.a written note.

On some nights like this, to sleep won't be all that I would want. It will be something I wouldn't mind getting but there are many more and other things under the sun that I am still awaiting. I have come here, already decided, to communicate tonight. I write here. And you have to believe that I do not know the reason as to why I do that. Why I write. I've been travelling a lot lately and I've succeeded in not allowing the landscapes making me go hollow, deep in the belly of my thoughts. Some of those who read here, seldom ask me of the solitude they feel. I haven't yet decided on putting solitude in words to begin with. Not yet. Why haven't I written words of joy, they wonder. Perhaps it's just me who goes up there via this route. Solitude, as they call it. I'm thinking of writing stories about others, and by others, I mean, those whom you haven't met yet. I have met you in certain ways, though I'm unsure we both have met each other at t

I have been wanting to write since last few days, and still not writing ached somewhere. Winter has made itself comfortable with its breeze that rests over the bodies that need to be sharpened, just like some of ours do. Who would have thought I'd someday have to remember things as if it was my uppermost need? Because I'd stopped writing for a while, I am continuously writing something, just to get back on the track. I need to activate. You believe I have a lot to write, don't you? But let me tell you, as much as the attachment that I share, I have as well been the cause of people's tears. Recalling that, it sends over chills, feeling colder and thicker than this season's presence. And despite it all, I fall in love with Winter every year. Someone asked me, "Is writing like a drug to you? Why do I see shades of sadness in all of it?" A drug? I smiled. I am trying to get closer to everything that I need to remember. This coldness of Winter resembles