From the archives. 2013.

I am infatuated with writing; with the crisp sound of the roller pen on the rectangular sheet marked with dark bold grey perpendicular lines juxtaposing to form squares; all were shades of grey but the margin—the margin was red, a kind of red that frustrated my obsessive compulsive attention. For the love of contrast, the shift, the opposing tones of colors, I chose black, and, with time, I swore to remain faithful to writing in only black—this kind of writing, not any other, I’m not talking about taking silly notes, but even those—I wrote in black, which is still the case today.

I got an italic handwriting which I made sure time and the fast requirements of short silly academic homework didn’t ruin. It leaned down touching the base of every single square, letters close to the ground of the quadrangle, in an ever-ending yearning to remain, not realistic, but in that other meaning of the word, pragmatic, this kind of handwriting that screamed my longing to belong somewhere, but I simply didn’t belong anywhere; I belonged to no-where. It will take me such years to realise where is my-where, where I felt at home, and I once came to the conclusion, albeit with all suffering and painful disgrace, that: Home is always a person.

I came to be conscious I indeed wasn’t the nomad I thought I was; I wasn’t an endless roamer with no fixed compass; I wasn’t a sailor with no geographical North. I longed for Home, and I yearned for a forever shore. A conclusion that didn’t draw itself out easily, but: the truth itself never follows the obvious path to reveal.

I pondered on happiness, how I let it escape, slip out of my hands one time too many, the times where I had the opportunity of making up my mind, take a step forward, make a decision, the times the ball was on my side of the field—and, I have never excelled at playing any ball, so what field am I playing on, what rules am I playing by, what players am I playing against—what destiny am I trying to change?

I decided to challenge every thing I had learnt and lived by. I decided to go beyond any obligation, to live in the now, the very now, to forget I had a past driving me, a tomorrow that will eventually come—to live in the present moment.

I was rotten. Rotten deep inside. Unwanted. Unprovoked. My existence had no meaning, and I tried several times to draw the finish line, but I have never had the courage to cross it, the courage to chant my last breath out of my dying lungs, to drawn into the oceans of bliss and forgetfulness one eternal time.

It was by that time that writing found its way back into my life. It was my locked summer. I had forgotten the last time I fell in love; even forgotten what was it like to be falling in love.

And I remembered—I remembered how I loved the arcades, the hanging points, how I admired the shapes and forms of letters, an aesthetic that created such confusion when I attempted to resist it.

Pick what you are enamoured by. Happiness finds its way, so naturally, so un-forcibly, into the palm of your hand.

Love, R. ♡