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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
We are constantly on the quest for joy, what I always keep forgetting is that true joy a convoluted concept in every fragment of its’ existence. Joy can be only savored in little sips, like a bourbon, not to be gulped down in rush and then regret the end of it.