Why should I write about me when nobody cares? I'm just another Indian guy from a small town, questioning the purpose of sharing thoughts that seemingly no one reads.
English wasn't my native language and I struggled with writing until college. I credit friends, particularly female friends, with helping me develop emotional awareness and language skills. At some point I discovered the concept of alexithymia -- difficulty recognizing emotions -- which felt like it applied to my own experience.
I acknowledge my limitations: statistically insignificant, emotionally immature, and underdeveloped as a writer. Yet I continue writing because I exist. This writing isn't about teaching, resolving issues, or gaining validation. It's an act of refusing to disappear quietly.
The paradox is that despite my doubts, meaningful connections have emerged from this blog. People have reached out. Conversations have started. Not because the writing was polished or the ideas were original, but because something in it was honest enough to land.
People may not care about perfect polish, and neither do I anymore. Existence itself justifies the act of writing. Not because it earns attention or proves anything, but because the alternative -- staying silent while thoughts accumulate with nowhere to go -- is worse than the vulnerability of putting them somewhere public.
So I write. Not for an audience. Not for validation. Just because I'm here and these thoughts are here and the act of making them visible is the closest thing I have to proof that I was paying attention to my own life while it was happening.