Writing is the way out


Writing has always been an expression of my feelings about, things that I enjoy, what I love about life, or what pains me, what I appreciate, or what troubles me in our society. Things that I want to share, my experiences and memories that clothe me.

My own goals and destinations, my resting points, the curbs and the bends, the lost or marked steps on the road of my personal journey, all reflect in my writing, as unknowingly I get woven in the fabric of my poem, my fiction, my essay, my article, hidden, but always there.

I’ll keep writing and putting out what I have to offer in terms of topics, those that are dear to me. 

I’m a compulsive writer, and I’d write about anything, any topic. Nothing is out of bound for me, except for a few topics, that I would not touch, at least for now.

I’d write about love, pain, happiness, about beauty, and art, and the simple pleasures of enjoying a beautiful moment with someone, or just about nature.

I’d write to hope for a bright sustainable future for all, about living in harmony with nature, and about justice for those who are close to nature, while not forgetting the past and the past injustices, and about inequalities that have divided us in segments, about the quest that each of us has for that other half that would complete us, and the questions that each one of us is trying to find answers for what lies in this or beyond this universe.


 

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