Writers Jam

1:55pm I am going back to the university again. Yes. Again. Like a character in a sitcom who said “this is my last season” but somehow got renewed. The building still stands like a tired witness, stairs remembering the weight of my hesitation, walls holding old echoes of who I was and who I pretended to be. The campus will still smell like dust, chai and unresolved emotional arcs. The gates will look at me like - 'oh, her again" And I will nod back politely as if we are old enemies pretending to be friends. What is new? New trauma, obviously. Trauma arrives like a complimentary welcome kit - free of cost, non-refundable, wrapped in syllabus PDFs and unread emails. ( Before attendance, before coffee, before motivation) It sits beside me in class and borrows my pen. But also new friends. Or at least people shaped like hope. I will smile cautiously like a cat touching water for the first time praying the warmth stays and the claws never come out. I will trust again not because I am naive but because I am brave enough to risk betrayal for laughter. Potential friends. Potential villains. Potential people I will overshare with by the second week and regret by the third. I will pray silently please let them be normal or at least kind. This year, I will publish a book. Again. Because I can. Because free will exists and mine refuses to sit quietly and allergic to silence. (Because words pile up inside me like unpaid bills of the soul). My thoughts refuse to die quietly they want covers, ISBN numbers and dramatic acknowledgements. I will be consistent in writing, in exercising, in pretending I know what I’m doing, in saying “kal se pakka” and sometimes actually meaning it. My body will wake up sore, my brain will wake up confused, and my soul will whisper at least we tried. New beginnings make people happy, they say. I don’t know what I’m feeling it’s like excitement and anxiety went on a coffee date and forgot to invite peace. (something like standing on a railway platform with a ticket in hand and no certainty which direction salvation lies ) Also, the new semester timetable is bad. Not “manageable” bad. Not “we’ll adjust” bad. It is “who hurt you?” bad. Criminally bad. Even the clock seems offended. I will participate in more competitions. Poetry, yes but also volleyball. I miss the version of me who trusted her legs more than her fears, who jumped without calculating how hard the fall would be. I want my spark back, the one that once lived in my calves and my reckless jumps, before fear taught me how to sit still. Today is 4th January 2026 I leave on the 10th. Time is packing my bags faster than I can. My friends will wait even the late ones, even the ones who say “on the way” while still at home ( the ones who arrive after the moment has already happened ) There will be new food. New obsessions. New dishes I will love dramatically and then abandon forever. Good food makes us happy but hostel food makes us stronger. (Emotionally. Spiritually. Unfortunately.) This year, I will try. And try again. Even if I fail because falling is just flying with bad timing. Because who cares if I fall? Gravity is familiar. But what if I fly? What if my procrastination is not laziness but incubation? What if my procrastination is just my brain buffering? I’ll disappear for a while, let people wonder if I’m okay while I quietly become better. I will do things against my heart like letting people go without begging them to choose me. I will do things for my health like eating on time, drinking water and pretending I enjoy salads ( I actually do) But after all I am human. I will cry over small things, laugh at wrong moments and forget why I entered the room. I will not let the world make me cruel. I will stay kind to strangers, to friends and on brave days to myself. I will not forget I am a poet. I bleed my heart just to give you A+ blood universal donor of feelings, rarely receiving rest. I will spread love. I will make more of it. I will stop blaming myself for the sharp edges of others. Their unkindness will become my syllabus on what not to repeat. I will go on a trip. I will make content. I will romanticize buses, train windows and the quiet courage of choosing myself. I will romanticize ordinary days, auto rides, late nights and the quiet courage of choosing myself. New beginnings, they say. I say this is not a beginning. This is a glow-up with anxiety, hope, and a heart that still believes despite everything. I am going back. With snacks. With dreams. With boundaries. And with the audacity to try again.