During the last month and a half, I stared at the blank page quite often. I would type in few phrases or a sentence. Then I would delete them all, shut my laptop screen and walk away, quickly. I was scared of the alphabets crawling out in between the closed laptop screen and keyboard, like cockroaches, spreading in every thought and feeling I called unprocessed.

Those words I tried uttering were selfishly wrong. The one challenge and promise I made to myself on creamy thoughts and spoonful of calm was to keep my integrity in writing. No disguises or pretensions, but honesty and openness. Vulnerability over cliches. Forgiveness before hatred. But I couldn’t. I was drained to stay curious to slant my umbrella and peak out at the sky that mysteriously evolved with colors of gray and darker gray and black. All beauty seemed overwhelmingly incomprehensible without curiosity prescribed on my glasses. Shame, I wanted to learn how to shove that word alone into a box and hide it away underneath someone else’s Christmas tree. But it is Christmas Eve today. Here I am again in this switched over time zone, sitting by the dangling Christmas lights, waiting. So here — in much anticipation, a small piece of reverence dwells in me about the unknown, on top of my questions and unlived satisfactions. I look up at the blinking christmas lights. Blink. And blink again. Once more. And then again. And again. I guess this is what hope does.