It’s been a long time since I have taken a quill in my hand. My hand is shaking slightly as I dip the quill in the ink and stare blankly at my parchment. I have to try. Otherwise I will lose it forever. So I take a deep breath and start writing. I write a line- “life is full of ups and downs” and then stop. What am I going to write about? Do I have anything worth writing? A story? An experience? Or a grievance to be shared maybe? So I look beyond my desk on the bed in my room. She is sleeping, curled up in her blanket like a small kid. Her hair falling on her face make her look even more innocent. I said I haven’t taken a quill in my hand since long. Come to think of it, I haven’t written since she came in my life, since we shared our home and since we shared our lives. What does that have to mean? All my books have been about difficulties and problems and how to deal with them. They have been about happiness and how to find it. Maybe a book is the writer’s life and the contents, his story. What I wrote all these years maybe was just a reflection of my own problems and my own ways to get through them. Maybe my books were so well disguised that I too did not realise they narrated my own story. The chain of thoughts that flew from my mind through the quill to the parchment came out very fast and fluid. Then why now, had it become so difficult?
When she came into my life, I changed. What exactly changed inside me, I do not know. But I wasn’t the same once “I” became “we”. So I start the introspection. After lots of thinking, I come to a conclusion. My inner self has stopped feeling the gravity of problems because I know whatever comes my way, she will will be there beside me to deal with it. Everything seems easier now that I am not alone. The core reason of my books, my own story, had taken a sudden turn into something so pure, so beautiful, so flawless as true love that now I don’t have any difficulties to write about. The necessity of channelizing my thoughts onto the parchment is gone. Now if I have to write, I have to write for the sake of happiness. I have to change theapproach that my subconscious has been taking.
So I look back on my desk and tear away what I had written earlier. And then, I start writing again.
“The morning breeze blew the hair from her face…
The Quill 