Sunday, February 16, 2014


I was meaning to write. But I could not bring myself to write. To write is a tedious task. But to others it comes very very naturally. To me, at times, it comes naturally. Other times, I have to force it. It is of course quite gruesome and grueling. But then again, I could not find anything to write about. People, even my friends find something to talk about. I can't. I find it difficult. To talk about things. These things. Life in general. Have you ever gone against the tide. I do only talk abstract. And most of the times, I just write abstract. Abstract. It defines us. It goes on. It is surreal. I like surreal. Real is... well, mundane at times.


Red Handed said...

Well sometimes not having anything to talk, writ or think about is a state of bliss. I wish I could get that for a while.

Soumya said...

Dude, you are alive. Do you need more reasons to write?

quartertoinsane said...

@red: Your wish shall be granted... here take my place :P
@soumya: living is not inspiration, inspiration is needed to write :)