I am not a writer. Or am I?

If self discovery had an age bar, I would be “the” late bloomer. And if there was a restraint on the number of attempts one can make at self discovery, I would definitely be disentitled.

The “painter” in me rose back from the dead for a while last year, but that attempt was as bleak as the dead could be. The books that I bought / borrowed / fought with my mother for over all these years, stare back at me more dismayed than I could ever be. To my surprise, there were also occasions when I tried cooking a thing or two!

To be truthful, there was a time when books spoke to me. And painting came to me as easy as breathing. That time has passed, I believe. Chasing these ideas now feel like — longing to hook your eyesight to a chalky white cloud on a clear windy day from a moving car. No matter how much I try to crane my neck and keep looking, the car keeps moving in its direction and the cloud in another. After a mile or so, they no longer amuse me. Just like these avocations.

So, the paints, the books and all the paraphernalia now lie with a blanket of grime on it as thick as first snow. And here I am, at 28, making yet another attempt at self discovery.

I haven’t jolted my brain on what will I be writing about exactly. I guess that will be another discovery on its own.

For now, this is me. Flummoxed, gladly.

Brusque. Judgmental. Art Lover. Wallflower. Overthinking is my Hamartia.