Yours, I Remain

My heart stops, just for a moment

Now, it begins to race.

I feel the blood pump through my veins,

My breath quickens, my resolve weakens.

I hear tales,

Fantastically woven ones,

I wonder which ones are true,

Willing myself to believe only what you mean to me.

I clear my head of colliding thoughts,

Vowing to remain detached, emotionally, for now.

We all have secrets, we all face darkness,

But why can you not speak with me?

I’ve known you all my life,

How can you not see

That you are the world and more to me.

I am everything you’ve taught me to be,

I’ve learned from you the good ways and the bad.

Retracing my steps where you went wrong.

I pray for you, for your heart and soul,

Knowing, somewhere within, that you are still you.

The one I know has principles,

The one I respect has fears and doubts;

But it is nothing you can’t handle,

And so I continue to believe.

I fear disappointment, but stay strong,

I recoil from the rage.

In my eyes you are still perfect,

But the picture is marred.

It hurts that you don’t try,

To rectify the errors of your ways,

But to you I say, “I love you”

And forever more yours, I remain.


A Boy & a Girl

“Don’t mess with me,” he said, curling his fists up into tight balls at his side. “You wouldn’t know what hit you if you did. So I suggest, gentlemen, that you leave her alone.”

That’s the opening line – inspired by one of his girlfriend’s favorite phrase to use on him when they argue – of one of my writer friend’s many stories. His latest is a venture into childhood relationships that grow up into deep understanding adult friendships. The theme really being an exploration of platonic relationships. He borrowed the example of Max and Ariel, my characters, and decided to work upon that just for fun, and his story was born <Max and Ariel express their heartfelt gratitude for this thoughtful gesture of his >. I read through the fifteen page story and thought he dealt with the theme very carefully, not over stepping the boundary of social acceptance, but did hit the nail hard at times. I would love to see this story of his printed and bound and bought, or at least in a magazine <since he does not have a blog and does not trust the internet, strange creature of the 21st century, he is>. Anyway…reading his story made me revisit what I’d done with Max and Ariel. It had never crossed my mind to make them a pair – two of my best friends would’ve pelted me with granite if I had. Max and Ariel were always destined to be the closest of friends. Of course, Steven does the whole jealousy dance, and does not warm up to Max until he realizes that in his absence the only person who would take care of her is Max. Eventually he trusts him enough to name him godfather to their children – Steven’s and Ariel’s – and entrust his personal legal affairs wholly to Max <that would be where the cast and crew break into a screechy rendition of that Barney song – I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family – while the end credits roll in right after the fairy tale fonted ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ Bad joke. Verzeihen Sie mir, bitte>

I always wanted to maintain that feeling within Ariel that she will be indebted to Max even though she never explains why. Max, I’ve made it to be, is the first boy she kisses, her first boyfriend, her first long distance relationship, and her first breakup. He’s essentially the first man in her life, though nothing between them goes beyond the boundaries of friendship. I’m happy keeping them that way. I shall not elaborate further.

It’s nice to write about something you rarely see around you. And if you see it and appreciate it, there’s always that person beside you who says, “There must be something more.” Why should there be? Why can’t we picture two people of the different genders sharing a platonic relationship? Someone told me that it doesn’t exist – a platonic relationship. That even if it did, it would never survive. I beg to differ. There are several people of my acquaintance who are extremely close and have never been anything more than just friends. They share a certain understanding and a certain closeness that cannot be forger between people involved in a romantic relationship. So there are those many people who would disagree with me, but c’mon! It can work both ways. I’ve seen proof of it. You want to be blind to it, go ahead!

I believe in the Yin-Yang. So if Yin is the non-existence of platonic relationships, then the Yang must be…still more non-existent? I think not. Hint: – It’s called balance, it is how everything around is. You ready to acknowledge the Yang just yet?

Matter of Perspective

I do not recollect exactly when I wrote the following poem, neither do I recall what sentiment I was trying to express because most of what I write are meant to be reflections of a particular thought, mood or emotion I am experiencing in that moment. In fact, when I read this particular piece, I was lost for a moment. I didn’t know what I was trying to get across, and it was only after the second read that I realized the gist of it. I can identify that I wrote it in some desperate need to pull out thoughts (from my head) onto paper, but I am still lost as far as the deeper meaning goes. Hmm..I wrote it but I don’t know what I was getting across. Interesting. I should see a counselor.

