As I am seated at my modest study table, near my bedroom window that opens to a well-kept garden, I struggle to get a grip over my thoughts that are starting to choke me. Peace is a tricky thing to seek out for. Because, the silence that entails a blanket of calmness could be the most chaotic experience ever.

To a human with endless thoughts and conversations continuously being taped and played over in their mind, the deafening silence of a placid setting is bound to grapple them with suffocation. The early morning sunshine that spills onto me in all its glory through the same window that I was talking about or the warm embrace of a loved one have sometimes become chambers of torture that has pushed me into voids of nothingness.

I am trying to elegantly bleed my words onto the screen in front of me. Yet, something clots the ability to bring my thoughts to life. Maybe it’s a missing piece of the heart that I deliberately choose to wear on my sleeve. Or a yearning that tries to burst into an outcry. Or perhaps, a feeling of being weighed down by your own thoughts.

But what is it about writing, that liberates a young woman? It seems like the remnants of past and the fear to not mess up in the future come to cease and make solidarity in a peaceful manner, when my piled-up notebooks that I hoard are finally inked.

Talking about writing, I am in love with the idea of annotating a book and gifting it to a loved one. Yet, I have never done it. I wonder what might be the reason. Might it be the fear of disgracing a perfect piece of literature with my literary junk? Or might it be the fear of being vulnerable to someone? Whatever the reason is, I am still in search of that book, that is waiting for my side notes to be etched all over it.

I hope it’s a book of poetry.

Here's a song for you: