Whatever happened to creative writing...

*blinks in bewilderment*

Hellowww! I'm making a fool out of you. No. Actually, you, yourself, are making a fool out of yourself.

I write something; you read something and there is a huge difference between the two somethings. 

What in the world am I trying to hint at? *rolls eyes* 

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Literature has an interesting trait, you see. It's open to interpretation. Way open. Two people will almost never see a piece of writing in the same light. We have this chronic habit of shedding the light of our own experiences/encounters and then giving the words our own translation. That's the most interesting thing about literature (or is it?). 

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I am trying to write something. Ughhh. Nothing's happening. I need magic. 

Where's the magic?

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You know, each and everyday, I am swarmed with thoughts; some scenes, some dialogues that I've never heard of or seen. There is usually no coherence between these events. They are usually random revelations. Without any connection. Mere figments of my imagination. My marvelous imagination.

I wish to write them all down. And then may be, some day link them together and discover a beautiful piece of art. May be, just may be. 

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What the hell am I doing in an audit firm? 

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I am a murderer. A ruthless murderer. I killed an artist. 

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