Bringing to life what’s been forgotten
Is a tendency without strain begotten.
Relieving the past with qualms astray,
Entering a realm where everything fades.

Searching for answers to questions unheard,
Fearing that righteousness be deterred.
Awakening that hunger for bright pastures,
To quench that thirst of swarming vultures.

Waiting to justify what’s right not wrong,
Leaving behind the weak for strong.
Nurturing a will for life, to lead,
Seeking the chance to do a good deed.

Lessons learned through other’s experience,
Dying faith battled with defiance.
Rekindling hope and manifesting the future,
Reveling galaxy’s literature.

Giving thanks to those that stay,
Kneeling down with those that pray.
Holding close the things that matter,
Filling up with joyful banter.

It’s not a dream, but a state of reality,
Where everything must rise above its depravity.
Unfolding the wings of an eagle that will soar,
Let the resounding victory once again roar.


I’ve been smitten by the classical bug…AGAIN. After the bout of goth, that is. But it’s all about books. I require no persuasion. Get it?? HEHE.

Spent the night with Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot. Again. Aah. Jane Austen is simply genius. Her characters ooze reality and are etched with every trait that makes a man/woman. Perfection itself. I couldn’t help myself so ended up watching the BBC adaptation of Persuasion. Again. Rupert Penry-Jones. Captain Fredrick WentworthHe is sooooo perfect!! I love those little looks he gives her – the whole ‘I will be indifferent to the only woman I’ve truly ever loved but I still cannot help loving her!’ Gives me the goosbumps all the time !! <That’s just me getting all lovey dovey> He’s a really good actor. I LOVE HIM!! I’m a very very happy camper. Honestly I couldn’t ask for anything more. A whole set of my favourite classics and twilight, and rest assured I will keep to my room, speak nothing and be very content with life.

I’m now A1 certified in German!! Managed an 86% after missing a week of the most important grammar classes, and not studying at all. So I suppose it’s all good. Did badly in the orals during the 2nd test and model paper (8.5 on 10 and 12.5 on 15) but landed a 15 (on 15) in the finals!! This happened when the frech (=naughty) gang of our class happened to be put in the same group for the orals!! Ooh, and my writing skills haven’t failed me in this European language either!! A 14 on 15!! I’m quite delighted by the prospect of now being certified in a foreign language, and that too German!! Supposed to be harsh, and I can fully understand why given the guttural sounds of the language, but it’s a very nice language. I’ve taken to deciphering German comic strips now. Planning to take up the A2 course as well as soon as I can.

I’m leaving next Wednesday…on my transfer. Arrangements have been made for an apartment, furniture and other necessities. All that remains is that I go there.

I’ve gone and screwed up my TOEFL iBT account and now I cannot log in at all!! I still need to send the scores to three universities, 2 of whose deadlines are 15th January, and now I’m getting desperate. Sadly I cannot do anything till Monday since this is the Christmas weekend!!

Oh…MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY !! 😀 😀 Got a bunch of presents, sensible and useful. Dad’s birthday too. Christmas is fun time!! Going to a little party tonight as a follow up to complete what we started last night!! The carolling and stuff. 😀

Here’s the bit from Persuasion that always leaves me smiling and breathless !!

“I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own, than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan.–Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes?–I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice, when they would be lost on others.–Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in

F. W.

I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father’s house this evening, or never.”

Letter Writing…

I’ve always been a sucker for handwritten letters (snail mail as it has come to be called in recent times). Call me an old-fashioned idiot (who happens to be a ‘techie’ <- whatever that’s supposed to mean, and spend a minimum of twelve hours a day seated in front of a PC and e-mails most of her acquaintances, and updates her blog more often than her diary/journal/secret diary – et al… **fine! I’m guilty of that here!**), but I find something extraordinarily personal about a handwritten mail! That I’ve ceased to receive any since the time we got our internet connection some fifteen years ago (before which I, honestly, used to write to my aunt and paternal grandmum – childish scribbles more like it) doesn’t really matter. I remember the odd letter when a friend and I decided that it was crappy to e-mail each other, and I believe we sent each other exactly two letters before we decided it was crappy to waste time in doing that when we could just get on the phone and talk for hours together – our excuse at the time was not just the ‘wasting of time’ but also ‘saving trees’. I also wrote to my lawyer friend (who just, btw, landed a spectacular job at Amarchand Mangaldas – the best law firm in the country!! 😀 So proud of her!!) a few times but even that stopped after…3 letters, I think. Anyway, letters feel so nice. So pleasurable even.

