Apr 15, 2021
I want to be a writer. I’ve always wanted to be. But maybe, we all are. In some other world. A world where we all do nothing but write till we run out of words and ink and our muscles ache for some activity. That’s when you paint a stairwell with the ink you spilled earlier and didn’t care to wipe away. The book on the ground, as you land your foot that’s hovering over the ink stained page, you are in the world you created. And you roam the paths between the letters you once wrote till the letters stop coming and you are back in your room once again, writing new paths to walk on.
