You look into the rear-view mirror.
Everything “bad” about a place gets left behind.
Or does it?

We often tend to forget that there’s one niggly little thing we can’t ever escape:
The memory of “who” we were when we left.

No matter how angry you are when you leave for good, creating that nuclear-sized shockwave will always haunt you.
Years after the fact it can still make you cringe when you see that picture of yourself: Ranting and raving.
No matter how justified your actions were, you’re going to remember your “worst self” when you least expect it.

Whenever I leave somewhere for good, I amicably greet everyone.
It’s tough to do.
Yeah, it’s very tough.
The first instincts are to “tell it to them like it is!”

Recently I drove past a place where I used to work.
But the place had been demolished.
A whole new bigger and better office park got built in that space.
At that moment, all that remained of that job was me.
The boardroom where we had so many fights was gone.
Many of the people who fought with me weren’t even around anymore.
That’s when you realize how very few things matter, after the fact.
Except for your memories. They will always matter to you.
You don’t need to carry the garbage of days gone by inside your head.
When you worked there, you also lived there.
For a while, that’s where you existed.
There were great times as well.
Remembering the better version of “who” you were back then is ultimately going to be an act of kindness to yourself.

To life and memories,

Whatever I write is my heartbeat.
When you read and comment, I can hear yours.
You’re still here.
In this world.
And so am I!

Deliciously transient…

Living in the moment bleeds with conflated and bittersweet emotions.
While enjoying the falling leaves and sunlight on your skin, you become aware of the seconds relentlessly shaved off your life.
Reality packaged within gentle acquiescence.

To these deliciously transient moments,

Whatever I write is my heartbeat.
When you read and comment, I can hear yours.
You’re still here.
In this world.
And so am I!

Ink is a pulse…

There’s no escaping the aftermath of a global sense of despair.
Above it, all life goes on.
It’s a layer of thin veneer.
Once I was told that “all veneer is thin.”
But I like saying, “a thin layer of veneer can make many things appear smooth.”
Scratch it, and the reality it attempted to conceal shines through.
I still notice shops and malls that have since become empty shells.
Only a few scattered bits of shop-fitting tell a tale of retail and life.
On the home front, I still have the contact details of those who passed recently. Safely stored inside my phone.
I have a few scars of battles I fought these last two years.
Some of the scars are visible. There were two non-viral hospital visits that testify to life’s unpredictability.
One was in the OR, and another in the ER. But those scars healed.
The things I often suppress on the inside are problematic. There are still a lot I haven’t fully processed.
My experiences aren’t unique, but I won’t dilute them either.

So here’s what I figured…
After long deliberation, I decided to stop reflecting on “the facts” that are now in the past, and consider appreciating my pulse.
I’m still alive.
I can still draw and write.
Ink is a pulse. It is mine.
I’ll write about what I like. What interests me.
I’ll create documents to remind myself I’m still here.
Some might be nothing more than a line.
Even if it’s not much, it will be enough. It has to be!
In the process, I hope I can also inspire you to appreciate that you’re still here.
But let’s see if we can do this every day. Or at least as long as we can.
Let me hear your heartbeat.

To life,