Confessions : Of Uncertainty


The whirlpool of “what ifs” is terrible. Running around in circles of uncertainty can make even the most confident person falter their step. I’m not sure when I wrote this little piece, for I have moved far too many times to far too distant places, dreamed of it even. But now that I re-read it, the timing seems apt and a love far too real gets left behind again.






This is a part of Confessions Series. Written and forgotten in old sketchbooks, bought to life again here.

Confessions: Of Insecurity


There are something that keep you alive and kicking ; mostly they just happen to be your insecurities.





This is a part of Confession Series. Written and forgotten in  old sketch books bought to life here.

Confessions: Of Reason


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


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: Murder


I don’t indulge much  in reminiscing about the old times these past few months, but this still holds true. Sometimes it feels like my memory space is too small to catalog everything we say or do to other people or what they say to us, so I end up silently murdering all the other glorious memories of others in haste to provide space for the memories of present, however fleeting it may be.

Confessions : of Survival


When everything else failed, all I had become was a product of survival. I wrote this as a excerpt to somebody who needed a push or was that a pull from the edge of darkness that people experience occasionally. The strength we draw from our own self is infinite, sadly it is easy to forget it too. May all of us survive another year with all its endless highs and lows.

This is a part of confession series, written in old sketch books revived and bought to life here.

Confessions: of Giving up


They say that you find what you seek.  And I might not find what I want for I know not what to seek, but that’s okay. I gave up on this endless search for another person until I’ve come to terms with living with myself.

This is a part of a Confession series, where old memories and thoughts of the past left behind in my old sketchbooks are bought to life here.