Writing is a fire, a force, an annoying and persistent little voice in the head. I have felt it throbbing in my veins, in my mind, my heart, ever since I could remember, ever since my father introduced me to its joys as a child. But I chose to do nothing about it, for decades. I would always find a million excuses to write my first words on the morrow, but the morrow never came.

Procrastination has criminal intent, it truly steals time, opportunity and deposits regret. I do have regret. Regret for not writing earlier. It’s not about rupees and dollars, it’s about finding purpose, meaning, it is about self-discovery. Placing that finger, finally, on that elusive pulse. The pulse of life.

But, thankfully, that annoying little voice finally got its way. I still stare at a computer screen, most of the week, in an eight to five job. Still, I get to hit back, whenever possible, with a vengeance, through my writing. Perhaps, that, is a rare privilege.

I write for joy

I write against sorrow

I write to escape

I write for old memories

I write for passion

I write to feel

I write to live