Deciphering the writing itself gives me so much joy! So when my sister, the one who recently moved to Athens, GA, for her undergraduate studies, told us that she had her own personal mailbox at her on-campus apartment like dorm my reaction was “I’ll write to you!!”. Sure, her telling us about this was snide and had an ulterior motive laced through it – that she made a point of telling us that it was a “pretty good mailbox…has the capacity to hold a palm size box” told us that she expected more than cards but admitted that she would be content with letters too. 😀 So here I sit, writing to her. It’s presently five pages long and it’s just ranting. Plain old ranting. Stuff that I’ve already spoken to her about, asked her about. Yet, I’m writing it. And I know she’ll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

See, that’s the pleasure part that very few understand. The written word. I’ve nothing against e-mailing people, truly, because now I do it on an hourly basis. Just that, at times it feels good to revert to the age old methods… sigh. <I seem to be getting sentimental about odd things these days!!> When I first started writing – I’m talking about my novel ideas here – I would spend hours together penning thoughts and then decide that it was absolute crap that I’d churned out (I do that now too…at my laptop…and then when I decide it’s not worth it, I simply hit Shift+Del) I would take immense pleasure in ripping the sheets to tiny bits and watch my ideas fall to the ground. Once I even burned some twenty sheets using the flame of a candle and watched it fall to my feet in ashes. That helped in the thinking process, because I used to find it easier to put out newer ideas after that..things that hadn’t crossed my mind before. Besides, like I said before, it gives everything I write a personal touch. 😀

We grow with time and in the current drive of things, it pays to keep in sync with the modernization of lifestyle. It helps at times when nothing else does. My conclusion? I would rather type out things than to spend time writing out stuff (because I can type faster than I write), but when it comes to stuff that matter…I would rather see words of my contorted hand than typed letters.

P.S. Cadence of Her Last Breath – Nightwish a brilliant song. MUST LISTEN!! I just can’t get enough of it!


Here’s the thing. I’ve been trying so hard to purge my room of items that have been gathering dirt and cobwebs over the past year and I find myself at a loss of conviction to actually get rid of the stuff even though I start off with a strong mind.

I found some of my old school notes. Some ten notebooks (those 5 subject Mead notebooks) filled with writing. I was actually surprised to find my handwriting covering every inch of the pages, including those partitions, because I have absolutely no recollection of ever having written that much. Initially I thought they were just rough notes for the various reports and projects I’d submitted in high school – my book reviews, Science, Geography and History projects. Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t even hasty notes scribbled into the margin during class. They were all outlines and descriptions of plots to stories I now don’t even remember having thought of. Starting from the 7th grade (I kept only the English books from then but my Mum insisted on retaining my notebooks as well -“As a reminder of how good your handwriting used to be”, she told me), I now had over five hundred pages of writings. By my own hand.

I was, in all honesty, caught completely off guard because to this moment I’ve always maintained (because that’s how I remember it) that I began writing my first story in the tenth grade. Poetry I used to write long before that. But the stories (exclusive of the short stories we did during writing classes at school) began only later. Apparently I was wrong.

I sat down to read all that I had written and though the fact that the protagonists remain the same, there is loads of stuff in there that I’d wanted to include but forgotten to. I have this vague memory of having written it but it still escapes the grasps of reality. Not counting all of the stuff that I’ve just found, I have, as of now, got around hundred and fifty pages of material that I know I will be using in the novel the exact same way it is now. This is the stuff that I’ve been working on since the eleventh grade. I know the beginning and the ending. I even know the parts in between. There’s just this time gap between the events that I still need to clear up and there are a lot of intricate details need to be proof read. Not that I am anywhere close to even finishing the novel. But still.

