Mute voices, scribbling pens

When life beats you down and crushes your soul, art reminds that you have one.  
It’s not a reflection of thoughts. It’s a reflection of images in our minds. 

It’s not a well thought plan. It’s a random action of picking up the pen and scribbling aimlessly unless something so abstract yet beautiful streams out of the nib.

Whenever words lose meaning, we take to ink. 

Whenever our voices fade away amidst the cries of the world, we take to ink. 

Whenever we become oblivion to the critiques of our soul, we take to ink. 

Whenever we find ourselves sinking into the waves of time, we take to ink. 

The moment we die inside, we take to ink. 

We take to ink to live different lives. 

We take to ink to love more harder. 

We take to ink to shed more tears. 

We don’t want the world to pay heed to us. 

We don’t wish to shout louder than other screams.

We only take to ink when all that’s left is the paper, and a lot to leave behind.