If I could write like how I really want my piece to be, then it would contain a whole lot of discoveries that only a genius can write. One half would be genius and the other half would be arrogant. But that is not how humans do things. Some who are God's gift of nature , they are in their own realm of existence, always fascinating the rest of us with a simple approach that we all miss. Most of us do it by accident, or rather, a series of accidents with an impulse of something really profound, and then nothing. No discoveries, only a blank page with a long sentence on it.

How can one describe writing? Or rather why do people write in the first place?

To see where my mind is taking me. Most days It looks around different aspects of human nature and how we all behave the same way, and in the midst of that some catches my eye that speaks with a desire of how?

Doing it for years will make you an arrogant observer, and not doing it at all will give you a brief moment of peace followed by a huge deal of hopelessness. Writing and the relationship with the paper, you will come to hate it very soon.

Days of search, days of reading my own piece to remind me of what I am capable of, days of really putting it to the test with a blank mind, days of tearing down my own hope, days of no good word, days of sitting quietly in the park bench, to feel the grass and the sun, Days of annihilation of my own pride that has nothing to offer , days of smoking a whole pack, Days of days that is in halt, and a day where I lied down with my own reasoning, and wrote something which I did not like.

Underneath the swimming pool with pebbles, and an occasional reflection that has a clear blue sky and a scar right in the forehead, here comes a thought , bad days looking for a way , looking for a great escape. You do not like the thought, but you go on with it.

It is like any normal day where you travel with your own head, insecure to look in the eyes of people ,and a constant calling to run away or to just creep down the volume of your own imagination. The stumble down of your own sigh, a great escape whatsoever.

You see a young man kissing the lips of a woman ,and you think it is quite early. That man doesn't even have what it takes. He will surely be left out when the real man comes and takes away his girl. You stop judging for a minute, and just watch the holy grail of expressing what’s in front. The fire that never wants to distinguish.

It is the search for my next word, for my next beautifully crafted piece with no audience, it is the music that helps you in every way possible, and it is the way I see you in the midst of destruction.

In the end, you feel nothing when approaching the steps of your writing room. What you write nobody cares, what everybody writes, I don’t care, the only thing that bothers me is the setup of my room. It is a rented apartment with holes all around, Sounds all around, and a constant calling to be great.

Take your time, take what’s in you. Go to the nearest store and buy a knife, travel with the intention of committing suicide. Try to grow a beard, Take a day off, take a month off, take years off and sit quietly with your own thoughts. Go to the place where there is an offering, if they offer you a bliss in return for your soul, take it. Try to look into a woman's eye and keep silent, go to a remote place and hide yourself from other people. Drink until all your teeth's fall of, but do not try to be a writer.