I still remember that feeling of utmost satisfaction and pride when I wrote the last paragraph of my first full fledged novella – the one inspired by Somewhere I Belong (Linkin’ Park’s song). It was this secret (never going to explain why) that I held close to me till the day my pesky sister read it two years ago and my entire family of fourteen scurried around her to find out if it was good. Yeah, people knew that I’d written a novelette of a hundred and ten pages and was working staunchly to make it a proper novel. Mum even tried wheedling it out of me once, tried in vain to trick me into reveal which notebook I’d written the first draft in, Dad spent hours on the PC trying to find the document, but Mama was the one who got closest to it (before my sis). I’d sent a soft copy to him and asked him to get the entire thing printed and bound so I could see the first (if only a draft) hard copy of my novelette. He, very cleverly, saved the file onto his hard disk, because he knew I would log into his e-mail account and delete the mail and attachment later (which I did). I was excited. I was happy and truly felt that I was, indeed, capable of putting my thoughts to word in a way that someone else might enjoy reading it. Which is probably the reason I’m still kind of dumbstruck at the fact that I’d written soooo much before and very conveniently forget about it.

As I was reading the plots, however, I realize that most of it seemed rather childish (I was twelve at the time and nine years later, yeah, it is kiddish). But the basic essence of what I was trying to convey, the pictures I worded of the people and places, and the emotions that I wanted to express are all the same. Just worded more maturely and sensibly now than I could’ve managed nine years ago. Sigh. Those were the days, I suppose.

I’ve read about two hundred pages now (another five hundred or so to go), and in the process of doing so I came across a phrase ‘fate’s book’ and then I realized that I had a book by Brad MeltzerThe Book of Fate, that I bought a few months ago and never read it. Now this author is good. Really good. First person narrative in this and the two books (The First Counsel and The Zero Game) of his that I’ve already read.He’s got this really simple way of writing and dealing with serious and complex stuff. True, these books deal with Washington D.C.’s corridors of power but it’s worth the read and possibly more because you really can’t guess the ending. Or the middle. I read The First Counsel four years ago, I think, and I was so shocked by the ending I knew I would read all of Meltzer’s books without being able to put them down. Brilliant, I tell you. Yup, the books are more than five hundred pages in paperback, but they are all “unputdownable”. I’m about two hundred pages into Book of Fate and my mind’s already whirring, trying to figure out some clue as to what the ending could possibly be. I’ve tried and succeeded, so far, in not turning to the last chapter to see what happens (that’s what I used to do in the days of Hardy Boys to decide whether to read the book or not 😉 LOL). I’ve gotten over it though. I’m going at a rather fast pace and haven’t been responding to any calls or messages for over twenty four hours now and have to also be dragged to the ice-cream parlor (which is normally my favorite part of the holidays). My book reading hibernation *smiles in glee*.

Oh well. Just a week more of waking up at eleven in the morning. 😦 Mum sounded a little too offended when I said, “Oh, crap! College reopens next Monday!” But I guess with two days off every week (to attend to our projects) and four to five hour classes on the other four days it’s alright. Not an appealing prospect though after lazing around with no real obligation to study. But it’s ok! 🙂

I WIll Never Know Myself…

One of the main reasons why I am so stuck up on Linkin Park, and in particular the song Somewhere I Belong, is the very essence of enigma in it. The music, the lyrics, the tone, the voice…
So why did it inspire me so much, especially when I have known inspiration all my life?Soul searching begins now.
I find inspiration from a lot of things, but I mainly see it in people around me and drawing inferences through their daily routines, be it the handling of a phone call, the various moods, etc, has inspired me to take the good things (which are a lot) from them and try and adapt those features in my lifestyle. Not character. Lifestyle.
Character is a definition of the person inside, no hype, no pretense. Just the object we were created, by Him, to be. What the character of a person defines, is the representation of the person itself, by his inner most, deepest, darkest, secrets. Character can be built but not changed. Which is why, being around people of high stature and dignity built my character in such a way that now there are others who come and ask me how I became the way I am!! And I’m just twenty!! I am not boasting off here, I’m just genuinely surprised that people would even consider being inspired by someone their own age. I know I wouldn’t.
I would learn from them, maybe, but I would not be inspired. [P.S. The logic behind this is rather tedious to explain, those who know me will understand why I am saying this. I only beg that no wrong inferences of my character be made.]

