People, stop writing about how blogging is great, how good people are to you, just how much you love writing… STOP! STOP! STOP!

We know you care for the word. All of us do. And that’s why we’re here. That’s why YOU are here. But why, in the name of all that’s good, harp on it? Write something meaningful. That has more substance than matter repeated a zillion times. Trying hard to impress? Seriously, I couldn’t care less.

So I ain’t in a good mood. Not my usual self. And yes, you may have gathered that by now. So go ahead. Ask me why?

To begin with, I met with an accident the start of this week. Oil spill that had my bike go skidding down the bridge. My bike was in a rather bad shape than I. That same day, my best friend too met with an accident. Bloody coincidence! Lucky, we are still alive. Who’s trying to screw things up? Who’s attempting to hurt me or my loved ones? Here I am. Bruised and hurting, I’m roaming around like a starving lion, ready to devour anyone, anything. Care to cross me?

Mom called to say I should be careful. I’m not to be trusted with speed, she adds. I wasn’t exactly trying to die, I snap back. Time’s not good for me. Like a vampire thirsty for my blood, something’s been chasing me. Cloaked, invisible and right after my life. How do I escape from someone I can’t even see? I feel insecure; an atmosphere of dread follows me.

I work with fury, the copy I scribble stares back at me. Why so paranoid, they ask? When a colleague tries to strike a conversation, I find it hard to answer in an even tone. I’m afraid my voice will strip me off and lay bare my insecurities, making me a piece of mockery. So I don’t reply at all. To hell with them!

Missing the goody-goody me? Bet you are. No flowery talks, no swooning poems. The skin of pride is shed; left behind raw and bare. Where do I begin? Where do I stop?

Asha Seth