I don’t know whether it is pathological or any other kind that I am not aware of… or maybe just a habit in itself…as involuntary and unreasonable as it is meant to be. But my ‘habitual’ act of scribbling in my favourite Ms Word sometimes gets me thinking… is it a talent, an avocation or a dependency?

When I started writing for the first time rather consciously made an effort to write I believed that I had things to say…opinions to state and quite a hand at words to do so… I intended to display. I intended to outshine and show that I had a talent.
I guess we all have this thing about being special… and it cannot be underestimated by being called a wish…its more of a need which mostly becomes an obsession.

But as the times changed… life changed and migration happened. The experiences that I went through, the feelings that I encountered made me see myself in a way I cannot possibly imagine I could have. And it continues to change everyday.

Of all things great and small, I realised that writing had meant a lot more than I thought it did. It came with much simplicity and a lot of ease. It has neither a head nor any hands or feet and most of all was without an agenda. It had no lands to conquer or hearts to win. It is about many things and many people but has got nothing to do with any one else. It isn’t a thing to be bartered or a traded. It isn’t a weapon or a tool.

It is personal and intimate. More for me than any one else.

My true companion and perhaps the only one…