An Advice to Myself

He is holding a pen in his hand, a bit shivering without any particular reason. There is a pile of blank pages in front of him except there is a dot on the topmost page which is open in front of him. He looks at the dot, starts thinking once again but after some time he realizes it's of  no use. After some thinking he gives up and drops the pen on the table. Rubs his hands over his eyes, then looks towards the wall clock. He has been sitting for more than two hours and just one dot, maybe he should start writing about this dot. It seems an interesting topic in itself. Isn't a dot start of every...something. His thoughts starts deceiving him, leading him into depths and darkness and nowhere in the end. He starts thinking about his life in general, seemingly an interesting topic. His family and friends believe, at least most of them, that he is abnormal or something, wanting to be a writer, writing a piece here and there with no actual writing to his name. Maybe he is deceiving himself, he is doing this on purpose. What purpose? Is there ever a purpose to anything....these philosophical riddles again. He will end up nowhere, not even in a bad place. 

While he is thinking, the door behind him opens with a click. He turns and there is a child, his son or daughter. Maybe, something is wrong here. Now the child has covered the distance between them, only the physical distance as it appears.The child is standing beside him now, gazing at him curiously. The child asks, "What are you doing?". He is still confused about the child but replies, "I am....thinking...". The child asks, " What are you thinking?". He realizes that he is being thrown into a swamp. He replies, "I am thinking about... life.." trying to be honest. The child still not satisfied, asks, "What is life?". Now he is almost cursing himself, also the days he used to think that a child's curiosity is a good thing to have. He tries to answer, "Life is..interesting.. what can I say..its different for different people.. depends on the perspective like for me being a writer" is he a writer? He asks himself and continues " like for me being a writer its writing. Writing is life for me" He completed the answer not without letting out a gasp. The child is now looking at him skeptically. Finally after a long silence he says, " Then why are you thinking?"

He wakes up, there is the dot, the pen, table and everything but no child. Just his last words are still ringing in his ears. "Then why are you thinking?". "Why are you thinking?"..... There is a smile is on his face and he picks up the pen and stops thinking, starts writing. Finally...