This is good....

I found him... or her.. Seshat... the goddess of writing... She came to me at a particular time when I was unaware.. She touched me, poked me to scribble... and write my thoughts. And they are in abundance... Flooding, I have to keep them, write them. Publish them. Amazing, such wondrous thoughts, they give me goosebumps, they make me cry, they make me want to love and love. Embrace me, and be with me. I will take you into a beautiful world of endless emotions..

Love is a beautiful thing, but writing is my love, so what do you call it? Writing takes me to places where there are no emotions. Where there is nothing but space, not empty, but not filled, spaces devoid of anything, and writing teaches me to fill it with love, fill it with longing, fill it with epical desires to pursue what is left of nothing. To start building a foundation of something tangible but unseen, something heavy but has no weight, something that touches us, that moves us. Just something powerful.

It is a magnificent gift to be able to write, to be able to discern and be confused with what we feel and in turn to make it into a ceremony of epicyclic miracles of seeking and finding what we are made of.

And so, what are we made of? You might ask. In the social world, we are so different from each other that we ask where is someone from, why someone is like that, why she seems so distinct, aloof, too kind, too gullible, too nice, the list goes on. But in my truth, I think we are all the same, it is only our powers, our wills, our desires, our longings and our environment that changes us into something acceptable. The society will claim us to be part of her if we cramble to be better, some of us becomes stronger once society has accepted what we have molded ourselves to become. Only few of us accept to be separate and they are the lucky ones. Are we them? Are we one of them? We only know individually. Secretly. Fugitively.