why don't you write?

Someone asked me after a long time. My reason is nothing in particular and everything in general. I live a good life. All the compartments are in place. Some of them unaware of the others' existence. That's what is so interesting about the inner world of thought and the outer world of reality.
My inner life is so exciting that every night it gets even better in my dreams. I wake up invariably puzzled. The thoughts most interesting are those that flash into your mind unannounced like you see yourself slapping someone for no reason. It's weird but it happens to me so often that I almost pay no attention.
You spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about relationships that either don't exist or are barely there. You realise that you think about people you don't like just about as much as you think about people you do.That reminds me of something I read somewhere and it got stuck in my head- You share a lot more in common with people you don't like than you realise.
You do your work mainly to feel like a normal person. you sometimes paint and mostly hate what you come up with and the mocking easel stares at you when you sleep. Dan Brown disappoints and you disappoint yourself looking at all the bookmarks in use by your bedside. So you ask yourself,"when was the last time you finished a book?"
You buy the hardback new John Irving and then feel guilty about it as you could have waited for a few months for the paperback. But you just couldn't wait. That is a deep deep problem with you. You want instant gratification and that somehow never fits in with the general scheme of things in your life. So you work for money. It sounds much worse than it is because your job is wandering around...literally wandering around. You work as a researcher for a TV series about Dubai. So you get into a bus and then a train and then a bus and then you wander. You talk to a few people. You collect brochures and such. You write in your new notebook. And when the time comes for you to present your data you just can't find a comfortable place in the house to sit and work. So you sit on the bed, drag the table next to it, spread your brochures, magazines, city guides and books around. You're not comfortable. You come to the living room and sit on the dining table chair, you spread your brochures, magazines, city guides and books around. Your back hurts. You're not comfortable. You procrastinate. You play with the dog. You molest your husband who promptly tells you to get to work. He knows you well and understands you'll do just about anything to avoid work.
You finally settle down as the night falls and the day threatens to dawn upon you and finish everything in a single breath. It's good.It makes you feel normal. The next day they love you for it. They love the way you write. You smile and treat yourself to a coffee which turns out to be shit.
And then the next day someone asks you,"Why don't you write?"