Confessions: Of Bewilderment

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In the end we all want to believe that we are at the drivers seat, directing our life to the best possible choices ;running on a fuel of our own volatile emotions. The need for that control is essential to keep reinventing yourself and so is a sense of purpose.

As Camus says “This world in itself is not reasonable, that is all that can be said. But what is absurd is the confrontation of this irrational and wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart. The absurd depends as much on man as on the world. For the moment it is all that links them together.”

 

 

This is a part of the Confession Series, written in old sketch books, revived to life here.

Confessions : Of Falling Apart

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Sometimes I just can’t edit my larger monologues into shorter crisper versions. Sometimes I’m just too attached to the documented version of me. ¬†Anyway, Falling apart is a process not a singular event. So might as well immerse yourself in the process,right?

 

 

 

 

This is a part of Confession Series, written in old sketch books revived to life here.

Confessions : Of Dreams

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One of the reasons I dream of Travel is the same reason why I don’t bother to make ever lasting connections. This little confession of mine has sort of formed who I am today, a vague image of my dreams.

 

 

 

This is a part of Confession Series. written in old sketch books as reflections of my past bought to life here.

 

 

Confessions: Of Reason

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They say old habits die hard. I say the only reason old habits/people/things stick around because we reason with ourselves that the murky history is essential, because who are we if not for our pasts ?

 

 

 

 

This is a part of Confession Series , little figments of writings scribbled down in old sketchbooks bought to life here.

 

Confessions: Of Ambiguity

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It is strange that how I wrote these little snippets of advice to myself obscuring it with whole lot of ¬†drama that I was then facing. I’ve always disliked being ambiguous about my life because of the kind of control freak that I am, but when I think about it, the most joy I’ve ever had in writing my short stories or drawing was when I was ambiguous of what I wanted and every word that I joined on the paper to make a sentence would be a surprise.

 

 

This is a part of a series of confessions, written in old sketchbooks bought to life here on this blog.

Confessions: Of Hope

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Everyday when I step out of my house, I tell myself that hope is the worst feeling to take with you when dealing with the outside world. But occasionally you give in, you give in to be hopeful about something or someone. It is at these points that you are the most vulnerable too, because hope and disappointment are strange partners that come in pairs of two. I don’t remember when I wrote this note , but it seems like I’m hopeful once again and keeping an eye out for things to fall apart.