As happy as I was with my new life, I did understand the troubles brewing softly under the carpets of cosy comfort. Like how we often notice someone looking at us, even if we can’t see them directly, I sensed a peeking, too. I could not be too sure what the future entailed, but I knew it wouldn’t be just sunlit skies and shining days. All of us are bound to run into the shadows now and then. It’s how we make sense of the light. As I sat on my desk that night with these thoughts, I stared at the blank, digital page. I alternated between looking at the off-white wall, reflecting the lamp’s yellow, and the screen. In an instant, I could feel it: the fear all artists had felt before.
The sureshot doubt, the certain uncertainty, the question without an answer: what is it all for? Like a soft whisper, a hand on my shoulder, the warning crept up to me: this was going to be a long and lonely road. It was a faint echo in my mind, almost as if it came from someplace else, some unfamiliar corner I had never visited. Completely engulfed, practically lost in that moment, I was truly alone—without friends, without family, without anyone; me, sitting with my palms on a keyboard, stuck in time. For a second or two, I could see through the years. They had all gone ahead, in different directions. I was still there, facing the page. It was the first time I understood the toll. I understood I may have a very lonely life in more than one way.
It was the only time I ever found myself in the presence of the greats, those I looked up to, those who came before, and something in me told me I had it. I had what they had. If nothing else, I was stubborn. I had the nerve to think I belonged with them. I had the tenacity to try and the drive to stick to it. And I had so much, oh, so much to say. All that was left was to write it down, one word at a time.