Writing is meditative to me. It’s like a screen that holds at bay the cacophony of the world while I connect with my subconscious self. It’s also my escape, when vocal elucidation seems like too much effort. Writing gives me a sense of ease that comes from the realization of being in control. It’s the conduit to my views. Views that I am now excited to put out to the world through this Open journal.

I have never essentially owned a conventional personal diary. Not that I haven’t endeavoured writing one. Growing up I did pen down, on several occasions, thoughts that I wasn’t courageous enough to share with another human. Thoughts that were safer with me than I considered with anyone else. But those were mere detached pages, holding scribbled secrets of a confused adolescent. They were inconsistent and disintegrated and purged from within me, in times of emotional overwhelm.

But in reality, I did not feel the need to physically record my life because I was already doing so in my mind. At all times. There were too many stories written all over me. Stories that were an extension of my own existence. Light-hearted sketches woven with happy words that reiterated my accomplishments. Baffling narratives hastily abandoned because their loose ends were unfixable. Sometimes they even took the form of poetry; short and defined. All in all, my mental inscriptions resonated emotions of ecstasy, heartbreak and chaos. But they were my constant companion. Too many to accommodate. Too precious to lose.

There had to be someplace else, safe enough for my mental monologue. A scheme that would help declutter my mind, streamline my existing thoughts and make way for newer ideas. Time gave me the subtle hint that penning down would provide fair closure to my unfinished stories.

And so, Writing organically became a part of my routine. It was like catharsis for the welter of emotions that I had held. They now lay before me on paper, inked and real. It was liberating to be able to tell apart one story from the other. Just like the unique pieces of a puzzle. Only now they were no longer scattered. No longer invisible. They were real words. Words that I could draw from my mind, give shape to and consolidate into a literary platter.

“Everyone has a story to tell. Then, there are those luckier ones who are able to do so.”