writing
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Reflections on awareness, connection, and the strange tenderness of being alive. Quite honestly, I would feel better writing as if I were talking to a very small group of people who actually want to change their lives, or people who are more aware of themselves than others. This almost feels like a diary to myself.
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The slippers are still by the bed. The walker is still at the foot of it, waiting for a hand that won’t touch it again. Everything is exactly as she left it the night before. A few weeks ago, my grandmother, my last living grandparent, passed away in her sleep, peacefully. It was both expected
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After 10 years and 198,000 miles, I handed over the keys to my 2015 Dodge Charger. To most people, it’s just a car. A hunk of metal, glass, and flammable fluids. And they’re right. But like anything in this world, it’s the meaning behind it. The stories. I bought it in March 2015, at the
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I’ve always felt like I listened to people way too much, but I never fully realized how much until I finally stopped. Not everyone—just most people. Why? Because most people don’t have what I want, so why would I continue taking advice from them? Sounds harsh, I know. But think about it. Over the years,
Sumit's Inkwell 