I write…

Because I’ve always written. I’ve written on notebooks for the fear of my teachers. I’ve written on the walls of the school toilet as rebellion against the teachers. I’ve written on chits of paper to pass them on to friends and chat while a class was going on. I’ve written in crisp white answer-sheets in an exam to stay in the same grade as my friends so I could chat with them. I’ve written on my batchmates’ shirts for pranks. I’ve written my first girlfriend’s name on my hand for all the ‘seriousness’. I’ve written on important documents belonging to my Dad for ignorance. I’ve written a single sentence a hundred times on the blackboard for education. I’ve written on a faded old pair of jeans to make a smart statement. I’ve written on paper napkins to hand out my mobile number to pretty young things and make a fool of myself. I’ve written on window panes frosted by the cold winters and on muddy car windshields to kill time. At my grandfather’s orchard, I’ve written with a piece of charcoal to mark wooden cases filled with apples to show I could work. I’ve written with a trickling line of water on a polished jet black granite kitchen shelf waiting for the food to be served. I’ve written on a slice of bread with ketchup to eat. I’ve written on a mirror with my mother’s lip gloss for the sheer fun of it. I’ve written on freshly laid cement for permanence. I’ve written on the wet sand with a stick for a change. I’ve written because it gives me a high. I’ve written for I believe in writing my own destiny…