and,why you should "See More" of this?

For moments from now,you will be that inspiring scintillation in the skies of this author.You could make that skies more serene,seamless and structured with your priceless thoughts,constructive criticism,likes and shares.


So Your role here is defined.Now,lets go back to the first question.
It's answer is a story which dates back to the childhood of a 'usual' kid,who,like any other 'usual' kid made up stories to save itself from petty punishments...from unsolved math homeworks,or even the fancied traffic against a late mark at schoolgate.

The kid grew up in the valleys of Children's magazine painted in pristine green,
fought wizards and their dragons with swords gifted by a fairy like a samurai or with words learned from Hogwarts,
Learned Morals with Animals of Aesops forest,
bathe itself in the nonchalance of Mississippi,when her eyes swam across pages of Tom Sawyer with Mark Twain.

The child was attracted by supernatural mythological gods in Bedtime Stories at Grandmothers caressing lap
and superheroic phantoms in cartoon channels...
But as it grew older in the raucous realities,the cynic within taught it that Supervillains made more sense.

Those bleak spots of skepticism were waved away by wholesome bliss of Paulo Coehlo,
as a positive vibe was filled in its troubled mind while gazing through fields with shepherd Santiago.
It saw its introspective reflection in the poems when Pablo Neruda did to it,what vernal equinox does to cherry trees.

It conquered a little bit of Oxford dictionary with Aldous Huxley's High school essays
and crammed the pages of Wren and Martin for the purpose of getting through mid terminal exams and inter school cultural fests.
The entry to town library made it a Watson who strived for clues with Sherlock Holmes.
It read through red pages of murder which painted the dark that beheld,without any fear of crime.Thanks to Doyle and Agatha Christie.

It shivered in fear at a Halloween night,dreaming zombies in that dusk.
It fancied the Dybuuk,Ouija and more when Stephen King made his entry with spine chilling horror.
It read the Freud's,and learned of itself,and of killers down on spree,
Spend sleepless nights in nightmare glee,and an eerie silhouette,outside the screen.
It never feared ghosts,of Betal or Hounds of Baskervilles when Osho proclaimed Ghosts was within.


As time promoted it to adolescence,chick flicks and teenage dramas made its way to MX Player watchlist,
and Chetan Bhagat and Ravinder Singh occupied a lions share in Goodreads or Amazon Wishlist.

It wrote ballads for its teenage romance,and shared it secretly in the last page of Maths notebook.
The Class 12th English Teacher had already sown seeds of Shakespeare,the heartbreaking tragedies which washed itself with tears from its reader's eyes.
It lived outside curriculum as she gazed upon pages of literary commercials.
Later,Christopher Nolan proved her that Science was way more interesting than the festered pages of Elementary Physics,
a world of Robotics by Asimov and a biology far protruding from its root at Mendel's.Mutation much foreign than the latter.

It went vocal for the local,when political slogans seeked a room in its grey matter,and the Society around demanded it.
War and Hunger painted its abstract horror,horrors of reality
and of Illuminati on its other end.

This multitude of genres and generality,carved a niche in its head,euphoric that when it wanted to read one novel,it closed its eyes and imagined the abstract,and seeked pleasure in that unseen, unstructured delirium.

As smartphones perched on its little finger,Wattpad and Writco opened up opportunities for it to emerge with the faintest gleam of its mighty effulgence.,a platform to read,learn from them and express itself..

Thank you Writco team,for such a selfless attempt to empower like minded talentless yourself.May Good Luck follow you.


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