It's been, like, almost 3 months since the last time I ever attempted to update this place. I've been trying, believe me - but the weight of obligations and priorities just kept dragging me down I have to do something about all of them. I've been too busy for the past few months and somehow, I know that I am starting to lose something in me.
There came a time when I can't even write for the life me -- my mind too crowded and too fuzzy to even focus on something. And I was afraid - that it left me just when I needed it. It was a pretty damning thing to know: having something so necessary taken away just like that.
BUT I realized that it would totally leave me only if I allow it. That I will always catch it, outrun it, only if I really want to. So I am starting again. Again and again, until all ink is spilled and all inspiration exhausted. I'll keep at it.
I am a writer. I am flat out declaring it because I know no other word(s) to call it. I am someone who takes solace in the written art, someone who bleeds ink and rebels in it.
And when someone says, "You're good with words." - always, always I beg to disagree: what does that even mean? To be "good" with words? I am not "good" at it - but rather, I find comfort in it. I like using them, I feel the NEED to use them. It's a connection that goes bone-deep.
I love words, and for years and years, I don't really know if it ever loved me back. But I needed them like air and I am in no damn business of changing that anytime soon.