Fledgling turns 3!

I still remember that night. I was about to finish my first draft, my very first post. That second of exhilaration when I pressed 'publish' – a beautiful moment I enjoyed alone in the liquid silence of midnight.

Three years have flown by since that night. That first day still feels like yesterday. I am so thankful for the numerous opportunities that have been thrown my way, which helped me grow as a writer and hone my skill.

Thank you Fledgling for nurturing my naive self. Fledgling was my origin, the birthplace of my thoughts. Over time, Fledgling became a witness of my growing, refining writing and gave me space to grow and correct myself. Every post has been a milestone for me, and it's been overwhelming, to see how far we have come.

The passion writing ignited in me has kept me going for three years, through patches of self-doubt and frustration. Sometimes, dry spells made me question why I was on this journey and if it truly was worth the effort. Yet, every time, that voice within refused to mellow and rung clear throughout, and gave me strength.

If not for your unwavering support, dear readers, I probably wouldn't have reached this milestone. Thank you so much again.

To many more years ahead!

Comments

My Quiet Hours Doodling

(Doodle by author) Those strokes hold some power over my soul. Every stroke of black ink on the paper carries my flow of zen. I feel my zen flowing through the bold lines of ink, as it seeps into the thin paper and leaves an imprint on the next page, like a faint footprint of time on a page left unwritten, a sliver of the blank pages of the future. I feel my throbbing anger, roaming curiosity and emotion trapped within drain from my veins and flow out like ink. It calms the raging storm within, liberates the compressed frustration, when emotion and doubt cloud my sight, when I cannot quite find answers to questions within. I let it take form. I let my mind and soul wander on paper, and they imprint traces of great wars fought in turmoil. I let the strokes clash into one another; some overshadow others, some lie far apart. Yet, the raw self cannot bear rules. I let the imperfections rule the paper, and that is what makes me raw, real and human. In the end, the wild strokes embrace and I...

Reminiscing

(Photo by Nong Vang on Unsplash ) It was a still, quiet night. The air seemed untouched by the maddening chaos in my mind. I glanced at the night sky, and spotted a star glimmering in the distance. The unusually gripping sight brushed me back to a fragment of my past, a chapter sealed long before. A whiff of my past my naive self still lived in. A life I had long left. I used to enjoy observing the tiny flickers of light, while my heart filled with hope for tomorrow. They looked like little flames whose glowing tips waltzed in the gentle evening wind. Those quiet, fulfilling moments spent squinting at tiny specks of light, while savouring the crisp air with traces of floral detergent from the clothesline, were one of a kind. Something no productivity chart would ever be able to explain. It was something I was not yet accustomed to; living a new life with new people, making new memories. Those little joys and fears that would excite my younger self. It's moments like these, moments...

A Letter to Thatha

The little specks of pearl in the sky Glowing and fuming, With the vapours of our memories. In my swollen, glistening eyes, I saw the flare of your pyre in the stars, Like a spangle caught in my tears, The light of our love stretches its arms. I never knew a pain greater, When my fingertips caressed your cold, grey folds of skin I never knew I could feel so broken inside, With scalding memories and a heart wanting justice. With last words untold, goodbyes unsaid. I never thought the day would come, When I came home to your warm smile and open arms, But would instead be greeted by your empty chair. I never thought I would shudder and hide at your sight, Until you lay in the icy coffin like a child, Oblivious to our cries and wails. I never knew I would so badly yearn, To hear you call me one more time. I watched you become a child again. I never minded your faltering memory, Your greying eyes that often stared out in the open, I was content, With your pupils carrying a ...

fledgling

Search This Blog