Writing

Writing is a passion for me. The urge to write comes so strongly like a wave that it never lets me rest. But most of what I manage to write are never seen by anybody because I write on pieces of paper I find in my bag, on the back of a visiting card or a bus ticket, on a small notebook I keep in bag which is torn in every possible way a notebook can, with a sheet lost every time I open it, in my mobile notebook and in a diary. Even the diary has become a journal of not just personal feelings but also a collection of thoughts.
Most of my thoughts get lost because before I manage to get my hands on a piece of paper. And I write in bus, auto, walking along the road trying not to bump into some one else or an oncoming vehicle. It really is a torment writing on the road. I wish the roads would have more people than vehicles. Once I even managed to bump into an electric pole in a bid to quickly note down what I was thinking in my mobile; and on another occasion, I was so engrossed, that I did not look up in time to see my bus stop arriving and got down at the next stop, walked back some distance and caught a bus back, arriving at the office half-an-hour later than usual.