Writing Like Shreya, Writing Randomly.

A hopeless letter.

That's what I have always been able to write. They never matter until people said they're good. But now, I have forgotten how it is to write openly. 

The praises, the 'wow's, the 'great's, the 'keep it up's, the medals, the awards, the token of love, the certificates, they seem like they were only granted  so that today they would hang on some corners of the wall and tease me, and question me, 'is that all?' What else could you do?'

Well, clichés, it's what they suggest I avoid. No, not me, writers I mean.

I used to write well, that's what I feel too. Perhaps, it's why I no longer talk to anybody now. By anybody I mean, everyone except for those 3 people I have always trouble, because of my loathing, of never being enough and hopeless. 

No, it wasn't only writings; it was also me, all the time.

One day, my article got published in a newspaper, after a great deal of time. And I let it to be read by my friend, who had be closest to me for a year, perhaps, 2 years ago.

Shreya, you've changed he says. 

That's what I hate the most. Hearing it from people I love.  Right after he completed his statement, I fired to him, a dozen of counter arguments, claiming why I have not changed, or why I was always the same. 

But he doesn't seem to listen, "you've changed Shreya" 

I knew it, it was his last words. His final remarks. 

Not because he was impatiently like to keep on sticking between some stupid questions but because I felt, I have lost. Why not? I have been trying to something it is not.  I could fool people who had never seen milk before and never heard of water, but to someone who was habituated to it, dealt with, every single day, I would certainly lose, wouldn't I?

I started staring into the spaces. And to the friends who were turn-wise-turn passing around the newspaper and congratulating me for I had written a heart touching sad story. A story about me. The story of my life. It was sad and overwhelming, genuine, honest and god knows, I had been truthful to it. Sad stories make good stories, Soraya had said to Amir in the Kite runner. No, not all the time. Not to the ones who have known you, loved you and seen you get through it. And that was case with Sand me. 

I don't know why, but I have always seen people enjoy sad pathetic stories. Many times, being the character that was poor and weak, even. And maybe, that's what pushed me to keep writing, as well. To scream to the world how pathetic my life had been. And maybe, just maybe, mistaken the frustrations for my good writing, bring a hope in my life, that I too was deserving of something, capable of something.