On an ordinary evening I realised the simple truth of my life; I realised I cannot suffocate the writer. I cannot suffocate the writer no matter how hard I squeeze the life out of him. I realised he’d always have some left. Irrespective of how I treated him, he didn’t stop. He kept writing; he kept creating; he kept thinking. He carried on, even when I didn’t ask him how he was for weeks. When I told everyone he wasn’t there anymore, he made sure to make his presence felt. He’d hide a metaphor or giddy idealism in my words, slyly. Oblivious but obvious enough for everyone to see that he was still writing inside me. Yet, I ignored him, and I ignored the words. Until an ordinary evening, when I found myself in the city traffic and the busy streets unable to hear anything. I found myself in my own head as the words got deafeningly silent, and then, loud enough so I couldn’t ignore them anymore. I heard them all, louder than the streets and the cacophony of the city. On that day, I realised the words had kept coming even when I stopped listening to them. I learned they will continue to come, especially if I stopped listening to them.