To breathe again, to have fresh air entering the lungs. Writing is as much as an output as a way of living. To rid of the excess and take in new things. Emptying what’s inside to make way for new inputs.
That’s what it feels like each time I’ve written. Most things I wrote have no lasting impact – they don’t age well, they are not timeless – but they serve a purpose at that point of time. Each and every thing I’ve written and published lives in my own domain. They made me feel like I’ve a standing in this black hole of never-ending web. However small it is, my presence is made known and archival.
The posts reflect my changing interest, the culture, the technological advancement, personal dilemmas, and many other random musing. I have never follow up consistently on my pact to write regularly here.
However far I’ve drifted, the euphoria of publishing(here) still gives me massive dose of joy.