I haven’t actually written anything real in awhile. I mean, ‘actually, actual-mein’ (like Shahid Kapoor says in Jab We Met). I’ve been posting content. I’ve been seeding conversations. I’ve been sincere, prolific and consistent. But I haven’t been there. Not really.

This blog was once my diary, my private paradise of rejuvenation, of reflection and gently unraveling things that tied me down. The letting go of anonymity has made it harder for me to do a lot of those things here now. It turns out I have a shy, sensitive and demure side. Once the rest of the world comes into the picture, my public face that is everything but these things takes charge and there’s no room for my softer side.

I need this though and I think it would be futile to repeat the process with another blog or a diary. I see this as a personal transition, a growth even, to be able to be me, authentically even in the most public of my spaces.

I’m going through a personal inquiry at the moment, one that is slated to last another two months at least. It is bringing up a lot of repressed emotion, a lot of unexpressed notions that have just been too messy or scary to acknowledge. Firstly, because of that fact and secondly because they’ve lain hidden for so long, they’re bound to be uglier, messier, less perfect that the me I project at other times.

I’ve been thinking and today, my buddy suggested that I try writing. It made me smile, wryly. Writing after all, was my original source, my first recourse to handling the pain and trauma of my life. I’m going back to the source, even if it is a different place today, a more public, more judgmental, less safe space than it was when I began.

That’s that, I think. There will be more.

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