A sentence is a journey to the unknown. You do not know where it’s going to end up, or how. You do not know which fears and hopes will be expressed in it. That is why writing can be terrifying. It is the act of opening the closet where you keep your skeletons – and your soul.

I have stopped writing. It seems like it is not important anymore. Not in this phase of my life. And the less I engage in it, the less does it come to me naturally. The force of inertia unconsciously building up, till it becomes strong enough to discourage any half-hearted attempts. This is in fact one of them. I have to go soon and I am looking at the clock as I type. What’s the use of this piece of text, really?

And thus I forsake Kant’s advice and make the experience of writing a practical affair, robbing it of its beauty. The instrumental atmosphere of my existence having penetrated my soul, as if by osmosis, till its literary sides have all but vanished.

A protest. That’s what this may be. A protest of a part of me, yearning to be heard. To exist again. To come back into my life, after being kept inactive in “My documents” folder for too much.

Every moment a choice. A choice of what path you’ll take. Of what dream will fill your sails, and whether you’ll believe that there are only four directions.