I don't know why or when I stopped writing prose. When I stopped finding that incorrigible need to archive every curious thought that found its way into my mind for the fear of losing it. Perhaps when self doubt fell head over heels in love with perfectionism, I got so engrossed documenting their romance I sort of gave up on prose. Perhaps some part of me was always afraid of waking up one day and finding myself caught in the dark chasm of mediocrity,bleeding through my fingertips. What is left of a writer who has forgotten to write ? It is like being a song that is stuck inside a mute person. The song that exists and does not. Like that famous leaf that fell in some Amazonian forest, but no one saw and no one heard, so did it fall or not. Strangely even when you don't write you are writing every moment. Only the words are falling on watered thoughts creating ripples only momentarily before fading into absolute obscurity. So finally I have found the will to rescue the words trapped inside me for once and actually start writing. And god it feels so good already ! I feel like a deer that somehow managed to cross the road despite being baffled by the mechanical headlights of routine. It is so easy to get swayed by luminous glow of all that is superficial and keeps one busy but in the end turn out to be disappointingly banal. Perhaps I was merely on some strange hibernation mode waiting for that sudden rush of blood, that unstoppable impetus that would finally push all the chaotic, passionate, much loved, much hated words out of me. I have always believed that creativity is the only ladder from the eternal darkness that is always running after all of us. So here I am snapping out of a hazy day dream and writing my heart out. At last.