I've always thought of myself as a writer, although saying it out like that sounds a bit pompous, at least to me. Building something through my words never fails to thrill me, but I wouldn't say I like to attach a defined role to it. I think the lack of pressure on my younger self allowed me to write freely whenever and whatever I wanted. This was easy to do in school since it was formally assigned to me, but I also used to take up a pen and paper at home. I want to think that prose was my forte. I have not written a short story in a long time. The last time I wrote a story was a fluke, an unexpected jolt of inspiration that pushed me to crystalize my thoughts in a narrative. And that was 12 or 13 years ago. Since school, I have abandoned this passion. Maybe I still have it — I'm writing this column, after all — but it feels like I've to dig it from its grave. It's muted, faded, and receded to the background. It shows its face now and then when I write a poem and rarely when I write a paragraph or two. Reasons why I find myself at this juncture, are plenty: a busy life, planning a career, poor mental health and a lack of patience to sit and physically write. But the thing that bothers me […]
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