I haven’t been able to write with feeling for long. My writings feel like stick figures without a soul of their own. Enacted pieces, cut and pasted from somewhere. This is not entirely me, I miss that part of me who could evoke emotions in a reader, compel him to stand and stare and think. Reflect. I rarely reflect on events myself these days. I rarely dwell on incidents. My mind is either numb, or overworked or asleep or on a low attention span. I have mastered ignoring, moving on and letting go, procrastinating, filling my time with chores or random Instagram reels, that I rarely make time to stand and stare. Once upon a book, I reminisce childhood days, mortality, the fast paced life, dwindling friendships and then move on to the next book. Books are my only yearly goals now, it seems, meant to fill in my social media posts, and my timelines. I just jot some sentences and post an update in my bookish Instagram account, not bothering to do a full fledged review in my blog. Where’s th
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