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With what remains of the last settling in to do at home, I chanced upon 2 very tiny cartons that were lying untouched in the boot of our car. They were mine, I knew, for they had my name written on them. The letters and the purple ink that made up my name were those of a previous move, not of this recent one. Which means to say that the boxes had just remained as they were the last time I packed them in October 2007. Light and not so difficult to carry up a few flights of stairs, I left them in the 'to be sorted' section last evening, waiting for a more opportune moment to explore their contents inside.

Inside them I found my old text books from my undergrad, 4 notebooks - one filled with history notes from PUC, 2 filled with lyrics of songs we used to sing in school and the other a part of the many notebooks from my notebook collection, a zip-lock bag filled with pictures and trivia of Sachin Tendulkar I'd collected over the years, a play script, and my internship reports. Something that would otherwise take me not more than 5 minutes to clear/segregate and organize had me engrossed and occupied for the next one hour and counting. Of course the physical labour aspect of sorting the contents has been done with. It's the afterthoughts that remained while I cleaned up, showered and landed here.

I am a collector. And I'm a collector of things that make sense and give meaning to me. As I looked through my notes I realized how much had changed over the years. I came across a textbook that felt like Latin to me - something on marketing and communication and market segregation and so on. I came across psychology projects I'd taken the trouble to perfect. And health psychology notes, test papers, my MCC graduation oath, a cheesy ad I'd made it class for a popcorn company and lots of doodles. I was taken back to my English Lit. classes as I skimmed through my textbooks recollecting moments of such awe and inspiration while we read and reveled in the masters of English Lit. - Donne, Keats, Shelley, Burns, Wordsworth - lost in our own worlds. Those classes were periods of such joy, learning, expression and curiosity. I miss good reading. I miss poetry. I miss making meaning of things. I really do. And right at the bottom of the pile were my notebooks and one in particular stood out - the one which was a part of my notebook collection. Filled in its brown pages were sparse but meaningful pieces of my writing. Writing that was normal yet so filled with expression, emotion and depth. Writing that spoke about every day things but didn't feel like a rant. And that's when it hit me how time has changed. Or rather, how I have changed over time.

I love writing. It comes naturally. It makes sense to me and gives me a sense of such identity and release. It makes me feel known and understood. It gives me meaning to my self. It makes me feel heard to my own self. I used to blog even then but I realize that I never wrote for others. Today I do. And that's not the kind of writing I look forward to. While I like penning down events and goings on about my life, I realize I could do with more and better. And I certainly hope I get into that zone again - where I can write for my self, my satisfaction and my happiness. Blogging used to be a forum where I could showcase and share my writing and thoughts with other writers, not keep them posted about the nitty gritties of my life. I really want to be in that mode again. I need a shift in perspective very soon or I know for a fact that I'll lose my self in life's inanities and mundane-ness. And maybe that's my answer to the writer's block I'm in the midst of currently - because I'm not inspired enough and because maybe, just maybe, I've lost meaning of important things.

And it's making me think and ponder. Strange how 2 very tiny boxes made me linger over something I thought I'd sealed in their contents long ago to stash away untouched.

- 15/08/11