The naked moon dances in harmony in his mind; the soothing breeze rejuvenates his soul without a valid reason. The heat bites him, he is kicked by reality. Still he craves to move his fingers.
His inner resources keep him alive. The chaos outside and within inspires him to create. He captures every moment with so much ease. His delight comes from those floating words.
He struggles to write sometimes. He forgets all beautiful prose. Still, he keeps penning, he keeps creating symphonies with his writings.
He is almost sane. Wake up! Reality slaps him. The materialistic world around him gives him nightmares. He often shed tears in his loneliness. He talks with the four walls of his living room; he tries to feel the fragrance of white lilies…
He is tired of watching those ugly shadows of gloom. He constantly craves for that lost sunshine from his life. He walks alone in the neighbourhood park and smiles in his mind.
He walks, he keeps walking, he runs and finally he feels. He sees light coming from a distant tunnel. He follows that light with sheer delight. He keeps chasing that strange glow…
Escape! He tries to hear the song of nightingale; he tries to sing like them, he tries to mimic rockstars but miserably fails. He mingles with a beautiful angel in his dream; he cajoles her with his broken wings.
He captures his dreams with flamboyance. He fails to transform them but he never stops dreaming. He meets unusual characters, visits unknown territories; he even flies like a mocking bird. His ideas are fake, hypothetical and full of metaphors.
Writing keeps him alive no matter what. He feels restless and unhappy without those words. Scribbling stimulates all his senses like a drug. He dwells amid those incessant verses planted beautifully inside the closet. He can’t live without them; he is addicted to poetry as well as prose.
Reality constantly keeps thrashing him. The recurring face of truth never abandons him. His heart fights with his body, his ugly face amuses nobody. The world of a writer is always so hazy; he has so many complications, so less time, so less friends. Yet, a writer feels happy and satisfied every night, every time after filling that blank paper with those written words…