Something different happened this week. I was working on a short story and got really engrossed in it. I wrote one night but had to stop for dinner and later sleep. Next morning I woke up really early (well early for me at least) and then typed frantically. It was like the story was coming out from somewhere deep within me and if I didn’t type it fast enough I would lose the words forever.
Right at that moment, while writing, I realised what pure happiness is. That’s when I realised why I write in the first place. To experience that joy that comes only while I am writing. It’s not when someone reads it and likes or dislikes it. It doesn’t matter what happens after I stop moving my fingers on the keyboard. The magic happens while my hands are moving – either on the keyboard or using a pen and paper.
Till now I have been pegging my happiness in some future event. If this happens then I will be happy or if I get that then I will be happy. Somethings do bring me joy. But nothing comes anywhere closer to the feeling I get when words are pouring out of me.
What I write may be utter crap. But that’s not the point. And I don’t get this feeling every time I write. Most of the times I just end up staring at the blank screen or page while a very different set of emotions overload me. These moments happen more frequently than happy ones. But at least now I know where to look for that pure unadulterated source of joy.
Now I know why I write.
Things might change. I may not be able to write for a long long time. Either external circumstances may keep me away or it may be the demon named writer