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Thought of how everything ties together or doesn’t. But life goes on. Every moment complete, in and of itself, no matter what comes before or after. That’s what I want to believe.
Every moment. So much of what we do is ordinary. Mundane. How much of ourselves have we given in trying to be more, to live apart from what anchors us to this world, to be seen, really seen?
There’s creative process for you. Cross out a line and you don’t have a blank page.Bandaids are never enough to heal. There’s always a wound underneath. I’m thinking of how this is a kind of insecurity by itself. To speak without talking, writing without form.
Everything feels safe in your head: the more muddled it is in the real world, the more you have for yourself. I want to believe I want nothing for myself. That’s not true. I don’t think it ever was.