Why I Stopped Writing (And Why I Started Again)

Winter Thoughts on Return

[A meditation on dormancy and return]

I am resurgent.
I am dormant, asleep, until needed.
Like a Bear in winter’s embrace, I wait, patient and still.
This is not the end; it is only a pause.
Once I was, and soon I will be again.

[Brief interlude of silence]

I am resurgent.
I am dormant, asleep, until I am called upon.
Like a Bear, I hibernate through the winter, drawing strength.
I am not yet departed; I exist, suspended between worlds.
Once I was, and I shall rise again.

Hail to the New Year

Reflections on Winter, Writing, and Resurgence

[Reference to previous poem about hibernation and resurgence]

The statement above is true. This is a small poem that I wrote, to capture in a bottle my essence, my individuality, and my loneliness. Albeit, I don’t hibernate through all of winter. I enjoy the cold months — until they become too cold. For me, that cutoff is somewhere around the mid-30s (Fahrenheit). Below that, it’s just misery: hands numb, feet frozen, and the cold seeping into places you didn’t think it could. It’s the kind of weather that makes you question things you normally wouldn’t.

I stopped writing for a while. Why? Because I felt like it didn’t matter. No one wants to read what you write. No one cares. The world feels like a graveyard sometimes — a place filled with skeletons and mean old Grinches.

There’s no Santa Claus. Jesus? Just a homeless man we toss spare quarters to as we hurry past. Salvation? Redemption? Those are fairy tales. There’s no salvation. No hope for redemption.

My eyes — they’re like black holes. Stare deep into them, and you’ll catch yourself falling. You’ll weep. For the fabric of reality is a thin veneer, a fragile lie, and it’s all carefully fabricated.

Look into my eyes. My eyes capture your soul. I am Shiva, the soul-eater. I am the only hope for your salvation. But at the end of the day, no one’s coming to save us. We’re all alone.

Just now, I was playing Creep by Radiohead. And yesterday, for the first time in over two years, it snowed — just a little, but it did snow. I stood there watching, and something shifted. I don’t know why I’ve been dormant, why I’ve been hibernating. Sometimes, life feels like that snow: rare and fleeting, but quietly, transcendently beautiful.

What do you think when you hear that song, Creep by Radiohead?

The first two verses, start like:

When you were here before
Couldn’t look you in the eye
You’re just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry

You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You’re so fucking special

This resonates me on some deep level. It depicts someone — man or woman, it’s not clear who — who is so gloriously beautiful. Like the raw, raging Sun itself. “I couldn’t look you in the eye”. Couldn’t meet them in the eye, because they were ashamed. Their self-image was shattered. It’s like coming face to face with an angel. “Your skin makes me cry”. The wording of this is rather evocative, and powerful. My interpretation is that it’s the sheer perfection that brings about the sadness. The alabaster, pristine skin, that is implied — is just a metaphor, and what it really stands for and spells out, is the literal perfection that this individual depicts.

Surely, you have seen a person like that? Someone so perfect, so beautiful, that it seems like they have the full force of the Sun behind them, blinding your eyes, and dazzling your senses, scattering your mind to the wind. Then you feel so throughly gutted. Because they seem not of this Earth. They are like an otherworldly entity, an angel with wings flapping in the wind, whose feet touch this world for the first time. Worst of all, you know how you measure up. That is why you cannot meet their eyes. The surreality of it, the sheer impossibility of you two hitting it off. Somewhere within you, the deep, dark truth that has yet to spell itself out to you. There is no hope at all.

The next part is also beautiful imagery. “You float like a feather in a beautiful world.” Like something light, being lifted off by gravity. In a world already so beautiful, anything that floats, is by definition more beautiful than such a world deserves.

