Lost

She sat on the corner of a wooden plank alongside of the river bed, facing the sinking sun. Her bare feet immersed in the water, she stared into the depth of the river with absolute blank expressions. Though it did look like she was thinking, not a millions things, but only one.

In the darkening twilight, nature's silence left the character of being serene and started to become haunting. Any usual person would have begun their return journey, but there she sat, as still as a grave, like she had nowhere to go to, with her fists clenching the plank so tight as if she was trying to control her anger, restrain the outburst of emotions.

He walked towards the place where she had been sitting now for an hour. "Sarah", he called. Without an essence of startlement on being torn apart from that awful silence, she turned, un-amazed.

She was beautiful, and her eyes seemed to have soaked all the colour from the water she had been staring at, they were that Blue. He held her hands, making her stand and spoke in length about how badly he wanted her back. He apologised while he could see she had started to cry. Tears had begun to leave trails of Kohl on her cheek. "Sarah, say something", he begged after he had nothing left to say. Her small round lips, opened and closed, but not a word cam out. Was she too weak to speak or didn't feel the need anymore, or maybe she was numb to feel any of it.

She turned around. While she walked into the darkness, the meagre moonlight could only touch rare exposed parts of her body and that little light glistened to speak of her new desires to be lost.  

Write, Please!

Looking back in time, where writing was so much easier, I only wish I could be the old “not so self-conscious” me. That was the time I wrote only for myself and that pressure of my write-up being appreciated by the public did not exist. I used to finish a story, re-read a few times and was satisfied with whatever little creativity my brain had come up with. And as I grew, grew the audience; friends noticed my scribbles and I was encouraged to change the privacy settings of my blog to: Public!

Now guess what was the first thing that happened after the stories I wrote were no longer a secret? Well! I started reading them with someone else’s perspective, and I didn’t like them like before. I thought they were mediocre and nothing to boast on a social platform. So I took my posts off the net (I have them in hardcopy, not much lost). I started reading a lot to improvise my imagination, to build a fancy vocabulary (which I don’t have till date) and to write in a way that attracted greater social applause. Reading others made it more hopeless, “there are so many of them, all better writers, nobody will like what I write” is a summary of what went in my head. And that’s when I lost me. I wrote little, decorated with whatever I found was trending and posted only after couple of people had approved of it. Since then I have been trying to come out of the lust to impress people (not ONLY because I failed at it).

So why am I writing this? Because I believe I am not the only one who went through this. Anybody can write, everyone must write, it’s a stress-buster and clears your head like nothing else can. Write for yourself, and if you seek for appreciation, one day you will find the right audience (Me motivating me).       

Purpose of Reading

Why do you read?

I have met so many people who are interested in reading. Some even have libraries of their own. But it's so difficult to find the same books in the personal library of even two people. Each of us have a genre preference. Everybody reads with a different purpose. I respect people who have the patience to read the classics. I also believe they comprehend beyond those words, just the way our literature professors explained the instances in a completely different sense than what it meant to us. They have the ability to read the minds of the author. Perhaps, a well-read has discovered by comparing various readings the real meaning behind the expressions used by the writer. But why read what was written ages ago, why read stories of people who never existed?

Moving away from the classics and talking about the modern fiction, my favourite kind! Because I belong to this category, I believe we read to escape. We read as we are dissatisfied with the reality. How miserably we want all that we read to be true, or to be a part of that world where it exists. Books become the source of imagination. The readers obviously draw inspiration from the imaginary stories building in their heads as they read the treasure between their hands. It's indeed a challenge to think about the impossible happening as described by the writer, who using his exceptional mathematical literature draws a legitimate connection between all the occurrences that it all appears authentic. Now, a lot of people aren't very fond of the paranormal fiction, because it's all very unreal for them. Which is true, it's an escape, it's another world, and so many times it gives the strength to face the real one. Again, why do we read? 

Biographies are supposed to be plain, I like plain. They give you an insight in the lives of people who had the strength to become a person who'll have to state incidents of their life to inspire other people. But do people who read biographies start living upon the principles of these famous personalities? If yes, is that why you read? If not, why did you read?

It sounds naive, but I hate the self-help books. I've often been told that the people who have biographies must have read and applied what was stated in the self-help books. I've not read many, but from whatever I did, I only gathered what I already knew. It's all within me and I don't need to read to bring them in practice. It doesn't work out that way. Reading positive quotes, guidelines for living life, etc., does not bring any instant change, neither does it have a lot term effect. I know what's wrong and isn't supposed to be done/felt, and reading about the same thing will not entice me into living my life the way they describe it should be. Maybe it actually helps a lot of people, but how? And if not, why do they sell?

So many other categories, so many different type of readers. The same sentence might mean so differently to different people. Everybody reads with a different intent. The intent decides the genre they will read.

Why do you read? Pleasure? But how?... Escape? Really?...Help? Does it?...Information? How much?...