I’ve been thinking where some of these posts should go. I’ve been writing, just not publishing anything much. Some part of me is afraid of how I would be seen and understood. Another part just wants to say something because I can. I might just keep writing things and I’ll see where I end up in the whole landscape of the interwebs after everything is over.
I had chanced upon this video talking about how Franz Kafka wrote so much, and no one ever saw the work he had done when he was alive. The people around him weren’t impressed with what he had done, and told him to just stick to what he was already doing then – insurance. So he did, and he burnt his work. But after his death, a friend had picked up his work, and published it. That’s really crazy, because Kafka’s thoughts are so bizzare and strange, and the world would have not understood absurdity in the way he had placed it. I can’t imagine not having read Kafka as a younger person.
So because of that, I felt the need to keep on writing. Maybe not for anyone else but myself. And that’s okay. Maybe someone reads it, maybe no one reads it. It’s still okay. If I’m dead and famous, it won’t get to my head, because I’ll be dead already. And if I’m not famous, it wouldn’t bring me down, because I’ll be dead already too.
Parenting life has made me think harder and harder about what I want to emphasize my time and efforts on. Funny enough, it’s actually getting easier to sleep because baby sleeps better now. But instead, I’m sleeping less because I’m staying up thinking about things, watching shows or playing games. It doesn’t make sense, how the modern day really just moves you in some strange unknown way. I wonder if I could ever put my finger on it. I would love to, because I’m so annoyed that I have so much trouble putting my phone down to stop watching reels.
But life goes on, and I can’t write as much as I’d like to, it’s just one step at a time. But I want to, and I should, so I should really start again.
Starting with this post at least.

