My mind is blank now, like a white paper. I wanted to scribble something in, like I am doing in this white paper now. I want to write something which lasts for a while. Something which stays after my body turned into white ashes. I started giving responsibility to the hand inside me which moves the feather inside. I think that responsibility is keeping it from scribbling in my mind. I think I invented a technique to overcome writer’s block, which is to write about writer’s block.

You may think “What’s the deal with me and writes block”. Here is the answer for that question. I am the one who says I am a writer. I started writing from my schooling, and in there I copied lines from the black board which my teacher writes. Then I grew up and I managed to write by listening and it goes on writing by listening became boring to me. First they taught me to copy from the board. Then they taught me to copy from one mouth to the paper. I waited them to teach me to write something of my own. I waited for long time but they didn’t change the listening and writing steps.

Suddenly one day they give me a small booklet and told me to write. I felt so good and thought my wait is over, finally they want something from me, something they never heard or read. But the happiness didn’t last longer. They also gave me a small piece of paper which has sentences which ends with a question mark. I read them a number of times, the lines felt familiar. Then the teacher announced that it is test and told us to answer it by own. Before I made the first mark on the paper she added that we should write the exact lines which we coped from her mouth last day.

I felt like tearing the booklet into a number of pieces and throw it out to the window. I looked at her. s=She is clearing doubt of one of my fellow classmates. I looked around, everyone is gazing at the small sheet. Some of them looked happy, some of them were started drawing with pencil and scale and some of them were arranging a nice place to sleep. I raised my hand my teacher noticed it and came near me, I asked my teacher weather it’s okay if I wrote something of my own. She gave me a strange look and asked me what I am going to write? I said I can write stores. She laughed loudly and all of my classmates joined her. Instead of replaying my answer she ordered me to write according to the small sheet which she has just given. I told her that I can write stores according to these questions. For that she told me, “Yes, you can write but then your story will be different from others”.

‘Yes, finally there is a chance to be different’. I thanked her and started writing. I wrote stories according to the questions. I wrote a story about a late computer who fought bravely to a group of viruses. I wrote an adventure story of a semicolon and about his quest to find another semicolon which left the program. I answered all of them. I gave my own quotes for the two mark questions and wrote short stories to the sixteen marks. A good feeling is begun to rise up inside me. I calculated the mark I am going to get. Yes there is a chance for an A grade. I finished the test and gave my booklet to my teacher; she was busy arranging them according to the roll number. I gave my booklet with another thank you and left the hall.

In the next day when I was sitting on the classroom and copying from another teachers mouth, one with another small paper came with my name on it. Teacher read out my name and asked to meet the HOD (You can call him Dean, Principal or anything). My heart filled with joy. Finally I am going to get appreciated. On the way to the HOD`s room I went to the restroom and combed my hair, I inserted my shirt under trousers, and I walked into the HOD`s room with my head held high.

He was leafing through my booklet.”What the hell is this?”He asked me without even looking at my face. I didn’t utter a sound. There was only one sound was there it was his ceiling fan. He waited a few more seconds more to break the silence. Then he repeated the same line again, “What the hell is this?”.He asked me to read the booklet, I felt so embarrassed and I didn’t even opened it. He took the booklet from me and tore it into a number of pieces and threw it to the window. I saw my stores flying free. Those pieces were gliding in the wind and one of them came back inside the room. One word was written in it. MISTAKE.

Yes, that was a mistake. I should have torn my booklet before. Before ruining it with my ugly black handwriting.

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