I poured my heart out in pages, and it was my blood that was in my ink. I loved everything that was intertwined with writing: I loved the smell of ink, the rustle of paper, the dust that accumulated on the jackets of books. I loved creating: my characters were marionettes that danced on my string but like Pinocchio came into marvelous life at times .I loved them at those times. I strived to improve, day in and day out. It was the one thing that made me happy, the one thing I did with all my heart and soul and the one thing which nearly always alienated me from the rest of the world. It was a harmless, wonderful talent: that was what I'd thought.
I was wrong.
Life seemed like a masquerade ball most of the times: nearly always I hid under masks carefully created by society and put into frames of acceptability and normalcy. Nearly always tears filled my eyes as people walked in and out of my life seeing only the hard masks that society imposed on me, and not what I was or who I was.