.a written note.

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...

How do you get over a city? How do you get over a city that once gave you some of the best times of your life and not to forget the constant emotional reminders of those times! I think cities are a hundred times more difficult to get over with than a walking-laughing-talking human being. Interpersonal relations are sometimes too overrated. They’re overwhelming, yes. But they’re overrated. I, having entered twenties and still not being too comfortable with the fact that I am actually growing up this fast, have come to think that people are only as hard to understand and deal with as you treat them. I’m not a consultant nor am I an expert at interpersonal relations. Rather I’ve recently grown very bad at them. I’ve tried and tried, but some things just can’t be helped. On the other hand, a city. A city is a tremendo us pack age of self growth, a good makeover to one’s perspective and if you’re new to a city and have almost no one to go to for starters, then trust me, you’...

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...

Tonight lying exactly under the sky gazing at the stars and moon I am feeling no fear inside no fear none at all none cares here for the good laughter, enjoyment, music and whatnot I am intrigued by all and I can feel there’s no reason to be scared of anyone ever in life I finally understand I am a whole human being and the value of it I have a whole universe within and rushing through me there’s a galaxy in just about everything about life breathtaking is what I’d call this this enchanting endeavour.

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, ...

It’s been so many days. The thoughts you probably controlled back in that year, do they still trouble you when you’re the only one awake in the room? Is the scared monster still trying to not let those thoughts reappear? I suppose so. Photographs trigger such thoughts and I ponder over the possibilities of having at least one photograph with her. She is endless. I’m now more familiar with the phrase of trying to find someone in a bunch of crowd. Some people leave. They leave such impacts over us that cannot be wiped. Days pass by and I’m window and curtained by the fact that uncertainty is certain and cannot be avoided. I really envy those with less active minds. My mind doesn’t want to win this race. All it wants is to know why, in the first place, it entered this race.

Reading your own old writings could be so relaxing. It’s like you’re having a conversation with yourself. **As I come out of the shower, I see my granny sitting outside and actually enjoying the hot air specially after a cold Indian night, knitting a purple sweater, probably to gift someone. The way her wet shiny white hair form a coordination with one another, letting the fresh air dry it. The way she knits without her spectacles on. The way that Purple coloured something seems to be forming a new big shape every two minutes, having started from just a woolen thread and now turning into a cloth. A cloth that’ll provide someone with warmth and her love in cold, inspires me. Despite everything.** I read this prose as I go through my old writings. Automatically, my mind compared my granny back then and now. I miss her. She’s been one strong pillar in our lives, my life. I recall the times when she stood by me in the same bedroom when I studied for 10th grade board exams, how...

Summer afternoons are at times tough. They’re usually filled with idle sittings in your bedroom and if something really strikes your mind, a little bit of artwork. Apart from this, there are constant winds driving your mind to the good ole days when summer used to be an exciting thing. I really am not trying to sadden this post or the day for that matter by giving my thoughts a finishing touch of nostalgia. But you know what, they’re thoughts. They’re unplanned. They’re natural. At least one of the very few things that remain untouched by the manual work of a human being. Getting back to the topic, home, it’s quite fitting to one’s mind how the picture of your home is always there resting somewhere at the back of one’s mind. The walls, the familiarity of the wall-paint inside and outside and its warmth. Whenever I visit home, i.e. once every two months or sometimes more, I take along with myself the invisible shelter above my head that the home had gifted me when I left...

What are we if not a coincidence?