They say: to be a writer, you should write; I took it seriously.
It has been 10 years since I started writing, and I know I have come a long way.
When I see my articles/poems from the past, I feel a sense of innocence and beauty in the grammatical errors, simple sentences and message typos, in them.
It reminds me that I didn’t start writing because I was good at English. I hated it, as I had other love interests: Maths and Science. Maybe I’m still not that good.
And it helps me whenever I doubt whether I should continue.
It reminds me that I didn’t start it for the world to witness an extraordinary world inside my mind. Nobody was meant to read it, except my only audience, me.
And it helps me when I feel I’m not giving enough.
But then, when something beautiful happens, it happens. It sprouts into you and then like a seedling grows to touch the infinity. Like a blessing which makes you crave for more and more.
And that’s what happened with me. And that’s why I write.
I write as I can’t help it.
I write because it helps me.
I write to create an expression out of my observation.
I write to express what I truly feel.
I write a journal when I’m sad.
I write a poem when I’m inspired.
I write an article when I want to express my emotions.
I write a one-liner when I observe something funny/smart.
I write long birthday statuses to express my gratitude to them for being in my life.
I write book reviews to make people discover a beautiful world.
I write travelogues to relive my trip again.
I write because I have no particular reason to write.
I write because it’s a feeling beyond words for me.
But then, it’s an expression that needs words.
That’s why I write because I can’t help it.
That’s why I write because it helps me.