Writing.

After the day’s routine rows of drudgery, things slow down to an easier pace. You retire for the night and get back in your room to settle yourself down. You look out the window and see that it’s raining. You open the windows and let the cold breeze gush in the petrichor emanating from the dying earth below. Just the perfect time for a good long time to sit down and do nothing but breath.

Or perhaps to sit down at your desk, switch on the lamp and write. Yes, write. After all, writing is not a thing reserved for the doctor of all jargon. It is a time tested fact that wonderful environments create wonderful thoughts and feelings worth writing down. You have stumbled on an amazing opportunity you have determined not to let go; this night shall be unlike any other night. So, you arbitrate against your self imposed notions of inferiority, and resolve to bring out all the rainbows inside you. You stretch a bit, take a deep breath, get hold of that pen, roll it around your knuckles, and then look outside the window, eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Ideas don’t bounce in so quick but you’re not gonna give up so quick too. You dive deep into the ocean of thoughts inside your mind, scour it’s waters and try to come up with something interesting, perhaps a thought you had in a dainty daydream on a delicate day.
You haul out that notepad from one of the dusty piles of books stranded on your desk since weeks and try to pen down some of those thought threads. But the problem, as it always is, is coherence. You never get coherent thoughts. Your thoughts branch out so quick into numerous short fragments which eventually makes a cobweb out of itself. The more you play with it, the more you get tangled in it. On one hand, you can’t remember all the little fragments together and on the other, as you try to connect some of them, you lose sight of many others. They’re like light bulbs blinking at random behind your brain, laughing at your inability to sort them up in any sane way. 

Nevertheless, you try hard to make some sensible constellations, and in a desperate cloudburst of words, you get yourself to scribble them down. You then try to reorder the jigsaw, make some careful additions, give it the Midas touch and finally, breathe it to life.
Content at your accomplishment, you jump into your bed, roll over and snore away, knowing you’ll be waking up happy.

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