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How weird, how odd.

I was first inspired by my sister to write. Not that she encouraged me; I instead stumbled upon her ‘secret’ book of poems that I too, being the youngest and always wanting to do what my sister was doing, decided to do the same.

My emotions were laid down in verses. My imagination in short stories. When it came to choose a degree course, I took up American Lit (to which my parents asked me how exactly do I think I can earn a living with that) as my first major, Asian Studies being the second. 

I love words. I love how they affect me. 

However, lately, they’ve become too severe for me. Do you get that? I’ve become reluctant to read the books that used to inspire me. I have instead, now, taken to meaningless chick lits, the happily-ever-afters. The Chuck Palahniuks, the Bret Easton Ellises, the Isabel Allendes, the Anuradha Roys, and the likes. The written documentations of human trafficking, of indigenous abuse – I cannot take anymore. They leave me depressed for days.

So yes, the former lover of written words. I have embraced Bridget Jones, your Princess Diaries, your no-brainer works. 

Because otherwise, I do not know how to accept humanity as it is, currently.

If you could, choose ignorance. 

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