I know it seems hard at times. Times like these when nothing seem to go in a right way. You seem to feel all the wrong feelings, mostly emptiness and nothing. You don’t like what you do or produce or feel and every night you wish it were to be the last one.

The thing is you never know how many people love you or were touched by you or were inspired. How many people are waiting to read your next poem or see your next artwork or listen to your next song. For you, these works might not mean anything but for them, it might be their only hope.

And it’s okay to die. That is the whole point of life anyway. Everything we do leads to death. But it’s nicer to live. To feel. Even the emptiness you feel right now. To sleep. To eat. To travel. To meet strangers on the road and have them give you some warmth of their fire. To talk. to drink. To read. To work on more shitty blog posts. For a change, it’s always better to live for oneself – for one more pint of beer, for one more story of your favorite author, for one more word you’ve not written yet. For one more night of warm blanket under the white ceiling where you promised to paint the universe one day.

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Lost in Inspiration

I am not the girl you think I am. I am not strong or smart or confident. I break down easily. I don’t know why are we having wars. I cannot stand against a bunch of crowd going against my view. I cannot even stick to my view.

I know I declared that I will stop writing for a while. But the moment I declared it, I couldn’t help but long to write again. I was waiting for inspiration. Every Saturday since last few weeks. But all my Saturdays have gone against my wish. The first Saturday, I couldn’t meet everyone I planned to meet. The next Saturday which I planned to spend by reading books, was spent being tired and feeling sick. And today, I thought, I would go out and enjoy a concert. But I’m at home, with an almost sprained ankle.

I have a dream. To write. And travel. And tell stories. I have been planning to do MFA in Creative Writing after a year or two. Then, work in a magazine while also working on some books. Get publishers and travel. Go to places. To Europe, Peru, Egypt. Afghanistan. But lately, I am scared. I don’t feel like writing all the time. I feel vacant and empty inside. As if I no longer have what I love the most. I feel sad and I suffer inside. Oh, I suffer greatly. I might not show it all the time but I spend sleepless night praying for words to come back to me. For inspiration.

This friend of mine always tells me not to wait for inspiration and look within. I always tell him, when I feel restless and frustrated, that I feel like I have been caged inside four walls. “Four walls, there is your inspiration”, my boss told me the other time we were chatting on Facebook as I told him how my words have disappeared. “You can find inspiration, anywhere you look for – books, poetry, walls, chair, table.” He’d said. Well that’s what I fail to do. I try to find inspiration in people. Ordinary people. And people don’t have inspiring and positive stories every time. They also have stories about failures and heartbreak and sadness and suffering. Like these two amazing blogs I have been visiting recently. I know both the bloggers personally and have always been a huge fan of their writings. But lately, I have been thinking that if these two have not yet been able to find publishers to bring out book, what will happen to me.

During these times, I really feel small and unworthy. Also, I want to write stories of ordinary people. What they go through everyday or what they feel. About war and poverty and hunger and the sufferings ordinary people go through. Losing loved ones, disappointments, failures. But today I wondered, is it even ethical? Selling someone else’s sorrow? And what difference does it even make? Many people have written about wars and poverty. But have these books helped to stop the war or eradicate poverty? What’s the use of writing all these stories, if they never help someone or inspire them? I have become distraught with all these questions in mind. I wonder if I need to find something else to pursue but I know that at the end of the day I always come back to writing. Writing is something I cannot leave. And I am not sure if I will ever want to leave.

Right now, I feel that I am in a crossroad. I am confused and more fickle-minded that before. I hope to come to conclusion soon. At least before it’s too late. Or even after, because in things like this, I know it’s never too late actually. I just hope to reach there one day.

A/N: Following are the blogs I was talking about. a) thinkinink b) dearest

Happiness is best when shared.

Happiness is best when shared.

A friend told me once. He read it somewhere he said. Read or watched, I don’t remember. I don’t even remember if I got the quote right. But what I know is that it is true.

Happiness is best when shared.

I felt it again today. I felt it when I celebrated the end of undergraduate studies with my family and friends. I felt it last time when I called up a friend to talk about an important event of my life. We were excited then and we are excited now.

Happiness is best when shared.

The whole feeling of happiness disappears when you have no one to share to. When you end up being alone. The feeling is replaced with frustration and depression after a bit of loneliness. The whole having no one to tell stories leaves a vacant in heart that slowly turns heavy. Happiness slowly becomes burden and reason to feel like you are in a hell.

Happiness is best when shared.

A friend told me. He had found a reason to believe in it. He did go through it. And I believe him because I go through them every day.

Happiness is best when shared. So, let’s share it every day 🙂