Writing.

There are so many instances when I am replaying the whole scene that happened to me. Replaying them in my head with perfectly framed sentences and promising myself that I will write these down. Yet that never happens.
Why? I don’t know. Maybe because of the recent aversion to writing, maybe laziness or maybe somewhere I am afraid that if I write it down in ink the reality of it will finally sink in and there will be no going back.

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Writing.

A Monday Night.

With age comes self-doubt. With age comes the responsibility of fulfilling other’s dreams. “Other’s dreams” do not necessarily mean the dreams forced upon by the people around us but the dreams that we think are ours but are actually just an imitation of what other’s wanted for themselves. Of being a part of the herd. Because everyone else wants it so maybe I want it too.
We waste too much of our lives figuring out what our priorities should have been from the very start. And then there is regret. Of not starting soon enough. And then we die. In starvation. Of the wish to live more. To love more. To cherish emotions more. To express more.

A Monday Night.

I had a blog. So why again?

I am addressing someone here not pretending that I have an audience rather I am someone who talks to herself. Sometimes embarrassingly loud.

So this is me. This is for me. And I fear someday I am going to lose my phone and all my sleepyhead doodles are going to be replaced by porn by the person who gets it.

So a journal diary blog. So that I can talk to myself. So that I can store whatever crazy ass retard stuff I scribble. So that I can have a place to jot down my dreams.

I had a blog. So why again?