I’ve been 21 for a little over an hour now. The twentieth day of May lies generally in the heart of Indian Summer, the kind of summer that is capable of taking life away.

I’ve been writing for years now, and I’ve had many sources of inspiration. My misfortune has been that most of the time, that source of inspiration comes not from within me or my world. It comes from the world’s perception of me. I must write better. I must impress others. I must be the best (or at least among the best). There was a point of time once, I think, when I would write because I wanted to write to please myself. Now I write to show others… when did things change?

I’ve been pondering about my writing, and my writing reflects on myself. Have I ever lived or done things to please myself rather than please others? When did I stop? Why? … who am I? Myself, or an amalgamation of the ideas others have of me?

Far away, I hear thunder. The nineteenth day of May, 2008 has been extremely hot. But the night rebels. The night rebels in tune with the rebellion rising in my heart. I have to find myself. The wind picks up speed, coming in cold and heavy from the open window diagonally across me. It brings the sound of thunder… in the heart of summer, it brings the smell of rain.