A moment of utmost frustration. A desperate moment. My life in a trap. What is to be my choice as a writer. Stirring emotions most frankly out of the deep and pouring them in the moment they are?! Raw. Uncooked. Unbaked. Un-anything. Or rather wait them entered in a luxurious herbarium?! Decorated. Tied with bands of suitable colours. Labeled to not disorder the oppressively neat order. Not screaming. Not hurting. Not establishing problems. Not complicating with further situations. Good to you, my artificial emotions, behaving so expectedly well. Keep staying there. Be silent. Shut up!! Please, do me that favour. Be fake, it suits you and you have to trust me. It suits all around. You will go no wrong. Get different. Be real. My choice of a writer. The second one?! Was it.