on the alchemy of ink and sleeplessness

the enigma of why one would ever choose to drown in a universe of letters. (it's entirely justified)

Why? The question matters not. Write, write, write is the mantra advocated by those who have gone ahead and attained the much seat of honor where they spend glances on all the books they have written. Millions and millions of copies propagate throughout various kinds of hands, ranging from smooth and porcelain-like to grubby with disgustingly unclean nails. It's a tall order, I admit. They're asking me to defile the one moral code that I've upheld loyally despite everything else. Leave no space or pause for the slightest perfectionistic hesitance. But to ignore the flaws and plough on is unlikely to result in a supreme masterpiece, a shining incandescent opus reflecting the facets of oneself. Sentences are built upon other sentences. No soothsayer can determine what words will come next, and the subtlest change in lilt is momentous. It's useless to map out a path. Writing is getting lost. Close your eyes, plunge through the foreboding darkness, do not be intimidated by the absence of beauty in the products that you summon forth. Constant transmutation will, after tries and tries and yet more tries, result in gold. And it will be borne out of sweat and tears and the shameful ashes of the rejected--it will be yours alone.