Write Beautiful!

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BY: Shujaat Hussain Rather

The coming into being of the authorship makes up the world of notion—a senseful being. Those aspire to have it can fangle a new world. The core of the authorship has got to set up that tasty hunky-dory line. It splashes across souls everywhere. The more you bend to the goal of authorship, the more you harbor a conviction that your life sails for a pacific marge.

Your lives matter if you hold on to sating yourself; the paper brimmed with some ideas that your brain cooks causes the murkiness and despair to fall in. There is no place for foul hands that bump off invaluable ideas by stealing them and then dragooning the ink to spout from the nib. Writing is an exploration. You bleed but make the readers reap the intellect, it is a great boon to all. Idea is a tentpole that the stock inholds. Beyond doubt, you produce them—ideas that are yours but serve others. But they need a heart of dove while divulging to paper. When you leave no stone unturned to execute that all, your ideas count, infact you fall then into Orwell's "Scrupulous writers".  The day dawns when your ideas spin through countless hearts. The dream of authorship will always be satisfactorily settled.  You feel delirious and euphoric when your pen tosses its tip against the paper which inturn depends on the scuttling depth of that idea you're going to put down. When you hunch over a paper, you envisage how patient  it is; it always waits with bated breath for the sake of fanciful impulse your brain goes to spawn. It has got a gigantic thole for nonsense as well; if you fit up it for wretched, it never grunts, albeit now a smothered sheet. Your brain is a madhouse of ideas where, at the same time, numerous thoughts keep juggling. And authorship gives form to them and gets them out of your mind. The tumult is silenced. In a blink, it gobbles your mental perturbation.

Remember: Plagiarism is a traitor and makes you rue in the last. It appears as if it has obfuscated almost all across. Pity. Snub it and see the oomph of ideas that define your very essence. You're not under the cosh to write but your inner-self demands you to. You're not supposed to set 'Shakespeare' down to howl, though. Period.  Nowadays, most people strive to write. Most of people beat off at writing all day; neither their ownselves are satisfied by their writing nor the readers. Readers have become accustomed to read the same time over agin. Muneer writes,"Platitudes are everywhere, new ideas no where. One idea is owned by millions..." This tragedy on the literal world repeats. Papers are massacred. Pens are subjected to exhaustion. Ideas that need to be expressed are made to freeze inside the minds. Minds turn obtuse. Sad. Writing is not all about holding a pen and write the thing which already exists, but it is a huge responsibility. Here arises a question: Why does this responsibilty sink beneath the rusted frame? It's said that sun rays cannot burn anything unless brought to focus. Similarly, you can't kindle any seraphic glow unless you send out your own ideas.

In short what I want to say is that you've a beautiful brain where umpteen ideas and thoughts reside and they need to be writen or put forth. Pen is of no worth if not held in hand. Papers are useless if not adorned with ink. Write whatever you want but dodge the aversive cosmologies of authorship.

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