Yes, you heard it right. A writer is dying. And what can you do to save him? Just take his hand and pull him up from his depths of depression? Or will you shout lectures at him and say: “Just don’t give up” in the end? Or if nothing else works, will you sit with him and listen to his crap? Actually nothing! There are plenty of writers around for this one to get unnoticed. And how will it affect you in any case? You already have your favorites in hand.
Amidst engineering and writing, when he has to choose his priorities, he ends with nothing. Every minute of his priceless time goes away in the search of his dream, his goals. Confused, he sits down with his laptop, yet again, to start with something, anything, that pops up. But nothing does, and he fails again. Disgusted, he shuts his laptop off and goes out to get some fresh air. “Why is this happening? Why am I unable to write?” he thinks repeatedly. In the search of his answers, one more day passes away. Yes, a writer is dying. Slowly and gradually!
Sitting in the class, he sees someone smile, an old friend and gets recalled of all those times spent together. He also remembers those heated arguments which left a hole in his heart, long ago. Fifteen days passed, nothing changed. He looks down and wonders what good this would bring and breaks again. This breaking and re breaking, gets him tired and he falls asleep when he gets back home, after his college hours. Yes, a writer is dying. Slowly and gradually!
He looks around for signs of love and does find some; his one friend who stuck around when he lost all others, a few seniors, his family and his girlfriend. He smiles upon those moments when he was picked up from the dirt and gathers some strength to get together those broken pieces. He sits with a pen and paper and ends up writing about something grave. He re reads it and finds it depressing. “When and how did such negativity instill within me?” he wonders. This tears him apart at the stems and he decides not to write again. Yes, a writer is dying.
He goes through his news feed on Facebook and realizes that his friends have reached miles in such a short time. His friends who were nothing more than his age and were still in college had managed to get their books ready. Some were in the process of getting it published, while others had accomplished that task too. Their dream was in their hands. “What about mine? Does it even exist?”, he thinks and falls apart, yet again. Yes, a writer is dying slowly and gradually.
He rereads those messages where his write-ups were rejected from renowned pages. He recalls his enthusiasm before sending those write-ups and the level of depression after receiving those messages. Smiling, he deletes them one after the other until he reaches a point where he sees something he had forgotten long back, someone who had accepted him and his write-ups. A page, yes that, one page out of those many, who trusted him and encouraged him to write more and to write for their page. A family, which he was later led into and people who endured him for whatever crap he had to tell them. He recollected those times when this family stood for him and did not let him feel low despite the hundreds reasons he had. He sits down to type something again, something worth being read. And he ends up typing his story. Yes, a writer is dying. But he is not yet dead. Writers cannot die. They do not have that authority. At least, this person, this writer thinks, he doesn’t.
Let the world have their favorites,
I’ll paint my own canvas,
Let the world love their writers,
I’ll be a light in my blackness.