On days like these.

Sometimes I feel like the luckiest person on earth, writing, writing my heart out and having people read it, respond, and at so many times recognize you by it, its a great feeling. Makes you feel on top of the world, the fact that you define peoples’ staple for the morning, their views, a lot of their conversation, times when you make an impact. And at more times than this it feels like a responsibility that you carry on your shoulders all the time something weighing you down, making you feel you just can’t take your life easy. Nothing can be excused, misinterpretations, analysis, bias. Trying hardest to come out with the truth, precise yet complete, there’s a typical low I experience before I put pen to paper, rather fingers to keypad (blame technology for making us lose such phrases). Like now, I have it all, everything in place, the data collected over hours of calls, quotes obtained after having put up with a million tantrums by so many people. All it needs now, is the consolidation, the writing, the (very) little bit of creativity (almost restricted to the beginning and the end) and the flow. Its weird when your mind just refuses to wanna write, flip sides of writing for a living I presume. Writing for a hobby, for expression, for covering up those vocal limitations, is such an inherent yet a voluntary part of our lives, when forced to with a set audience hits differently, a sort of stage fear, when you go weak in the knees at the thought of the world watching you, judging you by it. And being in the field, there’s little liberty, no lack of inspiration, no writer’s block can ever be excused, you, are expected to be like the machines churning out the crap you write, giving out the same quality, the same amount of work, infact even the little personal touch with every story. Such are times when you wanna sit back, relax, read, write perhaps, vague things, everything except what you are ‘supposed’ to write about, like now.
Three stories await my attention, my completion, and the night’s calm, the music, the supple, perfect weather, everything seems so deprived of the power to inspire you, to make you write, the way you are wanted to, those perfectly chosen words, the lack of (almost) perception, the objectivity, and yet again the responsibility.
I want to write, I wanna continue writing, just this way, where I can write what I feel, where I am myself, devoid of the fear of judgment, the demands. Being fed with the right things to say, the way to do so, I am now itching, itching to be heard, as myself, with everything that I wish to say. It’s a game, the one with words, and I am addicted.