When I was little, writing used to come a lot more naturally to me. I used to uncap my pen, and get to writing. Often, I only discovered what I was writing after I got a few sentences in, reaffirming my belief that an idle mind can wander a great deal on paper too.
It’s growing up, I guess. One grows up and immerses himself in a series of habits and engagements, and slowly sheds time away from what was fun earlier. Over time, the pen was being uncapped a lot less frequently. Thoughts and ideas were shared by speech to friends and other people one wishes to impress, and that ended up being the short term way of expressing- expressing to impress. The pen grew rusty with time, and slowly, the words behind it started to fade away. A step towards being an able raconteur was a step away from being a better writer. This happened to an extent when one day, one just woke up and uncapped his pen, and there weren’t any words to write. Writing is a rigor and a discipline, and a way to express oneself for today and all the tomorrows that time’s unstoppable march holds. A great storyteller has many skills of his own, but needs the story to not be a snore. Being a disciple to discipline is not easy.
Today, it is a challenge to get back in that carefree groove, a place where the pen is uncapped and the words flow effortlessly. Today, my hands tire when I scribble a page in freehand writing. Today, I wrote a page of scribbles and lauded myself for being one page better than yesterday- and for shaping another batch of ideas into an unforgettable and indelible form. Today, it is not important what I write, but that I write. Today, the pen is uncapped and the ink is being kind to me. Today, I write because that is all I care for. I care less for what I have done today, blessed though it be and all that I have become. Today, I write for the me who writes tomorrow. Today, I cap my pen with a page, so that tomorrow, I unsheathe it and lay waste to all the rust I have caught over the years. Today, I write for tomorrow.