Writing about writing is one of my favourite exercises. There are days when the mind feels as light as a feather and on other days, as heavy as an anchor. Writing feels like making a small hole in the mind’s reservoir of untapped emotions. The only things that travel faster than light are thoughts. They are like chaotic jazz music, and you can’t tell which note is playing. It goes something like this:

Boarding school and an orthodox Christian Family-Who am I thinking of? -I can’t recall as the bees in my head are buzzing loudly tonight-Bees-what fascinating creatures and industrious too-Must be because they are ruled by a queen-It's so funny trying to capture conversations with the self-will it be classified as a monologue or dialogue-reminds me of Virginia Woolf- Wolfmother is a cool band-I got my brother some cool band t-shirts this puja, hope he likes them-clickety clack sound that the mechanical keyboard makes as I type-hypersensitivity to sound-love it

These thoughts were born and dead within the fraction of a second. If I tried to express it in speech, you’d be like "What the hell are you talking about?" There is no way of catching them except by writing. People talk to themselves all the time. It’s a normal passive activity. If those thoughts were randomly stringed together without context, meaning is lost, and chaos prevails. We yearn for meaning. Sometimes I think to myself "I am really exhausted. Can I sleep in your brain, tonight?" And a writer always says "Yes."