The Resuscitation

5Time changes all of us. I have always believed it is the environment that dictates how we humans respond. I began blogging around 9 years ago, a point when time was beginning to stand still, when I was no longer running and panting. It gave me space, to think to articulate the innumerous emotions that surface. But it never lasted long. Transitioning from one phase of life to another opens windows to new excitements, new engagements, new opportunities. We reschedule our list  based on priorities of the time.

6Somewhere down the line, I found it hard to find that space, that inner peace to write again. Never short of emotions, the profession always permitted loads of human interaction, with multiple moments to take a pen and scribble. Yet, in the days of aging memory cells of my brain, where I have subcontracted my hippocampus’ work to my Google Assistant, I nowadays only retain very few details of day to day life.

4With the amount of information overload, I still ring in my newspaper daily more out of habit rather than a genuine source of information. It has dwindled my human interaction so much so that I enjoy being in my own company more and more.

3But then a crest always follows a trough. That’s the beauty of life. Everything recycles. In that dark room of creativity, that for some unknown reason I kept shut for a long time, shone a light. A light powerful enough to wake me off my slumber, to bring me to my desk and write…. yet again.

One of my blogger friends, an author of books, recently tweeted her stimuli for writing, how she never really had the urge to write when she was happy. I let that run through my head and indeed, it’s true. I found out for the first time I could scribble something, when I was going through one of the lowest points in my life; when I felt writing would help relieve the burden off my chest. As life got pacier, and time became non existent, penning down never happened.


Playing Sherlock daily with umpteen greyscale images has sucked the life out of me, but all it takes is two teaspoons of life in that sip of coffee to know the pen was just waiting to scribble yet again.

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