Why did I bother beginning to write again? I asked myself this last week, and my simple answer was that it is necessary. It is necessary, perhaps, more than food, for as per my estimate, I only had about fifteen hundred calories to eat today, and that is far fewer than what is deemed necessary by a large margin. It is, therefore, more necessary for me to write than many other things. Spilling these words here, in a jiffy sometimes, and spanning hours on others, is what brings me back to being a person. My putting words down makes me somewhat tolerable to others around me, and I often think—for instance, when caught in the middle of an argument about taxes with a friend I have not talked to in a while, enough to doubt my usage of the word ‘friend’ and think whether I should have used ‘acquaintance’ instead—whether my words and how I carried my position would have been softened if I had written for the day by then. Naturally, I don’t have any answer to this, for we only live through every moment once. But I write so I do not think over it later. I write so I can vomit all of this out, this catharsis of chaos spat onto a page, so it is somewhat easier for me to be in a room with others, so it is somewhat easier for me to enquire about a stranger’s day, and not for the formality of small talk but to know genuinely how they fared. I believe it is all there is to it. Why did I bother beginning to write again? To not become a bother; that is all.