1. You are an enthusiastic teenager who gets tired of reading and reciting someone else's work. You aspire of having something of your own and you start fantasising about people, idealising you and your own work as the epitome of modern literature. You're clueless about writing yet you plan on scribbling, trying to squeeze words out of your partially clumsy brain and breaking them into the internet portals in order to make yourself known.
2. After umpteen failed attempts, you manage to get your work featured or reposted. You're on cloud nine already and you're finding it real hard to succumb to your glee. You feel you've hopped the first obstacle and inched a step closer to your dream but on the inside, you are well aware of the fact that you are an absolute imbecile in the field of literature. You don't know what "writing for oneself" means as you are so engrossed in weaving relatable contents in order to get featured. And then then you start reading, again.
3. The more you read, the more you get in. Slowly, slowly, you start breathing words and get baptized a writer. You start contemplating and introspecting your every move that defined you in your past and the present and eventually, you start messing up with your head. You start believing in having a messier head in order to write well and bravo! You get a part done. You crap your head up, run around and suck melancholy out of every being that comes in your sight. You romanticize void like the calm ocean wearing the silver light. It knows that the moon is out of its reach but would do anything grab whatever it gets. Sometimes it grieves and tries to soar to it's height but would end up hurting itself and the body it's contained in. Unfortunately, you become no different.
4. You keep oozing words after words and keep spinning poetry. You have always wanted to paint but you were never good at it and now you find an alternative in literature, to sketch your observations, your feelings, yourself. Gradually, you immerse in the quicksand of words, not so quick though and you never care or rather, do not want to fight your way out.
5. Writing becomes your religion and you idolize your quill. It injects you a captivating drug, a homogeneous mixture of words and fantasies and once you're in, there's no way out of it.
Covered by the penumbra of emotions I wanted to fit into the world's convention. I wanted to be 'the so called perfect type' that they will admire.i wanted to look, smile, behave,live the way they will like.in the process of fitting into the convention i started to lose the essence of my own, started to lose the smile that I always had and ofcourse it took me away from those who cherishes me the way I am.when I realised,I was losing my precious self just to fit into a fake and fancy world where show off comes before happiness,I wanted to live my old days again but the process of my pretendence had gone too far and I had started to believe, the masked self is my real self,to undo the spell that I had done on myself,I had to take a ride of hell and back and now I know, If losing my authenticity is the price that I have to pay to step into the world of fake light,then I'm good with the real darkness of mine 'A shooting star doesn't lose its light till it fall apart #selfhelp'