In the multifarious skies that roll above our heads and change colors as we look at them, there are stories written for the world to read. This limitless slate is for all, all those who wish to understand meanings and create some on their own. This unbound aura carries innumerous thinkings, imaginations, reflections and introspections. It is up to you to catch the line of your story from the sky that belongs to all.
Thinking comes innately to humans. We can think in myriads of ways, in ways that we cannot even think of. Writing is a way of thinking. It is my firm belief that anyone who can think, can write. And anyone who can write, can think.
Writing is just another way of thinking out loud.
I was introduced to the power of words in school. I was almost an introvert since childhood and fairly so, I didn’t talk to people much. Funnily enough, I hardly could stop talking to myself. I blended those thoughts to derive meanings on my own. Meanings of arduous conundrums and answers to questions that nobody answered. As I started penning these down, slowly and steadily words started their play.
These thoughts, I was told were powerful enough to drive actions, situations and people.
When spoken words are deafening, these are written words that create impressions. Every imagery that you’ve ever created, deserves to be penned down. Every reflection, every thought you’ve ever had, has the capacity to move lands and oceans and it truly and madly deserves to be written down. For one day, it will reach the same multifarious sky and the one who needs it, will catch hold of it. It is about showing up and shooting the shot without being worried about the outcome of your process.
Writing and reading are frequency syncing exercises, both being perfect halves of the bridge that they create. While writing is an art, completing the other half of the miraculous process is in the hands of the ones who read it. The readers are the ones who interpret meanings and draw conclusions. They catch the line of your story and safeguard it.
Everything a writer ever has done is letting the thoughts run wild, beyond the bounds of human thinking.
There are times when the Ivies and Petunias flourish and times when they perish. There are times when the nights are longer and drearier and times when the days are sunnier. There are days when the clock ticks over and over and days when the time doesn’t seem to pass by. Amidst this play of time, if there is something that stays with us ceaselessly, it is our sense of thought, perception and contemplation.
Let the Ivies and Petunias dry out, I will always have them growing fresh in my paper gardens, in the abode of my creations, playing with my words and swaying with my reflections. I think this moment of blissful intoxication is all that we crave for, to know that we belong somewhere, and more importantly to know that a tiny part of this soulful infinity belongs to us.