I write. I write a lot. I write when I'm spiritless or just too occupied. I write in solitude, I write in need of wilderness. I write when in love, I write when I fall out of love. I write wholeheartedly, I write with a broken heart. I write with my tummy aching with giggles and laughters, I write with tears streaming down my already tear-stained face. I write about my first love, I write about the last one. I write on dull, gloomy days and bright, sunny days. I write like its meant for me, just me.
Guess when it started? When these words became my elixir of life? When vapid words started replacing those people around me? When I fell in love with writing?
You started it. Yes, you. Every person I know till date. Every person I'll know. Every person who hated me, or hates me. Every person who loved me, or loves me. The ones who tore my chapter off their book like I never meant anything, yes you too. Every person who turned their back on me when I reached out my hands to them, yes. The cure-all people of my life, the making-me laugh when I was breaking down kind of people, all of you. Those who judged me and stabbed. Hurt me where I was scarred. All of you. You gave me a reason to know me better, to explore my demons, to dress my scars, to love myself.
I remember those warm, sunny days of my life when everything was perfect, fairytale like. When I was careless, and naïve. When I never cared to know the masks that his the faces. When my smile was real, and I laughed like I didn't care. When I thought all I needed was love and friends. When I lived in my own fairytale.
Now I live in cold, blue days. I'm not naïve anymore. I know those faces hid behind pretty masks. I know how to fake a smile, and well I'm working on fake laughters. I have stopped falling in love with a body with a dark heart, instead I fall in love with words. I know nothing and nobody is perfect, and well that is okay. I'm still the one who wants to be the reason of a smile, but then nobody cares.
So, I imagine. I read. I love. I write.