Rock You Like a Hurricane.

You’ll notice that there is a huge chunk missing in the timeline of my blogs, a lapse of around four years. Four years is a considerable amount of time. A lot can happen in four years.

And a lot did.

The earth got warmer, idiots took over world superpowers, atrocities against minorities continued, the #metoo movement empowered women across the globe, horribly destructive wildfires held our attention for over a few minutes, online memes an trolls became a staple diet for many, and a new virus managed to do something I would never have believed possible: it made oil prices drop below zero.

Some things remained constant, though.

There are still those who believe that the earth is flat, hair keeps falling out at an outrageous pace, sunrises are beautiful, majorities still manage to elect idiots into positions of power, I sleep through most sunrises, elders in my society do not care for women who haven’t managed to land a man right after graduation and make at least one baby in the next two years, and my wisdom teeth threaten to surface but inevitably give up the fight to tear up my gums within a week or less.

I’d like to think I’ve changed over these years. I like to believe that my hotheadedness has cooled down considerably, I pray that my thoughts carry more maturity, and I hope that I’ve evolved as a person. But I still enjoy blowing bubbles into my drinks.

It’s not that I stopped writing; in fact, I defied all familial expectations and social norms by locking up my civil engineering degree in a safe-box and setting out to conquer the world with a pen, or rather, a tiny Asus notebook with a broken keyboard. It’s just that while I was hot in the pursuit of making a profession out of my writing without a degree to substantiate my skill, I stopped writing for myself.

As I poured thousands of words into corporate blogs, creative posters, technical papers, private policies, legal contracts, website pages and architectural books, I forgot the joy I got from putting my simple thoughts down on paper. I missed the control I had over my well-being by being able to reduce my complex emotions into binary digits that could be erased in seconds. I missed the magic of spinning stories for myself, of allowing myself the luxury of writing simply because I want to, not to cater to a client’s needs.

So here I am. Rock you like a hurricane.

Kidding, I’m barely a whisper in a storm. But, here I am anyway. Ready to pick up where I left off.


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