Writing has never been my resort. Throughout my school years, I have written as much any subject would demand me to. I was not the person born to write. I do remember a faint part of my childhood spent writing stories though. But my creativity never extended beyond fairies and princesses. As I grew up, I estranged from writing without any conscious notion. And before I knew, I had come a long way to go back to something that I barely remembered as a talent of mine. My diaries usually talked about how my day was or how much I hated to have a dark skin or frizzy hair. High school memories do not count much if one is not popular or if they are not bullied. If you are left alone to cherish the moments of solitude and ignorance, high school memories do not have much impingement later in life.
This blog was developed on eve of a New Year. My aimless brain was at its best work and somehow it had reached out to me satisfactorily to sell the idea of having a blog. What would I write, it never occurred to me. I have been able to keep it well for most part of this year. I reached some milestones in terms of posts and followers. I always wanted a good readership, I cannot deny that. This blog was half a part of my life written in complex words, occasional laughs and some tears.
I can never accept that I cannot write. Egoism is a part of my identity. But is that enough to call myself a writer? Is that the proof that I can write my mind on to the screen? Is it possible to continue writing? Can I, after all, call myself a writer? I have struggled to answer all of these questions. For the past few months I have had the honor of participating in the memes launched by the Red Dress Club. I have tried to write for most of the prompts. I have been able to break out of the self-imposed restrain on myself which was destructing my self-growth. Oprah taught me to put my thoughts into words so I could be heard. Writing here, on this platform, has given me the next dimension.
The power of words still lies ignorant to me. I cannot see myself writing a book. I have the least of interest in the publishing world unlike my sister. I am happy to write those words that could have clogged up in my brain when I woke up this morning. The fear of shutting myself from what I can think has propelled me to write. It has given me the direction and set my journey, an inspiration that knows where it began. When my sister told me that I am a writer, it did not convince me. It was not convincing because no one had ever told me that I could write and no one knows that I can. As I write this, I am still not at peace. The idea of looking at myself as a writer scares me and more often never fulfills me.
My mind tortured me from sleeping last night. It wanted an answer, an answer that bore profundity. It was three in the morning. It looked delirious to wake up my sleeping sister to feed my brain with some words. Not my best plans. During that time of the silent night, I wanted to write. I wanted to see for myself what I could have written. I wanted to know how long I could have written. The entirety of the night wore out on me soon as my father’s alarm went off in the next room. I pretended to lay on my flower-printed bed, still and staring into the blankness of the ceiling. Sleep did come eventually but not before thrusting me with new found knowledge. I was not the one born to write. I may never have more than an article written with under my name. I have been writing without expectations, competition, or any other mission. It has been able to fulfill my happiness. I still have not given up on being known as a writer but somehow in this mess, I have realized that writing for my happiness will give me the material I require to be one.
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