When I was about nine or ten years old, I watched a man singing a song with only his guitar on TV.  The video was all black and white. I was mesmerized by the tune and the lyrics of that song. It was not like anything I had ever heard before.  There was an originality in that song; inner bliss and melancholy simultaneously. That man was Sir Paul McCartney, who was singing “Yesterday.”

After many years, I still encounter that feeling when I finish a good book in the middle of the night; when I watch a great cinema without having a sense of time, or when I listen to music that penetrates my soul. For me, these art forms are more than a medium of entertainment. They are like a pathway for having a conversation with the finest minds that existed.  I often ask myself why these creative art forms give immense joy.  It is because there is a hidden mystery within.  This is the same enigma as the existence of the entire universe: unanswerable and forever wondering.

Creative writing gives me the same pleasure as admiring fine arts and literature.  When I write, I get lost in a world of my own; I speak to the characters that I have created.  It feels like meditating.  I do not write for others’ appreciation; I write because someone inside me wants to express his existence through the black letters on the white page.  It is like I am just listening to an inner music, the mystery of which I do not entirely know.  And I do not want to know; I want to feel the delight.

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