She was lying over the footpath and looking at her own shadow in the mirror of time. Her entire journey looked like a pursuit of the mirage in search of water. She had struggled and for a few crumbs of bread, she had written a few pieces as a ghost writer. Others had used her writing skills to the advantage of the organizational needs and paid her only enough to keep her going from year to year. She had worked diligently towards brand activation day in and day out with all of her mental faculties. But every time she asked for a raise, she was denied.

3 years down the line and she understood that she had the insight that the place was not going to be making any cheese for her and it was time to explore newer ventures, so she did. Another place and she was happy, thinking that this was now a place where she would be profited even if tiny bit. But the lobby systems in most advertising agencies are something the real writers cannot cope with. So she suffered even more. Money flowed in a bit, she could save something for future at last, but the inner craving of a writer to be recognized for the writing kept dying inside, unless she was reduced to the size of a mere proofreader, editor and technical writer.

Writers are born with some extraordinary courage as this is what their circumstances intend for them to have. So she kept her head high when inside she was all broken and dying along with her self-esteem. 5 years down the line and she had forgotten the taste of a muse and the trance of pleasantly tasteful creative words and thoughts in her mouth. The words that danced to her liking and the thoughts that came uninvited left her alone amidst all the taunts, teasing and demoralizing remarks of her seniors.

7 years down the line and she lost all the confidence in her dreams to fly. 8 years down the line and she takes up another job in a different field forgetting all about her strength in the writing. But the extinguishing spark still fails to go out completely.

9 years down the line she has stopped thinking about writing at all. In this phase of life, she writes only when she is totally broken and for herself to read alone in the nights and to comfort her soul that she has not died as yet.

Over next 5 years she forgets all about writing… the eagles of her dreams that soared high have exhausted for a single fleck of appreciation and recognition and nothing has turned her way… because here everyone needs just needs to get a job done and nothing else. Job done and her work is over too. Then there is no meaning to her brainchildren and their connection with her. Who is she? A passing illusion of the fading sunlight, on the specks of sands of time, which does not stop for anyone.

She has successfully died to her vocation and the death of a writer is not mourned by anyone… there is always someone else to take her place and go through the same circles of no-name, no-place and no-importance.

Music and the words do not move her the way they move a writer and a poet. They fall to her sides and vanish into nothingness.

Source by Saima Akhtar Gill