour my heart out. I write for people who mean the world to me. I write for myself. I write to discover. I write to appreciate. I write to cherish the oddities. I write to intellectualize. I write to simplify. I write to expose. I write to impose. I write to absorb. I write to defend. I write to hurt. I write to heal. I write to not let my perspectives go down the drain. I write to set myself free. I write because I need to. I write to settle the rage within me. I write in fury. I write to let the words speak for me. I write for an internal purpose. I write, to write.