I must write.

For what I must write?

I am not sure.

For whom I should write?

I am not sure.

What should be my subject of writing? 

I mull over.
Not suffering from enough pain.

I somehow managed to escape those wounds.

Not a victim of time.

I healed the losses with time that went by.

Not a refugee.

I was fortunate to get to a home wherever I went.

Not an addict.

I changed destructive habits more often, just not to stick to one.

Not a believer.

I left worshipping only when I was in distress.

Not a success icon.

I always had been what people called mediocre.

Not a great lover.

I just tried to look for the perfect partner that I was not sure of existed.

Not a great philosopher.

I only tried to imitate others around me without perceiving my true surroundings.
For everything else I can write, I think.

Unrequited love to be the world’s favourite.

Motivating lies for the gullibles, just in case it sparks some hope in some of them.

Cheap pornographic stories without literary value.

It then occurs to me that I could just write anything and nobody cares until it is in vogue. If I fail, I have to write again. if I succeed, I have to write again.

For all the stories that I carry all over  with me everyday, are in need to be put down in paper, I realize.

I must write. I must write.

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