“I wish I was special.” This part resonates with me. A lot of times I wish I was different, more special. I daresay we all have our insecurities, each and every one of us. All of us want to be beautiful. Drop dead gorgeous. Loved and respected, in a world that values beauty above all else. “You’re so fucking special” — again, it is clear from the lyrics that this person is obsessed with the person they are talking about, whom they are likening to an Angel. Something so clearly out of their reach. This entity, could be in another universe, for all the difference it would make. There is no bridging the gap between them.

The next verse, goes like:

But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo
What the hell am I doin’ here?
I don’t belong here

This resonates with me more deeply, too.

I recently watched the horror slash thriller movie, Heretic, starring Hugh Grant. Spoiler, it’s actually Suspense, not Horror. In that movie, Hugh Grant dazzles us with spotless acting. It’s like he was born to that role, which he plays so throughly well. It’s captivating, like a showman on a stage. You can’t tear your eyes away. You hang on to his every word, to every gesture, every twitch of facial expression. Because you know that even despite the sinister force behind his words, you know that he believes deeply in every single word and body language that he’s conveying in that movie. It’s more than acting — it’s like he was made to play that role. His true voice and personality slowly emerges like a turtle coming out of its shell — and shocker, shocker, it’s that of an eternal Creep. A Weirdo.

I don’t want to spoil it, but that movie really resonates with me on some deep, meaningful level which I can’t really put my finger on. It’s not the deeply religious overtones and themes of it, not even the deeply spiritual and thought-provoking ending. I watched Heretic twice in the theaters. Once with a friend; we both enjoyed it. I convinced my family and cousin to come with me, and I booked it at my theater in Tyson’s Corner, and we saw it there. I watched it again, I didn’t mind.

One thing I like about Heretic is that religion is treated as something irrelevant, something extraneous, and a “disease” that causes more problems than it solves. Hugh Grant plays the role of Mr. Reed, a character that conveys the representation of an atheist, essentially, or at least one with a strongly anti-religious personality.

There’s a quote from another famous person, and says, “Religion is the Root of all Evil”. In some way, that’s a bullseye, dead accurate. A lot of wars have been started because of clashing Religious ideals and beliefs. The September 11th (9/11) attacks were motivated by religion. If you peer back into history, you can see that so much anger and violence and conflict, has its roots in Religion in some way, shape, or form.

One thing I liked about a movie like Heretic, is that it’s not afraid to explore these kind of dark themes. It goes about it in a tangent, asking the question, “What is the one true religion?” The character, Mr. Reed, is an intellectual who has a lot to say about religion, for any who will hear. He has a lot of strong words, and essentially he takes advantage of the situation, to promote his anti-religion propaganda. As a non-religious individual, I thoroughly enjoyed the discourse and the bulk of the points brought up in the movie. Of course, Mr. Reed does take it a bit far, as it becomes all too apparent, but that does not diminish the force or meaning behind his argument.

Then there is that scene in Heretic, where Mr. Reed plays that song on the record player — Creep by Radiohead. He uses this song as an analogy, that nothing is original. By extension, no one true religion is original. It’s always a copy of something else. It’s like the same thing, in different flesh, an abomination wearing a different skin. But it’s the same entity, the same exact thing. It’s just wearing a mask, but you don’t even notice it’s the selfsame entity, come again. You’ve already been introduced.

So goes these verses in Creep by Radiohead, and I think it’s the forefront of the song, the most powerful part of it by far:

But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo
What the hell am I doin’ here?
I don’t belong here

Oft times I feel like this. Like a creep. A weirdo. And I know that, certainly, the character that Hugh Grant so masterfully portrays, Mr. Reed, can be classified as a grade-A creep, a weirdo. So it’s like these lyrics in the song are rather fitting to the movie itself, to Heretic.