In a dictionary, one would find the word inspiration followed by

in·spi·ra·tion /ˌɪnspəˈreɪʃən/ –noun
1. an inspiring or animating action or influence

2. something inspired, as an idea.
3. a result of inspired activity.
4. a thing or person that inspires.
5. Theology.
a. a divine influence directly and immediately exerted upon the mind or soul.
b. the divine quality of the writings or words of a person so influenced.
6. the drawing of air into the lungs; inhalation.
7. the act of inspiring; quality or state of being inspired.
[Origin: 1275–1325; ME inspiracio(u)n

Not a facile thing to understand, huh? Anyway, it depends completely ‘pon how one wants to look at things aorund them. Their prerogative wholly and unconditionally. Which is probably the reason why I was able to write a hundred page novel on MS Word because of this song!! And all of this when actually I fell in love with Linkin Park with the release of In The End, Crawling and Pushes Me Away. Of course all the other songs from Hybrid Theory caught my attention in a very uncanny way, such that I played ’em at the highest level even at two in the morning. But something about the way the song Somewhere I Belong, now to be acronymed as S.I.B., was sung, the rap and otherwise, the words and the music, had me searching the depths of my soul for answers, because two days after I heard this song, I started writing the novel and I am proud of the way it has come out to be. Publishing it is the next step but I wrote it for me and for now it shall remain that way.

Right, so, the song. I have never felt this way even about a book, which kind of had everyone close to me perturbed for books are my first love, let alone a person [for reference read my previous post entitled Confabulation of Ideas].

It will be two years, this May, since I began writing the book, and November, since I finished writing the book, but it will be about seven years, to date, since the characters of the book came alive. I haven’t been able to write much since the completion of this novel venture and I haven’t been able to find a song or a person or an idea that would compel me to write. I have found several stimuli to make me work on other things, but to write another novel, like that…Not yet.

And all of this, ladies and gentlemen, was because I was allowed my own free will and I see to have taken a wee bit of advantage, in the right way, of it.

I Will Never Know Myself Until I Do This On My Own.

Inside Of Me, Nothing To Lose

For those who are aware of the chaos floating in to reign the world it might be a good time to run for cover.No. I have not lost it. I am, I admit, a tad bit demented, but am not completely deranged. Besides, my demented-ness comes and goes on temporary basis only, no need to worry. I’m fine.

Global warming. The threat of World War Three. Blah. Blah. And double Blah.

I am no great critic am definitely not into politics. I’m not even so much in to pure sciences either. So why do I care??? Cause no one else wants to care. It’s like everything has been said but nothing’s been done. That is true.

Let’s just face the damn truth, shall we?

Money, no matter how much people try to deny it, places a very important role in out lives. A person who denies this is a fool. Money will make you happy. It might not make you complete, but it will most definitely make you happy. And power is something everybody craves for. Yeah, yeah, go ahead, scoff. Call me a heartless whatever, for all I care. But if you can’t accept this, then you’re not meant to be human. Power goes a long way. And when you have the power, one needs to make sure that it does not get to your head. That’s all. Simple ain’t it? Use it. Just don’t abuse it. Easy for a human to do. Right??

Now. We’re getting close to extinction. At least that’s what I believe. And NO, it does not matter to me if anyone else disagrees with me. Go ahead. It’s always better to live life without the complications that it needs to have. Or at least, pretend the complications don’t exist. I don’t want to be there when the world ends. I don’t want to see the Earth freezing over and I do not want to watch everything we’ve built be washed away to nothing.

I gain or lose nothing by saying all this. Thus I am saying it.

There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth.
From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one.
Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine.
And, dying, it rises above its own agony to out carol the lark and the nightingale.
One superlative song, existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles.
For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain…. Or so says the Legend…
– The Thorn Birds, Colleen McCullough

That’s what I think we’re doing to ourselves. That’s what I believe we’ve always done.
As humans we find pleasure in someone else’s pain. It’s sadistic and it’s pathetic. It’s useless.
Believe it or not, every time we do that, we are becoming, with every passing, unknown soulless entities.

