You're just a small part of my life, but in hindsight I am all of you, and you are the all of me. We
call it Writing, but what we mean is the art of words. The words spoken, the words unspoken, and the
selective gems we chose to pen down, defying every other thought that deserved to be scratched on the
paper as well.
We think anyone can write, but what a pleasure to be the chosen one, to share a small portion of the
largest pie called writers. It's so chivalrous of you to be so welcoming that every other person has at
least once borrowed a personality from you, or better, known theirs better.
It's so funny how you wittily take all the geniuses under your radar yet keep them behind the fame
curtains, letting them be the underrated mystery they all complain about, but also find most sexy.
You've been the inspiration, you've been the revenge. The carrier of kiddish love and adult rage. The
beholder of purity and insanity. You've seen it all, and still gave us artists the credit, and not the
art.
People diminish it, doubting your future existence, saying unnatural intelligence will take up your
space. But how belittling of them to think that the one art, the next kin to the birth of the brain,
could easily vanish. They thought this when print media started disappearing. They thought this when
newspapers were replaced by TV news. They thought this when people stopped recognising writers and went
crazy for the ones standing on the shoulders of their stories.
Oh, what an honour to be called a 'Writer'. Oh, what a limiting thought, to believe such a universally
huge flex could fit in one teeny tiny person.
I am not a writer. And can writing ever be me, or mine? Impossible.
It's been centuries, and we still couldn't capture your essence: the thoughts, the words, the feelings,
the reactions, the euphemisms, the non-existent. To cage you in the word Writing is so unfair. And to
commercialise you, oh, the dare!
I'm nothing in front of you. Not a teenager with tantrums, not a kid with mischief. More like the
unborn baby, with no idea what lies beyond its own bubble. You consume me, you hold me dear, and for
that I will be eternally grateful to be chosen, in whatever capacity.
A to Z credits to you, to the art of thinking, writing and feeling. I will spend my life, my existence,
my entirety, trying to be a little bit closer to you and the divine.
From an immature self-proclaimed genius of your
clan,
Yours,
drishtie.