"This Life, In This Journey – A Letter to My Fire"

 "Some days, I don’t know who I am.

Some days, I forget why I even started.

But one thing keeps pulling me back to life—

writing.


This… is my letter to it. My letter to this life."


THIS LIFE, IN THIS JOURNEY


I often come to you, spilling the chaos of my life onto these pages. For the past five days, I’ve written nothing. Instead, I’ve wandered aimlessly with my friends, drinking beer, watching scenes from La La Land, Django Unchained, Oppenheimer, and Whiplash.  


I know what I’m doing, yet I feel like I’m losing something—something vital, something that defines me. Writing is my soul, and without it, I feel hollow. If this emptiness takes over, I’ll cease to exist.  


Art is the only thing that makes me curious to learn, to live. Every day, my mother scolds me for doing nothing to support her. She watches me roam the streets with friends, and I know it breaks her heart. I understand her pain. But everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it?  


I am at war—with my doubts, my failures, and the weight of expectations. Every step I take is mine, whether it leads to failure or success. I blame no one. My actions, my consequences—they’re all mine.  


My mother doesn’t believe in me. My sister doesn’t believe in me. My surroundings are filled with people who dismiss my dreams. If I tell them about my art, they’ll laugh. They won’t see the fire that burns inside me.  


But I believe.  


I believe in my writing.  


I have the courage to stand alone and fight for my vision. This path is mine, carved from my soul. I will create something so unique, so raw, that it will find its place in this world.  


To my writing, I say: You are my hope, my purpose.  


To the world, I say: One day, you will recognize me.  


People say they’re in love, but my love isn’t for someone—it’s for writing. My love for it is like the sun and the moon. They never meet, yet they light up the world in their own way.  


Every day, people are born, and every day, they die. Today, David Lynch died. Tomorrow, it will be me. When that day comes, I will refuse to be reborn. This world hasn’t accepted my presence, and that’s fine.  


I don’t blame anyone. I don’t resent anyone. Everyone has their own world, their own stories.  


But I have a weapon—a sharp knife I call my pen.  


This pen is my strength, my hope. With it, I will carve my own story, live my own life. I don’t need anyone else. Writing is enough.  


So I write. Not for validation, not for praise, but for the truth within me.  


This life is no sprint; it’s a marathon. Living is a complex art, and I will live it with the intensity it demands.  


I am Ravi—a writer, a rebel, and a soul chasing its purpose. 


 


Written By Ravi

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