Me Mumbai

I don't know if me writing this would matter. most probably it wouldn't. I mean what could a maniac who has been wasting herself away all day long locked up in a dilapidated corner of some forgotten building, say that could matter? Nothing of what I have ever said makes any sense to the sensible.

Life is a complicated bunch of emotion. And to add to that nothing stays, yeah. All the words that escape my mind to show up here, are here because my mind could house them no longer. My conscious would burst open if I retain those myriad rebellious rants inside it. So here is where I dispose them off. And once done with, they never come back to me ever again. Here they lay, the rebellious thoughts, one beside the other, their entire household, generation after generation, abandoned by me, their mother.

In retrospect, it is difficult for me to recognize these very thoughts, that were bits and pieces of my soul thrown apart. It is ironical that though things change this way, my words are almost like a constant chain that started some years ago and hasn't ended ever since. I have shocked people, by the monotony of my content. Somehow I couldn't bring myself to care any less about that. Thankfully.

Writing was a matter of survival for me sometime back. Yeah survival. I had to write to continue to exist, to continue to fight against the forces that fought against me. It provided one vent, to dispose almost anything that ever dared to bother me.

I write not because it's my passion, but because it is my sole respite. 

And the title of this post would never make sense without this picture

From this city of infinite freedom, I am not taking back much. Except that it is adding a little to the only asset that I ever possessed, my experience!