Write.

You ask me where I get my inspiration
And you ask me who my muse is.
You ask me whom my “he”, “she” and “you” refer to
And you wonder whether I’m writing fiction or narratives.
The truth is, my friend,
That I do not know the answer myself.
For what I write depends on various stimulators,
It is as relative as perspective.
I sometimes jot my thoughts and lusts,
Sometimes, I pen down a wish list.
Occasionally, I feed on the nectar
From the conversations that consume my nights,
Discussions, debates and confrontations.
I sometimes write about the things I see,
Frequently even those I do not.
Some are thoughts evoked by questions
That I have been asked,
Or that have aroused in mind.
But most of what I write
Is owed to the minds
With mesmerizing thoughts,
The captivating views
And inexplicable experiences.
What I write is nothing but a compound
Of all I have seen, experienced and touched
Along with what I have heard, understood and perceived.
When I write, I interpret all my senses
And string them into sentences
With words of melodies that please my ears.

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