After years since I left this room, I feel incomplete and I am trying to figure out what?

I had nothing else outside these walls apart from books, papers, pen and all the scribbles I did.

These dark walls were once so bright with the paints. Then I started scratching words with everything I found in my hands. This room has a lot of stories hiding behind these curtains and these wall have heard me weeping  quietly sitting in the corners. Today I am here again feeling incompletely. Because I am no more a writer and now that’s where I stay!