Ever since my novice age, I was strolling with words and often used to experience praises like you're generous with phrases, adore your rhymes, you could be an author someday and so on.
For me, I felt uh? Me? And I laughed at them. I play with words, but I'm no writer, nor I never wanted to be.
In the past, I was questioned on my words, my emotions within them, and the existence of my personality. I screamed, I neither write for appreciation nor I do write to impress someone;
It's my expression and my thoughts.
But it shattered me, I felt the dampness in my eyelids, and it dripped down with gravity.
I was depressed, distracted, and distorted by the comments that I've heard of; It was buzzing inside my head, like a bee in a cavity.
I ran, and I ran to shut myself off, but I couldn't. Then, pulled me and showed my face to the mirror, and it asked me of dim:
What have you cried for?
I don't know, I said.
When have you cried last?
I don't know, I repeated.
Have you cried on death?
No, I didn't, I murmured.
Have you cried about failure?
No, I didn't, I uttered.
Then, what are you crying about now?
I don't know! I don't know; I shouted loud!
It started glowing and said:
But I do, you have found your love of life, and it's the art of writing. And these tears are of breaking, to bring out the light of your soul.
The mirror showed me the soulful reflection of myself! I was astonished; it drew a glossy smile on my face.
Now, I deliver it throughout my journey.
What have you cried for?
