Confessions : Of Uncertainty

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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 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.