When is it the good time to start anything? Is this ‘anything’ good enough to start with? Am I good enough to even get started? What if I failed? What if I embarrassed myself by whatever it is that I am intending to attempt? And a million more reservations that never let me cross the ‘starting line’. Until today.

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I have been having an inclination to fill this white space for more than a year now, but for some muddling reasons my plan stayed adrift. For starter, I wasn’t quite sure if I had it in me to do it. I analyzed myself and found that I absolutely sucked. I couldn’t dare to even type, let alone completing a whole draft. My self-check revealed that my grammar was ill, my vocabulary was scanty and my expressions were fusty. I thought if I wrote with those tools and, God forbid, anybody read it, I can be sued for torturing. I worked on my grammar which I know is still sinister, I made efforts to get my vocab through the roof, couldn’t, and tried to give styles to my expressions. NONE OF WHICH WORKED. The more I tried to get better the worse I became. After long, I realized my fear for not writing is not my possession of imperfect tools but is, in fact, my unconscious procrastination. I perceived that perfection isn’t learnt but achieved, I came to know that perfection is a destination so long far, where you’ve to get to by imperfect road and through imperfect means of transport. I made myself believe that this world is full of genius masters, and it is okay to SUCK. As moving as those discoveries were, they didn’t help me move an inch. I was still in the same lazy, agitated and frightened state.

Now, what was up? Why could I not write? There must be something, there OUGHT to be something. In my pursuit to savvy what’s keeping me from writing, I sat down to think what it is that I am so eagerly trying to write. It wasn’t going to help me bag the Nobel Prize or the Oscar. It wasn’t going to help us time-travel. It wasn’t going to bring people from the dead. It wasn’t going to solve the Global Warming. It wasn’t going to cure cancer. It wasn’t going to detect future crimes. It wasn’t going to make this world a better place. And to my disinterest, it wasn’t even going to help me make a few bucks. Then why, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, was it so much important for me to write? I had to know.

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I skipped meals and ran purposelessly. I went to my hostel’s rooftop and gazed at the moon for hours. Old-school? I Know. I went to an uncrowded seashore and saw the sun surrendering itself to the sea. I went to a park and saw people playing. I went to a cinema and saw people watching the movie. I went to a restaurant (yes, alone) and saw people dining. I went to a wedding and saw two people getting married. I went to a hospital and saw patients being treated. I went to a concert and saw people dancing. I went to a mall and saw people shopping. I went to a mosque and saw people praying. I went to a funeral and saw people crying. I went to all kinds of places and saw all sorts of stuff. Every experience was different, every feel was unique and every sensation was quirky. I found the moon friendless, the sun escort-less but the people accompanied.

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They, sun and moon, were lonesome for a reason. This solitary made them consistent. We wouldn’t, even in our unconscious states, predict the sun to not show up to work any day. Neither a sick leave nor does he get a summer vacation. Though if it did, we wouldn’t have any summers to vacate ourselves in. Same goes for the moon, it never misses to show up either. Even when it’s low on its battery, it shows up. Their loneliness results in consistency, and their consistency results in predictability. We always know they’re gonna come no matter what. PREDICTABLE.

The case with people is not only different but is way more bemusing. They are anything but predictable. They are like an advanced version of Haiti’s weather, always erratic. Their abrupt changes in moods are more lethal than Ricin. America can’t stand Russia. India can’t stand Pakistan. Ronaldo can’t stand Messi. Pepsi can’t stand Coke. White can’t stand black. Wife can’t stand husband. Hate can’t stand love. War can’t stand peace. I can’t stand you and you can’t stand me.

Yet, we all live on an unpredictable planet with as much chaos outside as inside us. We live with mixed feelings and biased approaches with which we love, hate, laugh, cry, save, kill, live and die, all on the same day. I have strong conviction that what we all miss, more than anything, is sitting a little part of our day alone, with our own self, disconnected from the world, away from the people, without cameras and hashtags, all to ourselves to enjoy the temporary luxury of being unbound.

It is better to be alone on your own rather than eventually ending up alone by those who are just as frustrated as you are. Giving yourself richness of being alone and rebooting yourself once a day help you become a better public person, a better intellectual and a way better human being. Be a moon, or sun for that matter, once a day and be it daily, even on Sundays because there isn’t a Sunday for them as well.

May be this is what I wanted to write, for all so long, because this space is my solitary and will always remain. It helps me swim in myself and rediscover what has long been dumped and stored in. It helps me uproot every ounce of burning lava, suppressed feelings, unmade wishes and unsaid things from within. It helps me take dirt, anger, anxiety, hatred and jealousy off of me. It helps me live another day. It helps me love. It helps me breathe. It helps me be at peace.

It helps me say, “It is okay”.