Seventeen reasons why

If you're intrigued by the title, I'm sorry, this is going to be a disappointment. You may ask why. Man always demands reasons. Man wants to know why. There is always a question- why? Why should I write? Why shouldn't I write? There are times when a writer invades your brain, shuffles your neurons and rewrites your thoughts. There are times when the same writer keeps knocking your skull all along but your mind wouldn't just open the door to let him in. Why? There is this unwritten love story between the pen and the paper. Whenever the pen kisses the paper, it is an explosion of highly compressed thought-lets. The catastrophe that follows thereafter leaves behind sombered debris of imagination and experience, smeared all over the paper. The moment a reader sets eyes on the paper, the ashes resurrect, like a phoenix emanating out of fire. Thus every man is a writer who tames a dead phoenix. What difference does it make whether or not I choose to write? I want to bring my phoenix back to life. Maybe it's just another imagination. Maybe my phoenix doesn't exist. Maybe it does. If you haven't lost hope in my phoenix yet, let me tell you that the title is about the seventeen reasons why or why shouldn't I be writing this blog. And interestingly, there are no seventeen reasons. I know it's a disappointment, I told you so. Seventeen, as benign as it sounds, is a perfectly imperfect number. It just wouldn't fit in. It's an exuberant mix of haphazardness, exactly like my thoughts. Perhaps that's the reason why I shouldn't write. Perhaps that's why I do.

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