About the Fire in Me

 There is still a fire in me after all. Though to write, I know I need to read a lot. A lot more than what I am doing now. So I will not stop. But I need to write too - how can a writer not write? Can he still call himself a writer? Sometimes, I write on the black canvas that is my mind and no sooner, it will be gone. There is nothing much I can do about the loss, only allowing a morsel of regret to linger, before that too disappears. I thought I have fallen in love with the letters for far too long; the love having lost some of its luster with the changing of season. Recently, a colleague, in her good heart, mentioned how she is waiting to read my first published book. And it stirred me, consciously realising in that moment that there is a writer in me, and contrary to my expectation, her kind, or patronising words - half of each? - infused me with glowing pride.