I want to write about the things I think about all the time. The things that have lodged themselves in the folds, which I imagine my brain to have or so I glean from illustrations. I want to write about the things that I don’t want to think about. The things that somewhat overwhelm me with the amount of mental prowess I estimate they’d require. Those that I so conveniently tuck away and conveniently forget, albeit momentarily, as I proceed with honing my urbanite zombie, mobile phone-obsessed, social media-thirsty self. There are times when I catch myself realising, as I sit in the office at midday, how cloudy my thoughts seem to be. How much more effort is needed now to enter the “flow” state. How rare it is nowadays to get an “aha” moment. This isn’t new. The problem is, it’s become more recurring. A no-fail cure that has saved me from this malaise time and again was to write. It could be a swift hack at the keyboard at midnight (I can only really think when it’s quiet or when I have classical music blasting at my eardrums) or a long drawn affair where I stroke, caress, look back at every word, every sentence. Oh my, look at the time. And so now, I write. My fingers type; downloading the steady stream of words in my mind. No self-editing for this one. Not now. No self-censorship. I just put down the words, the words that are thoughts, the thoughts that are things, the things that I think about and those that I don’t.