This blog has been a witness to my inconsistencies and growth.
Even though it's been really long since I last updated, I keep revisiting this sanctuary of mine at odd hours at night, when insecurities leave me vulnerable. I read my posts, I read your kind comments and I feel like wanting to write again, wanting to write more but then I think of all the work it takes, of how it drains me, because when I write it doesn't come in perfect sentences. I struggle with each line, I fret over the grammar, I worry if what I've written is coherent, I worry if it sounds childish. I take my time, I edit, re-edit, forward it and bug my grammar nazi friends to proofread it.
So yes, although it keeps me on my toes, I remember loving every single second of it. The anticipation after I forward my post or publish it and wait for the first person to read and share their thoughts. The rush of relief and gratitude when I'm appreciated.
So why did I stop, you may ask? Because, just like everyone who gives up a hobby they love would say, Life got in the way and the anticipation, the flood of relief, showers of appreciation faded with time. I forgot how to write or maybe I thought I did, like a lovely dream you once cherished but cannot quite remember anymore.
After a lot of what-ifs, I started bookstagramming this year, met a lot of lovely people (more on that later) and started re-considering the idea of blogging. I contemplated abandoning this blog and starting afresh with a new one. In fact, I did create a new one, but I couldn't go ahead with it. Although the posts here are very few in number, my heart reflects in each word, each comma, each full stop and I realized that I couldn't let it go. That I CANNOT let it go.
So here I am, making a new start.
Only this time without the inconsistencies.
Even though it's been really long since I last updated, I keep revisiting this sanctuary of mine at odd hours at night, when insecurities leave me vulnerable. I read my posts, I read your kind comments and I feel like wanting to write again, wanting to write more but then I think of all the work it takes, of how it drains me, because when I write it doesn't come in perfect sentences. I struggle with each line, I fret over the grammar, I worry if what I've written is coherent, I worry if it sounds childish. I take my time, I edit, re-edit, forward it and bug my grammar nazi friends to proofread it.
So yes, although it keeps me on my toes, I remember loving every single second of it. The anticipation after I forward my post or publish it and wait for the first person to read and share their thoughts. The rush of relief and gratitude when I'm appreciated.
So why did I stop, you may ask? Because, just like everyone who gives up a hobby they love would say, Life got in the way and the anticipation, the flood of relief, showers of appreciation faded with time. I forgot how to write or maybe I thought I did, like a lovely dream you once cherished but cannot quite remember anymore.
After a lot of what-ifs, I started bookstagramming this year, met a lot of lovely people (more on that later) and started re-considering the idea of blogging. I contemplated abandoning this blog and starting afresh with a new one. In fact, I did create a new one, but I couldn't go ahead with it. Although the posts here are very few in number, my heart reflects in each word, each comma, each full stop and I realized that I couldn't let it go. That I CANNOT let it go.
So here I am, making a new start.
Only this time without the inconsistencies.