That verse above resonates with me, one some deeper level. A lot of times, I feel like a creep. Not out of choice, mind you. That’s just the way it turned out. It’s not like I was born a creep. I don’t think even Mr. Reed was. It’s more like what the world turns you into, after a while. You slowly transform into a creep. Given the right circumstances. You become a weirdo, in the end. “But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo” — that resonate with me, exactly because I feel it’s so easy for one to become that. The next words, “What the hell am I doin’ here? I don’t belong here” are also spot-on. I interpret it as a sort of an apology of sorts. One who is admittedly a creep, feeling bad that they are a weirdo and a freak, and understand deep down that they don’t fit in the world. Because that’s the definition of a creep, of a weirdo. All this, my sole interpretation of it.

Then the following verses of the song, Creep by Radiohead:

I don’t care if it hurts
I want to have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul

I want you to notice
When I’m not around
You’re so fucking special
I wish I was special

It comes full circle back to the obsession the person talking about this has with the supposed “angel”, their person of interest.

In some ways, it portrays the character in the movie, Mr. Reed, perfectly. He also wants to have control, no matter the cost. No matter the cost, he wants to have a perfect body, a perfect soul. Same can be said for me, and for most others.

I, too, want a perfect body and soul. I believe that it’s something that most everyone yearns or strives for. Perfection. It’s out of our reach, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want it badly. To have control, that really is the end goal.

“I want you to notice when I’m not around.” Again, it comes full circle back to the obsession. About the one-sided infatuation, the unrequited love. Tell me that it doesn’t resonate with you. That you’ve never felt like that about someone. Wanted someone to notice when you’re not around. Even thought it, if not outright wished it. It all comes back to our insecurities as humans, about wanting to be loved, and respected. Everyone wants to be missed. For others to notice when they’re not there. It’s like basically engrained in our DNA, it’s something we can’t turn away from. It’s a part of who we are.

Then the latest verse of that song, Creep:

She’s runnin’ out the door
She’s runnin’ out
She run, run, run, run
Run

So fitting, especially to that movie, Heretic. It seems that there is a lot of running. Some of them (no spoilers here) want to outrun their fates. Run away, run away. Go somewhere safe. Go somewhere warm, and secure, with a hearth and a roaring fire. Somewhere like home. In some ways, that’s evocative of running away from your troubles. Sometimes you need to face them head-on. Sometimes there is no outrunning fate, as the movie clearly spells out.

Yet, for me, these verses in the song drip with some darker, deeper meaning. Seems like everywhere I look, some woman is running from me. Running away. Runnin’ out the door. Like driving away, not glancing back in the rearview mirror. Just keeping on drivin’ on. On and on, on the winds of time. Leaving me behind.

Every woman I’ve ever interacted with, runs from me. And it makes me feel so tired, so weary. I’m tired of that happening. ”She run, run, run, run”  — indeed, that’s all too accurate. I know exactly how that feels.

In short, the song Creep by Radiohead — and, by extension, the movie Heretic, which I’ve already seen twice in theaters — resonates deeply with me. More than once, I catch myself thinking: I must be a creep, a weirdo. I certainly don’t belong here.

But it’s not a choice, is it? Becoming a creep, a weirdo — it’s something the passage of time shapes us into. Maybe it happens slowly, imperceptibly, but sooner or later, we all find ourselves there. We all become creeps. We all become weirdos.

—

Sometimes it snows here, and I wish it would snow more. A lot more. The Winter months are bleak, but they don’t bother me much. My life has been bleaker, in some respects. In some strange way, the season mirrors my soul more perfectly than any other. The cold, though harsh, demands respect — for what it represents, for what it portends. I hope I’m conveying that clearly.

Today’s the 4th of January of the new year already, 2025. It feels weird to say that.

Me and New Year’s Resolutions don’t really go well together.

On December 31st, I was feeling pretty down. Supposed to watch the countdown with family. The clock ticking down to New Years, or whatever have you.

Instead, something irked me. Just the weight of that year. The numbers, they all blurred together for me. Wait, it was already 2025? Can’t believe I made it this far.

