To the writers of mirakee,
You're here because you can't write, right?
You sit down by your bedside, pendulating your legs to and fro, waiting for an array of words to sashay down your fumes of fancy from that flimsy doorway you've fabricated out for them.
Or perhaps, you're slouching along the rose window, from where the skylight floods into your white-walled room; bathing everything inside with golden rain.
You want to write about the chartreuse like leaves that sway and swing with the hym of the breeze and part away from the trees, that was once their home.
You want to write about the iridescent sky and it's ever changing hues, from it's burning pink to it's raven wings and how it's hem wraps the sapphire sea only to dive into the horizon.
You want to write about the warm yellows that dances on the reflecting streams, as you catch the ripples racing one another, to immerse in the glass like water before the other.
You want to write about the sonder that swallows you in a whole, allowing you to sieve the chest of a being only to reveal the ecstasy of their own zest and zeal, their lapse and qualms, their victories and defeats which they fold in their squirrel cage stringed to another and other and many more you would be oblivious of.
But then, when you hold the pen, it taps your lips more than it scratches the paper.
For all the words that you collected in a row disperses into the thick zephyr that stole the leaves from the trees.
The rhymes you replayed in your head now flies like moss in the air to become one with the clouds and eventually, merge with the golden sunset by the horizon.
Your verses are lost like the beams of sun over the vast stream of your emptiness and takes lead in melting away into the current, mocking defeat to the pacing ripples.
But like the strongest of storms, this too, shall pass.
It is only when you stop writing for yourself, is when you lose your control over words. You are ruled by what others want to read and suppresses your druthers to mould them in what others want to view.
That, my darling, is when your gift of noticing the most critical of details, is seized from you.
That, my darling, is when you're no more a writer.
Writing had always varied from authors to authors, poets to poets and so on. That was, because of the diverseness in the backgrounds of the pen-holders.
Sure, get inspired; there's no stopping in that- but becoming a whole unrecognizable wordsmith a fistful of audience wants to applaud at, is a heck new level of absurdity.
But you can't write anything? Okay.
This is where mother nature comes knocking at your venetian blind, to urge you to see past just random clouds and grounds. Being a writer, one must realize the power they can make the words hold and carry in a dulcet manner.
Like, why do you need to say- the sun came out shining just like that? Make the sky your stage, and put the stage on fire! Burn the clouds and make them weep and then add some light sprinkles of colors and call it 'rainbows' :)
Make the sun flirt with the moon, and the sky blush into a pink rogue. Make the stars race wild on the tracks of wanderlust.
Run your imagination.
Because words starts to flood;
when you open that cap of your pen.