Writing and Rainbows—Why do I Write Everyday?

The splendor, in each word that flows out of the mind like molten magma—and the unattended room that is, for words to overwhelm like there is no tomorrow. The world is a chaotic place to be, and it becomes tougher for minds trying to seek solace in each craft that is.

We have been brought up into the fashion of the non-existent variable—that is to graduate, start earning and capitalize on the future that is never on our side. And of the world that no longer listens, the estranged lyricist who tries to sell his art, at the epitome of his life—but the value that we place, if it’s even appreciated.

But I write, with all that my mind has to offer, and as each day draws closer to the next—there is but a selective yearning—one that questions the authority of this life—if there is anything even attached to it. I try to wake my mind, with only so much that I can absorb, the parameters get well ahead of me every time I try to explore.

This life, and for me to express—such interdependence that I could never imagine anything else. It’s as if I were compelled to write, the inner satisfaction that crowds the mind. But of all—I would start thinking that I haven’t done anything at all if I were to stop writing for a week. The guilt that boils, for the mind has to express, and in each rhythm that is yet to be traveled.

I write to heal—from everything that is not. Such strange world centered on those who could express—what else could one even ask for?

Everything beautiful fades, but art—ones that need no justification. I always try to—for life doesn’t get any fairer to me as each day progresses, and to write, of all that is revolving inside my mind. The phases of misery teach us a lot, and I—there is no such day that did not.

And it doesn’t even seem to be stopping for me. The journals that I ensure—for it to document how I feel each day—things that tomorrow will be a mystery. I find the comfort that we so closely try to find in others—but within me, the mind that wants to write.

I still remember, my first diary—and the inscription on it that defined my delicate hours. Perhaps those were the days—that would give birth to my own world, ones in which daylight is but a chartered territory—and the night is what mattered most.

I couldn’t imagine life without it, for the joy is always greater than each episode of melancholia or what of my life if it’s not writing. Every image that I see, or the new paint on top of the three storied building—I will have to express, and the ones that even break me—for it to be defined into words that will last.

I have always felt that there was a greater calling—but each new day—I can’t stand up to all that so casually sweeps away the society. For life is not a thing—and everything is but a chance to write.

-Yogesh Chandra