I am not a writer, but I wish I could translate my emotions into a soulful array of words, squeeze out the feelings surging in my heart into a blank page and endow it with life and unstructured consiousness.
I am not a writer, but I wish I could hold the rage simmering inside me with my magic wand (which is my pen, ofcourse) and fill the blank pages with words of fury, as is the case of fires and storms, and animate it with an exaggerated zeal and a tyranny so fierce that it would threaten to destroy every heart that reads it.
I am not a writer, but I wish I could fall for words, flirt with the lines of compassion, make love with the language of romance and be in relationship with a work of literature.
I am not a writer, but I wish I could play with words, entangle them and create mysteries which will leave the world bewildered.
I am not a writer, but I wish I could explore this world just by sitting in a corner of my room with a thought so great and an imagination so creative that it would surpass every other feeling that comes in the way.
I am not a writer, but I wish I were one.
I am not a writer, but I know that wishes do come true and someday, mine will too.