I wish I could create music. Just perform. Simply play something, anything. Carelessly blow the flute. Strum an old guitar. Or snap at a piano. Fill up the room with my state of mind. Writing is so hard, especially when one is trying to escape his mind. The more you run away from a fact. The closer you would find it, laced in a situation or an expression . Nothing is fiction, no matter how unreal you make it. Little bit of reality always seeps through the thin imaginary holes in the paper. And the writer is left with this unsettling regret, why did I ever pick up the pen, why didn’t I pick up a flute or a guitar or a piano instead.