Hello world! It’s a Tuesday, and we are alive to observe this day. We breathe yet again. We feel the sun yet again. We think and wish yet again. We look to the skies yet again. We hope yet again. We doubt yet again. We work yet again. We struggle, for it’s our daily efforts that sum up our lives.
Life is as we know it full of mysteries. Maybe not exactly full of mysteries, but we like to think of it that way. Personally, I think life is simple enough, or could be. But for so many reasons we make it complicated, with out beliefs, our wants, our expectations. Well, no one has all the answers, so let’s keep complicating things. After all, we come, we see, and someday we go.
It’s morning here and I thought to write before I get started for work. It’s a beautiful feeling when I write, no matter who reads me. Sometimes I think I should write more, sometimes I write less, depending on my mood. Sometimes I think I’d make a great writer, sometimes I think it’s all fantasy. But isn’t fiction fantasy? Maybe I haven’t got the grasp of it. But definitely, I think way more than I write. And what do I think of? I always think of life, of death, of love, of existence, of God, and of best-selling books written by yours truly. Best-selling books… when will I ever be truly calm to pen any of those, I wonder. Or is it calmness I need, or madness, a touch of it. Maybe I care too much how my lines look, maybe I don’t even know what to write about. You see, it’s all in the air, and that could be a problem. I could be anybody; a scientist, a billionaire, a best-selling author, an inventor, just name it, I’ve dreamed it. Maybe I dream of characters that will appear in my future books. I got the words, that I know, and sometimes too do they flow like honey from the rock. Maybe I could be all the things I dream about. Maybe that’s life; come, dream, love, die. Maybe we’re not actually meant to live our dreams. Or maybe I’m writing too much. You see, that’s my problem, I always feel I’m oversharing. I think I have to break out from this cocoon of caution. I always feel people would feel I’m crazy or different in an asocial way. Not that I don’t like being different, I do, but it’s lonely, believe me. When your immediate society thinks you’re nuts each time you express yourself. I mean, I might be nuts, but the most important thing is that I’m writing and the words are counting. Whether I write about me, or about the characters in my head, or about politics, or about philosophy or technology or religion, I still write. I think writing is what’s most important, just write, even if it’s crap, even if it makes you vulnerable, even if it’s about you and not some fantasy you think people want to read. One thing I’m sure of is that someone would read this and appreciate me for it. And I appreciate that someone too. I’d like to write more, but duty calls. Some other time, then. Peace.