Last year of college was not as busy as the previous one before that, though I still never truly rested. Looking back, I was struggling with a complicated task at hand which was at first very new but slowly as college finished, sort of became a part of every life decision I ever had to make. The task of knowing what to decide and how to decide. Former years of college allow you to make choices and have minimal consequence of those choices – picked a wrong internship? don’t turn it into a career. Not getting along with roommates? change rooms. Not good enough grades? pick an easier curriculum. As time progressed and you move closer to the finish line, these choices lose their malleability. Your decisions are stickier, take longer and are harder to change. It only gets worse the longer you live. I was grappling with anxieties attached to the decisions leading to these realities as I was living in the ones made before. To escape, I locked myself in my hostel room and picked the first book that popped in my recommendation list at the time. For a moment, letting go of any decision making in the picking a book to read turned out well. So well in fact that I ended up making a blog to write about it, the one I am writing right now.
It wasn’t a great review, if it was a review at all. I just described the book, how much I liked it and published. No editing, no proofreading just dumped my thoughts and went ahead with it. For about 4 years, I made it a routine. One of every 4-5 books I read ended up with a post. It was never properly thought out, rarely written well and contrasting to my overthinking and overanalysing mind I made a pact to never reread what I wrote unless I wanted to go back to see what I read a year ago. It’s been a hidden cave where I have been free from all critiques, even my own. I carried on well for 5 years and then slowly started losing out on the routine. It became performative to some extent and I stopped altogether, going back to reading in solitude not sharing the reading list and ultimately distancing myself with the writing process.
When I came back to read this blog myself, I found a weird sense of detachment and embarrassment. The posts I remembered as honest read as thin. The inner critic had woken up – reading the post one by one and realising that the naive write-ups rarely had an original thought of my own. Nothing ever evolved. Sticking to the true nature of my being, I plunged into the despair and replayed every reason of why I ever thought it was a good idea or even how I dared to put this out in the world. How audaciously I branded books less worthy of reading or a waste of time when I am plagued with insufficiencies beyond my own knowing. I have been scared to put my own thoughts out there in an anonymous place and have dared to critique the ones out in open. Every post I did publish had already been through a private trial: if I make it too personal and it ends up somewhere I don’t want it to — better not post it. All of this while, I have overthought, hidden and feared of god knows what. And while a part of truth is that there wasn’t really much more to offer, the efforts were still half cooked.
All of the ideas and reasons feel short of a proper excuse for the inadequacies reflected so far. They exist in other aspects of life as well and while they don’t play out in isolation, there needs to be pause to pivot your thoughts and ways of living. Last two years, life moved rapidly with which I am still catching up. A lot of good books collected and never touched, sometimes due to lack of time sometimes due to other anxieties. Some good books read and forgotten. Other than a need based job, there are only a few hobbies and pursuits that I have kept for so long, free from any expectation.
I am not making any void promises of being better and doing better, but only attempting it for myself. If nothing else, this will be my museum of broken things to visit and rest at before moving on to the next reality resulted from another anxious decision.

























