A writer once asked himself, "Am I really writing for other people? Am I holding my pen and putting words into an empty paper for them?"
Then memories rushed down like waterfalls, hitting the rocks vigorously.
He carelessly write things, without doubts.
He recklessly hold his pen, without the fear of breaking it.
Writing for him is like filling a photo album with photos, as it should be.
He is not yet at that point when he can proudly say that writing for him is breathing.
As someone says that life without writing is like bleeding without blood.
A writer asked himself, "What is the purpose of writing these?"
He couldn't find the answers to his questions and no one can answer it for him.
And after that, he couldn't call himself a writer anymore.
- not a writer
