I come and go

I come and go and come and go, brimming with a million ideas about the million things I want to write. I start, and lose steam within seconds. Who exactly am I writing for? I would give anything to hear my heart say, "for me!" Oh well!

My journal looks forlorn, I haven't inked any of its beautiful white pages in my un-architect-like script, and un-grown-up thoughts, for a significant while now. It's an 11-years old's notebook, with sparkles on the cover, the size that can fit into a little purse, the kind that should be used to preserve beautiful leaves and memories within its pages.

Instead it holds, on occasions that I've felt generous enough to write, the accounts of my daily life. I'd vowed to myself that I will not be as heartless as to pour my heart bleedings into it and I've kept my promise. There aren't any emotional outbursts to hide myself from (and look back at, years later, amused at their innocence)

I like my account unworthy life. Lately I've been trying too hard to make it look golden, lately it has looked too grey to me. I should just let it be. Just be.

The battle gets bigger everyday. The magnitude that's coming into focus now makes me so aware of being terribly out-scaled. Of-course the battle gets bigger everyday. "Surrender!! You fool!" "You've no idea how huge this is!"

Perhaps I want to know. And so I will fight. Don't worry about me being alone, I have a fantastic support system to tap into whenever it gets too dark to see. And I'm buoyed enough to breathe-in oxygen for whatever's next.