Random Journal Entry 1

"Why do we write Parth? Why is that people write?", she looks into my eyes searchingly and asks.

I, unsettled by the probity of her gaze, sit back and try to paraphrase the unwritten. I stammer through my mumblings, like I have stammered through three years of naive attempts at writing. By the time I finish, I make even less sense to myself than I do to her. She, like all such times, smiles and lets it go.

The fact is, that I have never known. Or if I have, this subconscious understanding has lost its way in the delirium that my mind is. Until today. 

'We write because sometimes you just throw things into the void, hoping against hope that someone out there is also feeling the same thing'. I, of course, am borrowing this. From a friend's latest entry in an old old journal. 

She, this friend, who I have known for a long time yet never met, lives in my city and somewhere in the valleys of Kashmir at the same time. And tells her stories like sixteenth century persian dastangoi storytellers did. And feels that she doesn't have anything to write about anymore. 

Of course she doesnt. I smile this time. 

Dastangoi- 16th century urdu minimalist storytelling form.