.a written note.

I had to go away from writing to realize even more that this is ingrained inside quite everywhere. The last time I was here was sometime in 2013, when I remember I would write so much every single day. It felt like bleeding. Liberating. Never had to worry about 'consistency' and 'originality' in my creative expression. But then the rest of the internet came along, with it came a few writer's blocks and before I realized, I was drifting farther and farther from words, be it reading or writing. As time passed, I notice now that I was moving away from self but also at the same time searching for that missing piece. I knew this was it and sometimes doubted if it really was. Perhaps all I needed was time. Sometimes, it only took writing to feel whole and sometimes it needed more than that - the pause, the wait and a floating mind. But I must thank myself for discovering that I still have access to this blog as the words here archiving the old writings for the...

What is the name of this place? Does it have a name? As I sit here, a white sheet before me and my fingers running on the keyboard like the most desperate kind of an animal, the keyboard acts as a mirror to my mind. A scanner- clearing dust from the minutest of details, I am slowly falling into this place and it’s dark here. I am able to see myself. Not from a third person’s point of view but my own. How did I end up here? I smell fear, doubt and all the other insecurities right from the smallest thing to a life choice. It’s all in here and there’s no space. How do I clear one knot to detangle another? As I keep writing, I am confronted by my own emotions- the first time in the whole day, first time in the last four days, since I last wrote. Is this what happens to the writers when they don’t write? My emotions consume me and the epiphany takes over. I need to write. I need to write. I need to write. I need light in this place.

Writing has its own advantages and disadvantages. Yesterday I wrote about maturity. I do enjoy writing on paper before blogging. It’s just how I function. However, at this moment, I am directly typing this all and planning to post. Let’s talk about blogging. It was five years ago when I first started blogging. It interested me to a level where I realized how immensely did I enjoy writing. It was a hidden hobby and Blogger became the medium through which I initially wrote. It wasn’t a diary where I regularly updated daily happenings, it was more than that. I started with expressing how I generally felt about things and how certain things drove my attention at the moment and I’d talk about it on my blog. The blog grew with many fellow bloggers who became my readers and for the first time in my life, I was virtually surrounded by people with whom I developed mutual interests. We would only write individually and read. It wasn’t a compulsion, it wasn’t a necessity. As a few...

Writing has become tough. It’s like that small town not too far from where I live but whenever I plan on visiting, it’s either raining heavily or the traffic is just too much; meaning I postpone. Procrastinate. Unlike before, when I didn’t visit but lived there for as long as I wanted. It was home. It was easy. The traffic, the rain, none of it mattered. The town existed within. It helped me connect with myself the first time in life and I still haven’t experienced anything close to that feeling when you know how well in sync you are with yourself. It was just so unreal and the most real experience all at the same time. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be classy. It doesn’t have to be overflown with self-love just because I mentioned connecting with self. Rather, it’s not about self-love. It’s about self. I’ve lately come to understand how essential it is to know and be generous or at least, acceptable about or with oneself, your own self. I didn’t real...

Writing has become tough. It’s like that small town not too far from where I live but whenever I plan on visiting, it’s either raining heavily or the traffic is just too much; meaning I postpone. Procrastinate. Unlike before, when I didn’t visit but lived there for as long as I wanted. It was home. It was easy. The traffic, the rain, none of it mattered. The town existed within. It helped me connect with myself the first time in life and I still haven’t experienced anything close to that feeling when you know how well in sync you are with yourself. It was just so unreal and the most real experience all at the same time. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be classy. It doesn’t have to be overflown with self-love just because I mentioned connecting with self. Rather, it’s not about self-love. It’s about self. I’ve lately come to understand how essential it is to know and be generous or at least, acceptable about or with oneself, your own self. I didn’t real...

It shouldn’t be a sunny afternoon. You shouldn’t be indoor at work on a sunny afternoon when it’s time to realize that you’ve become a loner. I gaze outside at the tower beside the building of my work. Aimlessly. It’s a sunny afternoon, but the afternoon that comes on an odd Tuesday. Now, how empty does that feel? No birds around to chirp as it must be too hot outside around 2 PM. I scribble a paragraph or two on a plain white paper and it feels surprisingly good to write. I feel the sudden urge to write it all out, to pour my heart out with the ink that’s vivid blue. I recall each and every event, every tiniest bit of deed in the recent past that may have led to being a loner. Here I was, sitting idly in the middle of work, never thought I’d be a loner but who can help it if I feel it so deeply within? Probably the bedtime playlist, the small seemingly unimportant epiphanies every now and then, when ignored, along with other casual needs of indulging in my own company, ...

As I see my fingers resting on the keyboard here, I can’t help but feel a sense of belonging. At the same time, I now wonder how many places and people and things are there that make you feel this sense of belonging. Do we always seek this? Are we scared to not belong anywhere? No, I don’t think so. The fact is we really do not belong anywhere. We are mastered by none. We belong nowhere but to ourselves alone. Therefore, when we feel the same emotion that something; anything, anyone, any place; shares our shade of colour, we begin to feel sheltered, comforted and safe and sound, whatever that is. We are mechanized to like shades of our own colour. If I am Black, I am more likely to settle with Grey than Blue, a very attractive colour but hailing from a different tribe of shades. If by chance I do jell up, depending upon each of our influence over one another, we might overrule and we might find joy in overruling each other, we might loathe each other for our differences. The coin can t...