"How do you write?" Amber asks me.
I continue crooning along with Ed sheeran .”Give a little time to me, we’ll work this out we’ll play hide and seek to turn this around all I want is the taste that your lips allow ,my my my my ah oh give me love my my my ...."
"FLORA!", she explodes.
"Jeez, lady. Calm your nerves. What?"
"I asked you something. I wanna know. What inspires you to write."You never get tired of posting on your blog everyday “
"Yeah", I don't bother to explain.
"Ever been in love?"
"No."
"Ever had a heartbreak?"
I look at her with an miffed expression. "Duh. Didn't I say I've never been in love?" “Are writer bunch of heartbroken folks ?
"Alright Alright . Now.. then tell me."
"What do you want me to say, Amber? Okay, you want to know why I write? How I write? Do you want me to list out the number of people I've dealt with in nineteen years? I can't. But they were an interesting salmagundi. Broken ones and euphoric ones. I've met people who've been in love and unable to express it. I've seen a few who have fallen out of love but live with their partners forcefully.
I once met a guy who was so freaked out about committment after breaking up with his girlfriend of five years, that he couldn't keep the girl who came along afterwards; who decided to give him all the love he deserved. Look what he lost. Is it his fault that he has heightened his defences?
Heard about Emmanuel the popular footballer who got his life ruined because of love and ignorance ? -(Love is wicked I thought as I continued talking)
I've met people who fight with themselves everyday. Waking up every morning is a torture. Their battles are of the worst kind. Whereas some others live a carefree life, amidst the people they love, doing the things they want to. How envious should the former be of the latter?
Twenty years isn't much. But in these twenty years of my life, I've seen more pain than joy. More heartbreaks than none. And I'm not talking about myself. No. I've been careful not to put myself in such situations. But what about the people who have? What about them? Who's going to pen down their pain? Their cries for help? And the ones who lead a happy life. Who's going to put their esctasy on paper? Not everyone is gifted with the power of writing. It's a gift a few of us possess. Can I be conceited with this gift? I can. But I'd rather not.
You ask me how I write though I haven't felt any such emotion.
I say that it's the power to make my quill bleed the thoughts of others.
I say that, for me, it's the power of words over that of feelings
follow me 
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