I always wanted to write.
I wanted to write about my stolen wonderful set of crayons that I had won on a painting competition when I was in 2nd grade.
I wanted to write about the boy I liked when I was in 3rd grade who hated me.
I wanted to write about how fat you can feel when everyone else wants you to believe otherwise.
I wanted to write about how novels really aren’t my thing.
About how much I wanted to be artist but I never could be because my parents never could support me financially. As one artist said once, “To be an artist, You either need to be extremely talented or have rich parents.”
About how a windy and cloudy afternoon which smells like rain too is so much more perfect than rains because you can walk around in a sheer blouse and have perfectly amazing hair and shoes on. Rains ain’t always that romantic.
About funny pictures and the deep sorrow that the people in the pictures carry, the sorrow that manifests the sheer joy in them that makes the picture funny.
I wanted to write about a girl I had always wanted to be like but when I really got to know her, she was just like me. She wanted to be like someone else too, with her own set of struggles and a unique crazy self embellished in beautiful dresses and enviable shoes.
I also wanted to write about meeting new people and how the first time is like a job interview until and unless you have managed to get yourself a free banana cake from a french bakery or getting exorbitantly high and bonding over hating someone.
About how much I loved Sex And The City and Girls and how I was in bed on all days during summer 2013 and watching these shows while taking movie breaks.
But you know sometimes you come to a point where you stop wanting and start doing. “If you want to fucking sing, you sing now. Now is your time. You will never look better that you do right this moment.”
“What is your dream in life?” – someone asked me. I thought for a while and didn’t say anything.
My dream, although, is to be able to DO anything that I feel like at any point of time without being concerned about any materialistic thing that there is in this whole wide world.
Today I just wrote. I will write tomorrow too. I will perhaps write about a how much of a fish person I have become or maybe about how I haven’t got rid of the scrapped red nail paint on my toes which has been there since March.