Writing.

Writing. Be it a process of living or a way of breathing. Call it whatever. In any case it runs down to being an inevitable method of expression. One’s mind happens to leave one’s head; my heart manages to escape me through my fingers. Be it a piece of paper or a white screen. Either one’s blankness irritates my eyes and itches my hands.

Be it a must or a sudden inner urge. I hold no control over it. Never to be a part of my being, writing absorbed a wholesome of me for itself. As though I sit at writing’s fingertip and it strikes over me; I happen to be just the key. Writing – true artist of all and there is so much more to be said in all of its work combined altogether.

Stack every book of the Earth, side by side, and pull out a word from within each of them. Beware, the voice of the Earth will be heard. The voice of a slave and the master, the voice of a prey and the predator. And all to portray the story of One.

There is a separate world to unveil behind each word. The book covers are hideous masks; open them and read the naked soul of author’s heart.

The writing of nonsense. The writing of nothing. The writing of scribbles. The writing of time beyond midnight.

Writing.

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