So, hey. Me, again. As usual: it’s been a while. University life has a tendency to keep you either too caught up with the all em’ endless deadlines or too mentally-drained to sit down and write some words, no matter how direly inactive your blog’s been. And I know that’s such a typical excuse for basically being one heck of an absent blogger but you’ll just have to accept it because YAY DISAPPOINTMENT….?

Random browsing on GoodReads led me to this quote

I am awfully sentimental. Of books, belongings, people, places. It matters very little how positive or negative the experience was. If it shared some meaningful time in my life, I’ll have trouble letting go.
― Beau Taplin

and OH BOY OH BOY, did it REALLY hit home with me. I seriously am very obviously sentimental since who knows when. It is weird though, because I can’t exactly explain the logic behind it. Guess there’s just something I leave in places and times and people and things and moments, kind of like shedding a bit of who you are in that moment and just leaving it there. And then it’s like automatically everything has a connection to who YOU are/were and the thought of moving on is more than just difficult.

That’s why, perhaps, I tend to write a lot directly/indirectly on the concept of time and it’s magnitude of presence and the ever increasing reduction of human life, shredded by the second. I mean, it’s hard to fathom a clock as a stopwatch, even though it pretty much is. Not that I am necessarily daunted by the future or what it holds. But more so, just the realisation that tomorrow would mean leaving today…replacing today, being ok with leaving behind something that once was so important to you, only for this to happen over and over and over…that’s what I find troubling.

Eventually, every step ahead becomes bittersweet and hell nah, 

I don’t like bittersweet.  

wrote and illustrated weeks before i read the quote. still holds true, i think.

time kills clocks, too. 
and you wonder why
i’m sentimental.
i wish i knew.




i, remember, too, the times i remembered you. 
as i put water into the kettle or
picked up the little broken spoon from within
the sugar pot
both acts, i agree, too mundane to mention,
alas, these too, i’m left, alone, to do.
i remember; i’ve remembered you.



you go, won’t be
what is no longer
and yet every time
you try to find that
never will 
feel dearer. 
For what
the ache
is worth




I have tried to write this since so long now. Yet no matter how hard I tried to start, nothing seemed right. Every sentence seemed to lack that little piece of satisfaction.

And no, I am not writing this (and hopefully have posted it by the time you’re reading) because I’ve managed to break through some supposed “writer’s block”, like a slave freed from the chains ready to embark on a trip full of magic and wonder.

I’m still just as hopeless. 

But I don’t want this hopelessness coming in the way of what must be put into words. Even if that means having to embark, bound to chains. So if you watch the video below, then yes, this is kind of a sad and bleak post.

Who knows? I might sound cheery by the end. Let’s begin by this video I made..excuse the shaky recording and my voice that definitely isn’t narrator-standards.. ^^’



December 2014 was when myself and my family had to shift to another city, almost a hour and half away. 67 miles to be precise. That obviously meant having to move into a new house, away from a house that was home. Now it might seem ridiculous but 67 miles seemed like a distance encompassing space that can’t be measured in any unit known to man. It’s hard to explain but home hasn’t ever seem so far.

Alas, circumstances were just as unavoidable as change was imminent.

In the course of emptying our house, I have felt memories. Not only seen past moments being played in my head but felt them sink in and jump back up like a crashing wave hitting the shore line, again and again and again.

During that time, it felt like a storm let loose and the video above was a paddle for a boat, too stubborn to leave its sea.

I suppose it’s understandable. After all, 11 years is time enough. Enough to grasp you. I also know that a home is made from the people, not the walls, but I can’t stop myself. So it might yet again sound ridiculous but the door to that house was the lock to a treasure chest within which were the fondest times that I could have ever longed for.

Like a scent that can’t be stopped, my home was childhood-scented. 11 years later, I can’t imagine a place any different.

Not even 67 miles away.