Inside these pink walls, I find what I had lost many years back, belief. She is the villain. I needed a website and its prosaic words to gain confidence in myself. Is it true that I am a writer or I can do creative works or that I can influence people?

People influence me and I am terribly afraid of what image I give them. I am terrified of people and their judgement, even though my ego would like to be pampered into believing I have passed that stage and is unafraid of people and their opinions.

Just keep on going. Just keep on writing, no matter what. I tell to my mind, I am free. That freedom for which a lot of blood was shed, even by my vagina.

I still like the ink pen and paper. The tapping of the key strokes and the aching palm! Half-way into looking at the position of the alphabets, I lose thread of my thoughts.

Writing is painful for me. It is like cracking open a half-healed wound. It is like lifting a weight off my chest. It is like swaying in the rhythm of my soul. Smiling at the possibility that I am finally human and not a machine. I love myself more. I am me.

Broken. Tired. Bound and yet not so.