Megha Kajale

    Editor-in-Chief, Kathaa

    SY Bsc

    “Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die

    I don’t belong, and my beloved neither do you”

    -Taylor Swift, The Lakes

      Oh how I wish I was linguistically lavish enough to write such poetic lines! To be a Todd Anderson (seriously, look it up if you don’t get this) and compose a poem on the spot; to be Enid Blyton, and create characters for entire generations to grow up with; to be Dan Brown and have the ability to forge an ambience of thrill with no visual stimulation but just a composition of words on paper… But alas! I have yet to harness that prowess. Here I am, writing about my own overwhelming bland feelings. Who ever read that, am I right? 

      Serendipity. That is how a seven year old me came to be enamoured by the wonderful words of Roald Dahl. It was gloriumptious. It was wondercrump and it was swashboggling (open up the Roald Dahl dictionary my friend, my vocabulary is much more advanced than yours). And thus, began my love for reading. Writing, however, was a tiring climb up the hill and I greatly preferred the comfort of my bed to it. But (un)fortunately, my love for reading gifted me superior language skills than the rest of my peers. I dazzled everyone with my brilliance and opportunities to write were presented to me time and time again.{Note to the reader- The scenarios by the author might be over-exaggerated. The author has a slight tendency to embellish stories to seem interesting and funny (The cost of not going to therapy y’all). Please read the piece with a pinch of salt, at your own risk. Thanks okay byeee!}Okay that’s maybe not how it happened. It was after the constant badgering from my mother that I finally started writing for the school magazine. I wrote because I could, as an obligation rather than genuine desire.
      There comes a time in your life (look at me pretending to be wise) when you lose your sense of self. Whatever shell of a personality you had, falls apart and among the shattered pieces you lay, vulnerable enough to be attacked by your own intrusive thoughts. Writing became the safe haven where I lay my emotions bare and slowly, personal journals turned into poetic musings. Scribbled notes of overwhelming emotions became well constructed sentences. Words that flowed from the heart were tailored by the mind.  
      It was at this point that the opportunity for 8:10 presented itself. I had to join the newsletter. It was the perfect place to experiment with my newfound fascination with writing. Well researched articles became a norm and I found my intellectual curiosity piqued; I needed to understand the world better. From period poverty to Fleabag and from sports commentary to poems, writing became a drug. I was desperate to tell a story, to entrance and enthral with my words, for aren’t we all just stories anyway? I also became quite the risk taker if I do say so myself.  I liked to push the boundaries of my procrastination and challenged myself to write an impeccable and researched article in the shortest amount of time. Here’s to calling myself an adventurer from now on.
      *Insert an inspirational quote of your choice here*
      Writing was never a lifelong dream of mine. I wrote because I had to. It was the next natural step after the proud declaration of my love for reading. But love seemed to bloom, unhurried and calm. And on cold winter nights, instead of finding solace by perusing the words of a much loved author, I found peace in mine…..
      (Nailed it! Phew)

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