The human mind is a very peculiar organ, as its often said. It feeds on thoughts, views, perspectives, facts, statistics, realities, and imagination. For all the rational and logical the first few stand out. For all the abstract and philosophical, the last does. Imagination and its effects maybe the key to a person’s subconscious. And those who agree would also ascertain that reading comes as the relief of water to quench a dying mans thirst for those who’s minds are fanatically driven by their imagination. A book, a novel, an article, a poem or even a movie — all encompass to drive your imagination to spheres unknown, realms untouched or worlds you ponder blindly. Now, I love the unending platform of fiction or the constructed chronology of biographies and documentaries, but when you combine the two within the open dimensions of abstractness that doesn’t reign in that buzzing mind’s eye- that’s when you let your imagination run wild and get lost. Because to truly find oneself, you have to get lost. (As exemplified so particularly in POTC. Jack sparrow truly does it well). And so, the readers; the peculiar avid, abstract readers agree that they love to read as much as they live. I can count many a literary aficionados in that specific ‘genre’ of people –including me; but often to truly invigorate those recessed corners of your subconscious; those darkened alleyways of your thoughts path; those incomplete foundations of your opinions; one must access the power of the almighty pen. And thus;

I WRITE. I write not for the brutal facts of life; nor for the condemning undertones of those failures that I have every right to whine about. I write for the freedom of the thought, of the voice to float across sheets and sheets of blank snow whiteness bleeding the blue ink to eternalise into some form of my randomness. For the plethora of ravelling uncertainness and abstract threads that find way into my ignorant neuron masses somehow transcend into their ascertained place in the form of 26 tiny letters being abused repeatedly via the scratch of a ball point or the incessant clicks of a keyboard. Many may say that my prowess in limited, my habits unreformed, my sources weak and over-quoted, and my basic train of thought impossible to follow. They might be true; must be. Then again, it all doesn’t turn into reality till it isn’t physical in some form or the other. I write for me. I write for you. I write for them. Cause however tiny, insignificant, irrational or impossible the misty fortresses my words might build, the possibility of them existing is enough to fire my fervour. I write cause the ears of the masses may turn away but the eyes will always search for that which gives them a vision; that which unshackles their imagination.. I write cause memories down the lane may tarnish by theoretical knowledge or profound emotions, but revisiting those graves is my right. I write cause the inspirations I am blind to harass my subconscious’ niche until I seek them out and throw them into alphabetical gibberish. I write cause those inspirations need to be eternalised for my conscience to stay clear. I write cause the monumental mess that the spindle like cerebral currents generate should (rather often) get the opportunity to die down and yet live on. I WRITE.