4 years have passed since my last entry.
I am truly at a loss of words to begin with.
Guess, I’ll just drain my thoughts over here. As they are forming, flowing.

The inability to choose words is borne out of my reluctance to summarise this 4 year long hiatus.
In my head, it has to be a perfect piece to justice my absence. Something that can show up, how I’ve changed as a person. Maybe to even hint how much better I’ve gotten.

But when I think about it, it’s vanity.
Even though there is a very small subsection of the readers who will be reading this, I want this piece to be a spectacle for its own sake. There are no other motives, not with this medium of expression.

It’s 2:17 AM, I am trying to give direction to my thoughts. They say that people speak truth when they are tired. I am trying to tap into the same weariness in hopes of stirring out some authenticity from within.

Lately I have been feeling an obligation to sit with myself, my thoughts. To write, is my way of putting the reins on these thoughts & see where they take me.

This is not a vow of abstinence but I’ve tried creating videos, audios and even cheap, trash content (reels) for stealing a few ounces of attention from an already depleted pool. Something didn’t sit right with me while doing that.

Authenticity is not the price you pay for relevance.

The old and trodden path seldom leads to a new alley. But it provides comfort and refuge from the wilderness. Sometimes, you need that.

Maybe that is why I am here. Because I needed to think, to empty my cup, to examine the contents. Reject what is not mine & truly accept the rest.

There is a woodworker somewhere. Who, in his quaint little corner of the world, crafts objects out of his imagination. His artifacts will never make it beyond his work table.

I saw a wooden sparrow on his table. The bird reeked of hastiness. Terrible by the standards of your Amazon marketplace.

“Oh! This one? My daughter made it.” he chimed.
“It’s her first. And my favourite!” he swooned.

When you dissociate yourself from the subjectivity of it all, it reflects in the way you talk, the way you do anything. I believe, your motive, gives meaning to your art.

The stories that you tell people.

More importantly, what stories you choose to tell yourself.

Art can’t distinguish subjugation from the guise of patronage.

Always a delight to find someone who still reads! Come say “Hi!” on my Instagram