Garden

I love this space, and would tend to it just as I would tend to a garden. Sometimes exceedingly carefully and sometimes a little slipshod, but I'll always be back to browse through it's contents.

I like reading my own writing, however childish, immature or awkward. It's in a very distinct style of writing that resonates with my mind, and it just feels right. Many other authors are great and their words are so beautiful but they just don't sound the same. The better ones are fluid, the ones that are worse sound a tad dissonant. When I read my own writing, whatever the content, I can relate to it. The lines of words open up, and I can remember every single nuance of the situation I was trying to capture in the post. However limited my vocabulary or awkward my grammar, it's just a language that I can understand. Even so when it was just an unassuming description of an inanimate object.

And hence the reason for the sporadic and relatively dotted datings of my posts. Ever since I've stopped blogging just for the sake of blogging, the content has grown much richer and I like plying apart entries that were made several years back. They definitely make me cringe at my immaturity (as sure as I will cringe at this post some time into the future), but I guess this is all part of what was meant to be. Grow up, lose some. For better and for worse.

Every single post has a meaning. Choosing to leave out an introduction, to leave the entry hanging, or to structure one impeccably, they all mean something and I remember what. Each post crafted with an intention, and every flaw was as pointedly planted as every other ornamental red herring. Even when unconsciously done. But it was, and looking back, I know what, why, and how.