Writings

It’s been long, for me writing is just another part of me. If I don’t meet it for a long time, somehow I feel incomplete. I have been suffering from this feeling since last two days, but I was busy with other stuff so didn’t have time to explore this again. It’s not something which I like most either I love more than anything, but I found it’s becoming something else. Now it has become my need to pacify myself same as my work. When I started the career in the research field, that time the reason was my love and passion. But in last few years, things have been changed. More than love now I am obsessed with the work, and I need it to be survived by the world. I can see the same thing here too, even I don’t know who is going to read this and where? But I always feel pleased with having a thought of sharing myself with an unknown world without any judgment. That feeling always keeps my writing alive and drives me to share the ideas I have inside.

I write not for anyone, I write more for me,

Without having any second thought of pleasure,

I sometimes write for unknown perturbations,

I write to define myself sometimes and to re-define unnamed relations,

Sometimes I start writing when the night is in juvenile mood,

And I continue until it gets older with time,

I fill the empty glasses, again and again, to be with it,

Unless we find each other, and our reality sublime,

I write even when the things are falling apart,

Because it’s not same for others like me,

If I stop, I will fall apart, so I have to continue in the same ways,

Whether it comes to dark nights either, there are gloomy days,

But somewhere the hidden anonymity makes me happy,

Maybe we are not approachable to each other,

But somewhere someone is going to read these words again,

And they are going to recall these words and me as unknown,

I feel worthful being part of their life even not so close but, at least, better than to be known.