Writing is a piece of art. It expresses. It beholds. It infers, wanting to be inferred too. It questions. It answers. It seeks questions again. Preferring some to remain unanswered.
Writing is like a breath of fresh air. It heals. It cures. The hidden and also the forbidden scars. It nurtures. Our dreams. Our hopes. Our aspirations. Though in an imaginary way. Building an illusionary world.
They say writers are thinkers. Day dreamers. Yes, they are. That is how they live. Hanging on to their world of imagination that can be painted on a piece of paper. Inscribed with words.
Writing is the humane form of our thoughts. Expressing the unexpressed, even the expressed. Speaking the unspoken, even the spoken. It’s a solace, a panacea that soothes the soul and also the heart.
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