A writer will always be mistaken.
Everyone thinks but only we choose to pen down. We write the earnest, the deepest of the thoughts with a pen which runs silver ink, the same silver that makes a mirror.
We pen down what we see with honesty, what we feel or imagine. Our feelings or imaginations are just like us, simple and true with not even the slightest intentions to misguide or mislead.
We choose to write down on vivid and diverse topics but not all are our past. We want to write something that’s someone’s something, that makes out a meaning, that brings clarity to someone.
We don’t always pen down our life. So it doesn’t matter if I write about love, I’m actually in love with someone, it maybe past or pure imagination. I want to write it so well, pouring my heart through the silver ink. And when people read it and ask if that’s happened to me. I take it as a compliment, I feel on having written it so good that people find its true.
But not always do I like the question. The question- ‘Has it happened to me’. I want to write pure fantasies, someone else’s darkest realities, fictions without the fear of judgments, without being questioned on my physical connection with my writings.
If they want to know my connection with my work, I can tell you whole day how deeply connected, embossed it’s in my soul not because they have been my past but because I could feel it without them actually happening to me. I feel all my work so deep just the way I’d have felt if it’d have happened to me.
But am I gifted or unfortunate? I can feel anything so well but still can’t deliver it as my pure fantasy. I mislead my readers through my work that it has happened to me without my truest intentions. A Blessing or a Curse?
The writer will always be misunderstood.