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WordPress nudges me gently.

It is 1207. I am sitting in bed, with my laptop in my lap, and Rubberband of Life by Miles Davis playing on my speakers; the volume is maxed out. There’s less-than-hot coffee on my bedside table waiting to be tasted. Its aroma reinforces the “cupper’s notes” I learned about at the time of buying this bean: Passion Fruit, Jackfruit, Blueberries.

The day is new and bright. You can hear the occasional car or dog’s bark outside the open window, if you choose to shift your focus from the music for a bit. You cannot hold it like that for long though; the music is quite loud. Just as it should be, I think.

Another day that I have turned to this blog to make sense of the blank mush that my brain feels like. Another day that I cannot think about what to write, except for what is in my immediate surroundings.

I pause to take a sip of my coffee – typing this out with my right hand, with the mug in my left grip.

I felt the hair on my skin stand up with my first sip – the heat of the coffee marking attendance in my mouth and throat.

I made a milder second cup. Or rather my flatmate made a milder second cup for us. Our way of moderating our coffee intake.

What is this post, really? An ode to a lay cup of coffee?

No. I don’t think so.

It is an attempt at getting back to writing? Maybe. Mostly.

If there’s one thing I’ve really wanted to get back to, it is this. Writing, blogging, speaking. Ever since I wrote When Writing is not Therapeutic Anymore, I’ve struggled to write. The notion – as described in that post – has remained unchanged; the idea still has me in its grip, but I’m starting to writhe again. This is me writhing. This is me writing.

It’s not great, let’s face it. But I think I’m okay with that. It doesn’t have to great. It is a process.


“(I am) an unmade bed of a woman.”

I remember reading this somewhere, and I loved the line. To describe oneself as an unmade bed is… pure. It signifies comfort, familiarity, chaos, and the choice to either remain or change if need be, all in just that much.

I have since been unable to trace this line back to its origin, and so am going to record it here for posterity.


For the longest time, when someone would ask me, “If you were a tree, which tree would you be?” (Yes, that’s an oft-asked question), I’d say, “Banyan tree.” But this response was quite… extrinsic. I chose a Banyan tree because of how majestic it looked. Sometimes even melancholic. But its strength and adaptability remained unquestioned.

Today, I’d like to revise that answer. If someone was to ask the same question to me right now, I’d tell them that I’d probably be a cactus of some kind.

Cactii are misunderstood, aren’t they? We think they’re prickly and can bring pain. But that’s quite self-centered. Cactii aren’t prickly for our benefit or otherwise. They just are. They absorb, store, survive. And none of it is for us.

This respect for individuality is novel. We’re slowly coming around to see the diversity around us, in all things and beings. Respect for that diversity is the natural next step. Whether we take that step or not remains to be seen. Whether we learn to see another’s design and experience as extrinsic to our own; as a different color than our own, and then (hopefully) decide to embrace it, wear it, indulge it, soak in it – that remains to be seen.

I’m finally coming around to acknowledging that I am a different shade of what is considered “normal,” and am slowly – very slowly and with difficulty – adjusting to it in the face of reminders to be “more normal.” I hope to reach a point of harmony, within and without.


1442 hours

I just reached out to a colleague and we bonded over how stuck and momentum-less work has been feeling for the last couple of weeks, maybe months. We bonded over the anxiety it brings for us. And we couldn’t explain what exactly is causing this. And we didn’t really try figuring out why. We just decided to exist together in that moment of understanding for a while. And it helped. It helped to talk and agree on how difficult every other day is proving to be.


Bleeding Love by Leona Lewis was playing in the background just now. I was singing along to it.

It is 1525 on February 09, 2021. I’m sitting by the window now. My view looks like this:

It is windy, and the window is open. You don’t hear dogs barking or traffic anymore. Just the music and an occasional bird.

Time is liquid again, ebbing and flowing as it does – without asking to be noticed. My head feels quieter. I’m not happy. I just am.