There are stories in me.
Stories that I tell myself about all things around me most if the time.
These stories emerge from my ability to question and ponder.
I ask questions about mundane daily used things and the people I meet.
Why they are the way they are?
What prompted the person to create the thing he has created?
What was the journey they took to meet me?
All these questions makes the plot for stories that most writers share with their readers.
But I can barely convince myslef to put a sentence down on a piece of paper about what I am thinking.
I always blamed my procrastination for it.

Sometimes you happen to read something which makes you think differently than what is written.
Sometimes you share that thought with the person who made you think that.
But when they like your thought and ask you to share it as your own thought.
I cannot do that.
I think its just an extension of their thought or maybe an inspiration taken from their thought.

Recently while walking down the lane a thought crossed my mind like lightning bolt.
It made me stop and ponder.
I had to move away from the traffic and write it down as the urge was too intense.
That made me think what Charkes Bukowski has famously said about writing.


"
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

© Mystic Monk