I have discovered that writing in some respects is quite therapeutic. So is drinking coffee in chilly winters. So is eating french-fries with a liter bottle of pepsi. So is crying with my head in pillow. So is listening to enrique iglesias' song. So is walking along seashore on summer nights. So is reading classics in winter. And so is surprising people by getting up as early as 8 am on a holiday. So is looking myself into the mirror and remembering compliments from people who really matter. And so is coming across reminiscences of past while cleaning cupboard.

Looking at my school, college and university notebooks – use case and activity diagrams, diagrams of frog’s heart and respiratory system, physical balance, which I had drawn thousand times for practice, and some ‘other’ interesting diagrams along with comments drawn to overcome the boredom felt during lectures; plethora of photostat notes – that weren’t touched but the certainty of simply having them had been a major relief during exams; my sketch-books and year-books, colour and paint boxes, sheets of stickers and tattoos, drawing sheets of my sister that were awarded to me as a token of love, hand-made cards ---- reminds me of my significant past. How can I throw them away when they had been a part of me?