see... why do I write? I’d say it’s because if I actually try and relate one of my depressing little stories to any one in particular, it would come out all wrong, and I’d land up in a small office, with some shrink asking me “How does that make you feel?” It’s easier to write a story than it is to speak it out to someone. And if I do not tell anyone then my imagination will take up all of my insignificantly small brain, and it will blow up. So, I write.
There was a time in my life when I was in fact exceedingly and terrifically scared of writing and talking for that matter, since my spellings reeked worse than yesterday’s mouldy sardines and bread, and whenever anyone directed a query to me or asked the common school question “What is your opinion dear?” Id stutter, stammer and ‘um’ about a thousand times even though I’d know my ‘opinion’ thoroughly. (I still do not like giving people verbal answers) But my strange and fantastically weird fear of writing ended the day I met a life changing object.....A practice composition. I could write my “opinions” perfectly well (with exception of my spellings) and found that exceeding joy (you know the one you get after you finish a piece you know is good?) once again. I never ever want to forget that joy, and thus I write whatever comes to my head. Thus I am writing this.... because I simply thought when I saw the topic “Why do I write?” Anyway now I’m just ambling since I have no idea how to end this small piece. So I’m just going to end it by saying- “The End”