Reference to context

This is the year I build. My sense of self. Thoughts on me and the baggage I can do without. The baggage that I can convert into not-being-baggage before somebody or everybody gets hurt. This is the year I tell myself that I can write. About governance and accountability. Grasp and link, like she in college said I could do so well. Unpack words that I could string together for my next step to what-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up.

Driven by relationships I learn to preserve. The people I think of often. She who is my guide to me. She sat with chai and laughed as I told her how terribly I f***** up. It was deja vu. We both knew it. This is not the first time we mirrored each other. I made her bite her tongue. Thrice. He who taught me to love the idea of superheroes. Who introduced me to a bookshop and played Coldplay on repeat, as we taught ourselves together to love our city. She never fails to look good in front of the camera. Who knows my moods and taught me to colour coordinate. We have our song in 817. And Sangria. And only he, my spirited bundle of all things bright and beautiful, who simplifies my life. Because, God knows, I complicate it.

Of course, there are those who I want to write to everyday. She, my smile-inducing solace away from London, now in London. He who I know about only through facebook. He who is my favourite cow. And she who I think about in passing when I think about me at 5, at 10, at 12, at 18 and at 24.

I need to convert the drafts on gmail into emails. Talk about how I love the drive home alone with my radio. My sometimes-love-sometimes-not for my new curls. I now like Timeout Delhi as much as I did London. How I liked Kabul disco. How my confidence in my ability to write (professionally) is at an all time low. How I am terrible at self-motivation and hence should not do a PhD. How I think Jakob Dylan is goodlooking. How I really want NYC to be my next London.

This is the year I figure focus and depth and patience and order.