Now that I have written about my fears, I believe this letter is more about me than you. You might be asleep right now, leaving aside the frustrations of the day, distancing yourself temporarily from the disharmony in your present and anxiety about your future. You might be dreaming of love and peace, or nightmares, marred with indifference from your beloved and obsession from your stalker? Or are those dreams of hope? Of changing the world with your words and being with the one whom you love.

#BalconyLetters No. 38 I haven't written to you for quite some time. I haven't seen early mornings for as long too. The videos of Open Mic are still languishing. I have to edit and release them. I will be doing that today. Once I wake up. I have not slept the last night. Spent it in watching two movies back to back. Badlapur and Shahid. Not the best way to spend time as a start-up entrepreneur. To my excuse, I was a little zonked out. I have been writing prosaic poems about you of late. My editor says most of my poems aren't poems. They are striking prose, forcefully broken down into a poem. I agree with her feedback. Poems don't knock my door. I'm a fiction writer at heart. Meter isn't my forte. I think in plots and ideas than in words and phrases. Strands of words rarely come to me. My language sings but often goes off rhythm. It doesn't follow the metronome. This is one reason I'd never taken becoming a musician seriously. I have grown up fiddling with instruments, playing more than 12 of them. But the intricacies of half-beats always escape my mind. I remember jamming with my friends in high school and every time I had to pick a note in between two falling beats, I'd miss. It infuriated me. The problem bogged me at college too, where I was the filler of my hostel band, playing whichever instruments that we didn't have an ace player of. From a pianist in the first semester to a rhythm guitarist in the second to a bassist in the third to a sound checker in the fourth when the fachchas took over and I had no other choice other than becoming a closet musician, erasing my musical past. I moved to writing in the fourth semester, estranging myself from the music scene altogether. I was safe in my cocooned space of writing, where I felt less judged. Less judged by myself than others. Writing has a great way of deluding you into being good when you know nothing. It deluded me as being awesome for the first three years of my writing life until I figured I was shit. Thankfully, it was quite late to give up as I had already advanced a bit on my writing and publishing journey. Leaving then for being not good enough would have wasted my three years of slogging with words and plots, with stories and novels, with features and travelogues, with witty one-liners and shitty poems. I slogged further on for the next seven years. Now that I have written about my fears, I believe this letter is more about me than you. You might be asleep right now, leaving aside the frustrations of the day, distancing yourself temporarily from the disharmony in your present and anxiety about your future. You might be dreaming of love and peace, or nightmares, marred with indifference from your beloved and obsession from your stalker? Or are those dreams of hope? Of changing the world with your words and being with the one whom you love. Last night you'd messaged me: "Finish your tasks sooner and come here." My reply to it was: "Watch the video I sent". A half-cooked saltless gravy. Right now, with my tasks pending and 7 wasted hours in a fruitless pursuit of entertainment being nowhere close to where you were, I wish to whitewash my earlier reply. Could you edit the former tasteless one to one with an aftertaste: "I'm here, watching you sleep." I might have just learnt some poetry by watching you.

14 MAR AT 7:25