Dream. Write. Share.




This is a selfish post. It’s about me. If you have traipsed in here hoping to find yourself, then maybe you will, in my idiosyncrasies. Or maybe you’ll scoff at my foolish words. Maybe. One of my favourite words. Regardless, this is a beautiful selfish post, if I say so myself.

I have been practising the art of letting go. “The art of losing isn’t hard to master,” I’m told. Not quite the same thing, yet not quite dissimilar. So, I went ahead and lost toxicity. I walked away from ugly relationships that couldn’t be mended. I walked away from unhappy places, from candles that would no longer burn. Things we do to preserve our (in)sanity…

In the process, I realised I had unknowingly, subconsciously foregone my compulsion. I, the list-maker, had not drawn up a satisfactory list in a long while. I, the aspiring writer, had not written as if my life depended on that pen scratching across the paper while I secretly admired my eccentric handwriting. I, the compulsive reader, had not read for pleasure, and was irrationally lashing out in angst at the fictional characters who felt more miserable than me.

My universe has become colourless.
I need the fireworks back.

Being compulsive makes my madness feel explosive, it makes me feel alive and out of breath. It makes me a knower of things. It makes me roll around in the sand and splash in the water.

Today, I choose to go back to who I was.
I choose to love trees with wide-eyed wonder,
To read with happy thoughts,
I choose to discover something new,
To never let go of the madness that drives me.



Being Human.

Last week, I decided to make life come to a standstill, for a while. I needed to breathe, I needed to remember the magical moments I live for. After all, what am I if I stop dreaming?

I followed the trail; I walked along the path; I admired the trees, some of them reaching for the sky – at one point, I became one of them, I felt. I crossed brooks, paddled in the water, relishing in the squelching sound my shoes made. I sat by a river, took out my Kindle, read a few poems, softly, out loud.

And I remembered… it seemed that all the memories circumambulated the trees! I also remembered the tough times from which I wouldn’t absquatulate, although I wouldn’t quite want to relive them! I wished I could collect all the moments in my hands, hold them, breathe through them, and then let them go, like water seeping through…

I needed the quietness (the leaves rustling), the loneliness (finding myself), the nothingness (nothing mattered), the forgetfulness (unheard melodies), the playfulness (ambling delectably)… I needed it all.

I walked out (against my deepest desires!) rejuvenated, ebullient, yet restful, like a puzzle that had finally found its last missing piece… Completely disconnected from reality, irrevocably reconnected with my inner self.

What Reading Taught Me

Back in primary school, my teacher decided to inculcate the art of reading in us, and when she asked me what my favourite book was, I very innocently replied, “Macbeth.” (Yes, it was my favourite bedtime story! Witches, Royalty, and a forest that will walk? “Something wicked this way comes!”) The puzzled look on her face sparked a degree of pride in me, and most importantly, nurtured my book addiction.

Throughout the years, I have felt that every book I have read has awakened my senses (and sensibilities) in a profound way, and I have learnt something new from each of them. So here’s to all the authors who have contributed to who I am, and who have taught me invaluable lessons, aside from limitless knowledge and an improved vocabulary.

Life is full of surprises.
Ever marvelled at those twists and shocking jolts that books make us go through? There are moments when we are affronted, angry at the characters (or at the author!), incredulous at the unfolding of events, but deep down, we know that there is another surprise awaiting us. Anyone who has read ‘Gone Girl’ (and all those novels with cliff-hanger endings) will relate.

You can be whoever you want.
Whether you want to be quixotic, amaranthine, shrouded in mystery, or simply kind, it all happens in your mind. It’s our choices that define who we are and who we want to become (Thank you, J. K. Rowling). Continue reading “What Reading Taught Me”

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