What makes me write is unknown but having recorded the events, chronicled bits of dream does relieve me a lot. Admit, I am not a good writer (correction: not even a writer) still I writes and sometimes I write reams.
Most of these writings are reflection of what I see, what I do, and dreams or people I have cherished. Nothing serious still I crave for more concrete and meaningful matters to write which I fail. Is that how you grow as a writer? One experiment with nothingness until the words form meaning and bear the fruits of genius.
Isn’t I pacifying myself with weird imagination? L—O—S—E—R.
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