Somedays, words flow from the tip of my fingers, sprouting springs whose waters seem to last forever. somedays, the pool dries up, leaving no trace behind ever, of the presence of water. And I wonder, am I writer?
Somedays, tears form lumps in my throat, stuck, at the tentacle of falling out, transforming into anger on pages. Somedays, they descend in torrential downpour forming cavities upon my face and dampening blank pages. And I stare at the glistening droplets, am I a writer?
Somedays, memories come knocking on the door of present. I hold the door open, only slightly, letting it walk in a sequential pattern, straight through the ink across paper. Somedays, they come knocking down my door, and my hands hang helpless to their force. They form muddles around my mind, and I wonder, can I be a writer?
Somedays I edit, most days I erase, on occasion I delete the words I had previously placed. Somedays it takes everything within to choose to write, somedays writing chooses me, like I’ve been doing it all my life- it seems. And I wonder, what It takes to stake a claim on being a writer?
The above image is courtesy of The odyssey online.com