That longing which makes me write will be always there, because my longing is for the home I never had when I needed it most. I do believe that our memories shape us and maybe that’s what happened with me; that emptiness which I held since my childhood quietly became that void which sucked me in, till I realised I had to pull myself together. My sadness made me a poet.
I know that home I left behind will forever haunt me. Maybe that’s why I keep clinging to colours and dreams. Maybe that’s why I write poems and try to fill that void by being there.
sharing the stories submitted by our writers for the Friday Edition