Who am I as a writer? 

A year and a half ago, I was asked to describe myself as a writer during a team writing workshop held by my then-boss. This is what I penned down.

I often find myself wondering if writing is all I truly have to offer to this world. Or maybe I’ve been asking myself the wrong questions all along.

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Q: Who am I as a writer? 
A: To be fairly honest and precise: Insecure. It is a strange sort of a relationship where writing makes me incredibly nervous. So, I know what you’re thinking, why would I pursue something that terrifies me? Well, because it’s the very thing that simultaneously brings me peace. And isn’t that what we are all eventually after?

 

Poem: The Sweetness

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The sweet smell of nothingness
I like it
But it taunts me
I crave it
But it pawns me.

The sweet sight of emptiness
I brave it
But it fought me
I fill it
But it locks me.

The sweet sound of hollowness
I welcome it
But it haunts me
I caress it
But it stabs me.

The sweet touch of bareness
I call it
But it mocks me
I want it
And it has me.

Journal: All In The Name

I’ve been cleaning out my closet… not figuratively, quite literally. I’ve been physically going through all the crap I’ve accumulated over 28 years of living. I’ll be moving out soon and I find myself holding on this aforementioned crap harder than ever. I haven’t even packed a little because the hoarding is a genuine problem.

Hoarding is also amazing. I’ve found so many forgotten things including a long exercise book. It’s hardbound and horrendous looking in green and yellow. Inside are meticulously number poems and self-pep talks from a teenage me. As I sat crossed leg on the cold floor of my lil’ bedroom, I flipped through pages of a young girl I don’t remember but somewhat recognise. It’s a fairly angst filled except I don’t remember the backstory/inspiration of each poem. I barely even remember who it’s for.

Want to hear the best part? It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s for me and now as I share this petite poem on this tiny blog… it’s for you.

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Journal: Making a Home

Couple in Indian wedding clothes

As we inch our way towards our big day, date undecided, I find myself marvelling at the concept of marriage and making a home. We’ve had eight years to know each other as two separate entities. As we stand at the cusp of a new life stage, I guess I’m not mighty concerned about the legality of it all. A piece of paper, a few random rituals and a couple of signatures don’t make a marriage, do they?

In the “civilised society” it does. From where I stand, it makes a wedding, maybe a few nice photographs but certainly not a marriage. To me, marriage is more like the second definition thrown up by Google: “a combination or mixture of elements.” It’s an amalgamation by choice that riots against everything to continue to be an amalgamation. A coupling of the mind and heart and soul that cannot comprehend life as a singularity.

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Journal: Bring It On

Warning: Emo post coming your way

Birthdays are miserable. And so are New Year’s eves. The build up to these two days, the days themselves and weeks following them are soul sucking. They are a painful reminder of what we haven’t done and what we will never do. Wretched are the seconds where the mind and heart dwell on the lost. Lost time, lost opportunities, lost experiences, lost fun, lost travels, lost conversations, lost anything that could’ve enriched your soul…
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