Putting my feelings down on paper......

Human hearts need to be emptied and cleaned, in order to be refilled again.
And hearts can only run down their contents through the intestine of a pen.

The accumulated regrets and stored hopes need to be spilled out, few of them are disposed and few washed and dried to be folded and stored again.
For hearts are not like the sea, that wont overflow. 
They are like the sky, which consumes so many summers that every monsoon it has to break into tears and rage.

And right during those monsoons, we write down our dreams in an old diary, cutting our feelings into stanzas exactly where we stop to breathe.
Stringing words in a rhythm coherent to the music in our mirth and mourning.

Writing is not an activity. 
It's the diet of the soul.

Its not like sleep or hunger, a compelling necessity to exist.
Its not like whiskey or coffee, an inculcated habit for artificial pleasure. 

It's like music and relationships;
Something we can live without, 
but not necessarily happily.