I sit here on the same desk, albeit in a different home, and I realise that this is the fourth February I have sat and written words from this chair, precisely in this manner: a cup of herbal tea, its aroma and steam wafting in and about the room, the lights dim and warm, almost hugging me in the wintry blanket outside the glass door to the balcony, music moving between tracks like a train with no destination. The realisation puts a smile on my face, as it ought to. For better or worse, for the most part, I have written. There have been tribulations and distractions, and there have been several moments when I have felt all this to be moot, but I reckon I tend to return over and over, and I believe that tells me that some part of me must really want to torture myself to spit words on a screen. I have done this in the cold of winter, and I have done this in the vivid colour of spring, and I have done it in most days in between. And with all these pieces, patterns have emerged, as they should.
The most distinct detail in my body of work—if I may have the audacity to call it that—is a lack of proper nouns. No specifics, no names, no detail that may distract from the essence. Earlier, this was an oddity at best, but slowly it evolved to mean more. Now, I believe that to capture a moment, we must strip away all that puts it in the conscious stream of events we experience. Must we know the excruciating detail of someone’s heartbreak to know how they are hurting? Does the sun really glow differently on a Wednesday afternoon? Of course, those of scientific minds would jump and say, “Aha! It does,” and being one so myself to a degree, I agree with their claim. But the essence does not change. That we all fall, often due to gravity but sometimes with a lapse in judgement, remains true no matter who you are; it remains true no matter where you are, and most importantly, it remains true no matter when you are. I believe that is what I wanted to achieve when I realised and reiterated this lack of detail consciously, when I pruned every word that suggested this life that I live could not be your own, the places I visit could not be down the street, and the thoughts I have could not occur to you. I believe I have done that to an extent.
The greatest piece—the one that I aspire to write—is one that has no identity of its own. None of this is mine. I give it away freely. These words belong as much to me as they do to anyone else who reads them. This was never an exercise in vanity.