The journey.

• the day it all begins •

As dusk set in, her feet dug deeper into the sand. Face covered in red hue, lips curved in an everlasting smile and eyes radiating pure joy. Her entire being was happy because though the sun had set, her sunrise felt just on the horizon. In fact, she could see it now. Plan for it. Be excited without reprimanding herself to stay cautious. The orange of the sky reflected on her face and somehow, they managed to come out more radiant and warm. Clad in a saree, her hands held on tightly to a piece of paper. Merely, a piece of paper to the ones who didn't know who it was from. Simply, a piece of paper that could be misplaced, go answered, remain unread had become the reason of her smile. Still holding on to the letter for dear life, they started spinning around as if the world were her oyster and for once, in her life, to her, it really was. Laughing and giggling, singing and dancing she spent a good amount of time reminiscing how it all began.

An ardent woman, one who wants to study, to educate herself, to be independent and most importantly, at this moment wants to go to the library. She finds herself wanting to get lost in stories of fiction as much as brutality of history. Someone who adores creativity and craves knowledge. She isn't the first in her small town, expressing the desire but she did become the first one to revolt. To talk back to people who mocked at her and who encouraged people who shared her dreams. She knew her town wasn't the entire world and so, she wanted to know the world. To seek the world. Her father passing away didn't make her any weak, rather it fueled her heart to revolutionize more, to establish the fact that she wouldn't give up. She never did.

That day, she did go to the library, engulfing herself in it. She breathed in every moment of peace and sighed in relief once it didn't just pass by. She embraced the silence and soaked in every last bit of the books she read. She read until it was late. Late enough to leave yet she was never tired. Not even one bit. That day she knew with more confidence than ever about what she wanted. As much as she wanted to consume every last little book on the face of the planet, she wanted to write too. She wanted to show what she couldn't see, wanted to make the mutes audible and the deafs more aware and thus, more accessible. She went home with a reignited passion and love for her art, for her craft. She was an artist the moment she wanted to write stories. She didn't have to wait until her first book or a set of poetries were published. It was an escape form her simple, rather bleak world into an arena of infinite possibilities and never-ending passion. Ever since, she stepped into the world of unending growth, she felt complete. She felt happy and at almost divine peace with herself.

Everyday, she'd go to the library and consume books like a machine almost and yet she managed to capture every last little bit of emotions the characters felt, the feelings they experienced, the difficulties they fought against and the successes they celebrated. She had become the character and every character stayed in her. She absorbed all their traits and beautifully molded them to fit hers. She adapted what she could and the ones she couldn't she carried with her. She didn't have several personalities but a single personality with an array of traits - good and bad. Her obsessive behavior wasn't very well appreciated. In fact, it was criticized. She went overboard with things due to her perfectionism honing a single piece of work forever because some things could always be changed for the better. In short, the perfect piece could never be achieved. The perfect piece with no flaws appreciated and understood by everyone at different stages in their life is an illusion. She didn't cater to an intimate group of people rather her dreams were of reaching the masses.

She got frustrated, lost motivation, stopped working on her craft only to return to it. To seek her peace. To have her escape. An unhealthy habit indeed, escaping reality through fiction but until it worked and unless it didn't harm anyone else, she was ready to serve the unhealthy habit. For months she couldn't write a word and every once in a while, as she did, she erased it all as if they never existed. She tore page after page because she didn't think it was enough and skimmed page after page, studied book after book to get the perfect recipe. Alas, it never existed.