I Was Confused

I think I’m a crazy enough person, without the complications that come with being a girl.
Thing is, everybody is a mystery. No one can figure out anyone else completely. ‘Cause just when you think you’ve someone all figured out, they say something and you realize you know nothing about that person.
It’s happened before, it’s happened now, and it’ll go on happening as long as humans remain to rule this Earth.Of late I’ve been thinking in earnest of the future. Of what it holds for me, of what I am doing right now to make sure that the future is good enough for me. And I still draw a blank as far as ‘life’ is concerned. In the sense, I know I’ve said I’ve recognized and identified my strengths and weaknesses but I still haven’t discovered myself fully – as the person I was supposed to be.

Looking back, at my baby pictures, I am startled to see a plump little baby with a thick matt of curly jet black hair falling in to large dark eyes, with no teeth and no worries, nestled safely and comfortably in her father’s arms. And when I look into the mirror I see the same baby. Confused and still growing. Still wandering within the walls of security put up by my parents. My grandfather and uncle included.

I know I love to write and that I want to do something about it. I know I love to sit in front of the computer for hours together and wonder why, how, where, when, etc. came to be (not on the internet, mind you). I also know that I would never want to stray out of that line wherein I find every possible sense of security. I know how much I ought to trust others and I know that everything isn’t what it seems. And I also know of my ability to judge people accurately, most of the time, in terms of their character and expectations. But that’s it.

I have passed two decades on the planet and I know not from which planet I landed here. I have my own set of philosophies on life and most other things that none but I can understand for want of imagination. I have my craziness to account for every stupid thing I do and I have my brains to account for all the intelligent things I do.

I am not questioning my existence. No sirreee. But I am questioning the reasons for the existence to have happened.

I am still confused.

When This Began

When this began, I was definitely confused.In the eighth grade, for the first time in my life, my English teacher complimented me on my simplistic way of writing. Of dealing with emotions with words. Apparently the explanation I gave in the essay I wrote, entitled “The Worst Day of My Life”, moved her to tears (FYI: – I imagined it was my birthday and I lost my Daddyma, my dad’s mother.)
Yeah sure, before that I’d always received the commendation that my spoken English was very good and the accent I had was also really fine, but not once had anyone said anything about my written word.
I was twelve at the time I received this compliment. It was something big, especially when it’s given in front of the entire class that too in a place where only looking good meant you were clever.
A year later. Exactly a year. Another English teacher, the best ever, in my opinion, asked the class nerd (and topper), “Who is this girl? Sruthi?”
Shocked as the girl was, she pointed me out and it was only a month or so later that I realized why my teacher had asked for me to be identified. She’d seen in my answers (in my Literature paper – it was Shakespeare) and had been impressed by the way I’d expressed the situation in The Merchant of Venice.
THAT is where it really began.
I didn’t know what I was capable of then. All I did was read millions of novels. Science fiction and marvelous mysteries and spy stories. No gruesome murder went unsolved as long I picked up the book. And the other thing I did was write my answers with a personal touch. Emotional touch.
Having received my second word of appreciation, I began writing in earnest. Not poetry or anything out of academics. Just my answers and synopsis of poems and short stories. That’s all.
And it was enough. Because a year later I had penned my first poem. And sometime in between two characters began to evolve within me.
Inspired by works of fiction, some television drama series, and still other works of fiction and cartoons, two characters had been living within me since the seventh grade and I realized this in the ninth grade. I began to write down situations involving these two beings. I put them in situations and made them react in the same way that I might have reacted had I been in the same situation. I even put in real things. Some problems that I faced, for example, at school, etc.
They grew up with me into the confused teenager and eventually the maturing adolescent.

It took a lot of grooming as I kept changing the predicaments I wanted the two of them to face, and in the process I came by a hundred of my own original pieces of poetry, and a few essays on present issues and my opinions on certain debates.

Slowly, in due course, I began to realize the similarities in my expectations from life and people around me and the achievements of my characters. I drew inspirations from the oddest of places and found that I was discovering myself through the words that I wrote.
I realized the power I had within me through these words. I even cried, reading some of them. Why? I don’t know. Or maybe I do.
I am still confused.
But one thing I know for sure. It has begun.