“A writer is a world trapped inside a person.” – Victor Hugo
I agree to disagree.
A writer is all about vision when the world is talking of sights. A writer is all about music when the world is enchanted by poetry. A writer is all about painting, when the world is enthralled with sketching. A writer is all about living, when the world is all about existing.
Writers don’t see the world differently, trust me, they don’t. They don’t add hues to blurry lines, they don’t sprinkle fairydust on boring textbooks, they don’t make you wish you’d lived a thousand lives more. They scratch, scream, bruise but they tend, carress and heal too. And maybe that’s where lies all the difference.
“Never stop writing”, no I won’t. But I’m afraid I’ll never be a writer, for writers are fierce, and I’m nowhere close. Writers are bold, and I’m just someone trying to loosen my shackles. Writers are enchanting, while I’m just enchanted, in awe of the world, in all its being. Writers are magic, while I’m here praying for a miracle.
“What do you write about?” Life, I guess? In all its abstract practicality, life never fails to amuse me. I do not have a favourite genre, but I do have genres where I’m completely unable to write. I write what I think, but all I think hasn’t been written down yet. I write about the things I believe in, but there are times when even those surprise me.
When I write, I’m a completely different person, yes and no. When I search for the me in what I write, I sometimes stare at the words in disbelief. It feels like that couldn’t have been me, but that was me alright. It’s like I can never be entirely myself;
I’m just different versions of myself, manifestations of me in parallel dimensions, in illusions and stark reality.