I’m sick, down with a terrible flu. All that I feel like doing, is to stay curled up in bed and rise only for that intermittent cup of steaming hot coffee. I guess, I’m one of those people who, if faced with the predicament of choosing their last meal, would go with a cup of aromatic South Indian coffee.

But when one writes a blog titled ‘Leaking Ink’, then it seems almost blasphemous to not respond to the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt of ‘Ink’.

I was never a writer.
Let me rephrase. I was a dreamer who never put down her dreams. In school I was often reprimanded for having too vivid an imagination. [As if there can ever be such a thing!] Tone it down my English teacher would comment. Stick to the often trodden path. Do not speak to yourself. It gives the impression that you are cheating.
Suffice to say that slowly but surely the education system nipped the nascent writer in the bud.

But not the dreamer.
On no Sir, I didn’t really care that people on the streets thought me crazy for talking to myself. When you have an entire soap opera playing out in your head, you need voices and gestures. [If only I had grown up in the bluetooth era, I could have easily passed off as someone having an animated conversation on the phone.]

Life played out as life does.
My collection of stories grew. Some I lived, some I witnessed, some I created as an alternate reality to escape to. With time the stories became darker. The happily ever after morphed into So what now and If only. When life threw me lemons, I made exotic mocktails.
All the while I kept my stories safely ensconced in my own head. Drop by drop the reservoir filled up. Critical mass was reached. I tried to build the walls higher. I tried to keep it all in. I really tried.
Until one fine day, my cup runneth over.

And here you have it. The Leaking Ink blog…

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