Diary of the whimsical wastrel

I started blogging at a time when there were a lot of them out there with blogs. Blogging was the key term. It was the happening place. For many. The restless and lazy me stopped blogging altogether very soon. For almost three years. Three years. What can happen within three years?

 For some, they are pretty normal, uneventful. For some, their worlds just turned over.

And I stand in the middle. I completed my graduation, moved to Hyderabad. I learned to fall in love with new cities, I made new friends. Got my heart broken, repaired. I laughed, I cried, I was nonchalant.

And now I am done with my post-graduation as well. I taught at a college for six months.

I had never stopped writing altogether. Because that never happens to me. But I need certain spurts in between. Certain phases where I can be with myself, curl with books, do whatever I like. Take time. Of course, I don’t believe that creativity is a faucet. But in those rushed moments in the morning, rushing out of bed, rushing behind a bus, rushing for a class. I don’t reflect. I just move on. Rush kills me. Minute by minute.

Now that I have time to myself, I thought I would come back again. To a space of my own. The uncrowned wastrel of my kingdom. But then I thought. There are vestiges of what I wrote when I was practically a wizened teenager. I was more egotistic, optimistic, but less experienced, less bruised. I thought of creating a new blog.

 But then again, the vestiges make the space more real.

After all, I am still the same person who loves Cats, Petrichor, Harry Potter and words. I hope not to change.