Why do I write?

Writing has become a compulsion these days, an addiction to be true. I really wonder why do I write regularly these days? Is it to purge myself of what makes me sad or just to be busy for a while so that the mind gets respite for a while from all those thoughts that have become its mainstay these days? Or is it to give a kind of blanket cover to all that I can neither say nor write? I know one thing for sure that though I write everyday,  I am not being true to myself or to some of my readers as I try giving a picture that is satisfying to me. Can I write about the real feelings that I have? NO. How true we are to our self that remains an enigma. We try thinking in a manner and gradually that make believe thinking becomes the real we.

Even if I am being truthful in all that I am writing, can I make others experience the emotional state that I was in during the period about which I make a record? Do I really want others to be a part of my inner self? I don’t have answers to all these questions that pester me day and night.

Writing for me is a way to escape from reality. I being, what I hated in others—an escapist. I am escaping from facing the present and finding relief in recording the past. Why and what from am I trying to run away? I don’t know the answer but it sure is something dreadful that waits to attack me and I want to run away as I can’t face it. I am weak. A very weak person as instead of writing what really has upset me, I write in a roundabout manner like Dan Brown’s code within codes. Why don’t I be a little offensive? 

I seek refuge in the past as present is dreadful and the future is murky and uncertain. But what gives me strength is the knowledge that the “past” that was “present” at one time and I just wanted to get over that period. But looking back, the same period, dreadful at that time, looks wonderful to me. As today from a distance, I can objectively analyze it and feel relief that it is past.

Perhaps some years, hence, I would again be writing with detached attachment about the present that today seems suffocating. Waiting for Godot, seems an apt title for my present stage when I don’t know what I am waiting for, but whatever it is, I want it to be over very soon so that the life comes back to its old pattern—old but soothing where we don’t dread looking in each others’ eyes.

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