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For us, writers, this is such a profound question of our existence. Writing for me, has always been a constant source of inspiration and sheer joy. The intensity and magnitude of exhilaration that writing gives can’t possibly be gauged. I, for one, cannot even find words to construct a coherent answer to define this feeling, this beautiful feeling that I experience when I write. Writers feel this way. But why do they?
Maybe it’s this uncanny ability of penning down something heartfelt that transmogrifies our complete state of being when the weight of our emotions gently get absorbed in long parchments and old diaries. Maybe it’s the written monologue that elevates our souls to a level of blissful equilibrium. Maybe it’s the effortless exercise of mind-cleansing that writing brings with itself. Maybe it’s the fact that writing is a medium of communion between the deepest corners of our minds and the strangest places of our hearts. Maybe it’s because writing is an extension of ourselves- how we perceive, observe, interpret, comprehend and ‘look’ at this world with all its little creations and constituents. Maybe it’s another way to silence our inner demons or explore brief, fleeting moments of life that make it worth living. Maybe it’s an intangible entity that lets us express ourselves in ways so powerful yet so subtle that we could very well lose ourselves into it. I do!
Maybe, just maybe, it’s a sublime confluence of everything; a fusion of emotion, feeling, thought, idea, belief, desire…what have you!
I, for one, want to explore this beautiful art for as long as I breathe. Indulge in every bit of it. Discover its essence. Just. Discover.
Because, discovery is like being born again. Into a new world of endless possibilities and unending adventures. And these repeated processes of discoveries will then become a series of rediscoveries reaching to the zenith of yet another discovery- self-discovery. And that, I believe, is the answer for all of us, searching for the absolute truth; embarking on a quest to find our purpose. That’s when we truly learn the art of living. By knowing who we are. And that in itself, is a beautiful thing to know.
So, here’s to 2 a.m. monologues and authentic rants. To black ink blots on scribbled parchments. To living. And to writing!

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