Everytime I pick up a pen to write, or start typing into a blank screen, a part of me dies and gets reborn as my words.
No matter how mediocre a writer I might be, I write because that’s the only way I can prove that I die for the things that I cherish.
Yes, I die for things that I love. I die everytime it rains, I die everytime I stare into her perfection, I die everytime I listen to Opeth or Steven Wilson.
And this death is mixed into the ink of my pen or the mechanism of my keyboard.
And my death gives birth to a plethora of new thoughts. Ofcourse, not all of them get to come out into the paper or the screen.
The fittest always survive. Nature selects the fittest. This applies to my words too.
The fittests of my thoughts become words. Raw, naked words. Sometimes they fall perfectly into place, sometimes they don’t.
Even though I believe that everything actually falls into their places, places they are meant to occupy. It’s our minds that manipulate us to decide whether they are falling into place or not, based on our own satisfaction.
So, my raw, naked words start bathing themselves in the fountain inside my head. They smell of emotions.
My fountain is not full of metaphors or literary ornaments. My fountain cannot boast of out-of-this-world imagery.
My fountain can only boast of purity. The smell of emotions in my words is unadulterated.
Every book that I read, every song that I listen to, every touch of her skin that my hand receives, every story that I become a part of- they all end up in my fountain- purified by my feelings.
And after bathing, the words that smell of emotions crawl out into the cruel world through my pen or my keyboard.
And I can do nothing but shed a tear of happiness and wish them success.
Matrix of Matter 