So instead, I was driving on New Years, tears blurring my eyes. Perhaps metaphorically, but in a sense I was feeling down. At 11:50 pm, ten minutes before the new year, I was already on the road. It was pitch dark, there was a formidable line of traffic lights, and there were almost no other cars around. It was like a ghost town. Just me and one or two other cars, in opposing lines and sides of the road. On my lane, it was just me. Population One.

I felt a sort of muted, silent countdown in my mind. In the sense, I didn’t really care either way. I saw the clock, it was 11:59, then 12:00 am, then it was 12:02. I didn’t bat an eye. It didn’t register with me. I was still driving back.

At that point I went to a bar nearby. Don’t need to say where, I know it deep in me. It’s burned inside my mind, because memory is mine forever. Anyway, it was a quaint bar, where karaoke was playing. Someone was singing Creep by Radiohead. Then two girls singing some new song I hadn’t heard before, Pink Pony Club — I thought that was nice. The selection of songs was rather spot-on. I was able to relax, just listen. I didn’t have anything to drink, not even water. In hindsight, I should’ve had water.

Most of the bars closed at or before 2 AM, but I was walking around on the streets well after then. It was occasionally lit, but parts of it were darkened, and there was a pretty strong smell at some point, which I think was someone smoking weed. Either that or someone had a bit too much to drink, and threw up. Don’t really want to think about it.

Anyway. So I was on the road when New Years dropped. To usher in 2025, I decided to drive. Without a drop of alcohol in my veins. I hope to never drink and drive, that’s not cool. But in spirits, I was a bit dejected. Sure, a whole slew might not have lived long enough to see the year 2025. I suppose I should count myself lucky that I was able to see the beginning, the advent, of the year 2025. It came faster than I could expect, especially as I was driving on the local roads at the time that the new year dropped.

And yet, I am grateful, and thankful, to witness the year 2025.

Even though, a large part of me, questions if this world is really tangible, even real. I don’t know what reality really is. I side with those who believe that we are living in a simulation. Part of me thinks it should be easy enough to snap out of it, to wake up.

It’s like the Matrix. Neo works in a cubicle in some office building, and never questions the truth of life. He takes the red pill, and his eyes are shot awake. His world is blown wide open.

It feels like that would be ideal case. We’d all take the Red Pill, and we’d wake up from this simulation. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

But sadly, it’s not that easy. Even despite suspecting life is a simulation, we still have to live it out. We have to suffer through it.

Suffer through the year 2025.

Not that I really cared to see it, but I got to see it either way. Driving on local streets, the greens and yellows of the traffic lights blurring into red, red, and ever red. Red of the rear bumper lights of cars. So many traffic lights, so much red everywhere — why is there so much red? Then the lights of the oncoming cars, a bright yellow that shocks you wide awake. Anyway, it was pretty dark and late, and very quiet. Quieter than usual. Abnormal quiet. Very few traffic. Only morons, no-lifers, and those rushing to their family or to get back home, would willingly choose to drive on New Year’s Eve night.

Yet, that’s how it happened. 2025 dropped, and I was behind the wheel. Feeling down. Then I went to a bar as I mentioned, where they had karaoke going on — but I didn’t join in, as I didn’t been there in a long time, and anyway I had no idea of what song to sing. Nor did I have any drinks. Not a drop of alcohol touched my lips. I just drank it all in. Anyway, that was a near-perfect way to spend a New Years, in my books. Simulation or not, 2025 is the number to know. That’s where we are now. That’s the when of the simulation. 2025, that’s what my clock says.

Anyway, before I wrap this up, I’d be remiss if I didn’t make a half-hearted attempt to summarize things neatly. As I mentioned, I stopped writing because I didn’t believe anyone really cared. No one pays me a dollar bill for every hundred words I write, and it’s not my job. My time felt better spent elsewhere. Honestly, I just got bored with it and convinced myself it didn’t matter.

But then I realized something: even if I’m the only one reading this, writing still has value. It’s not about who reads it or what they think. Writing is a way to untangle your thoughts, to let your emotions, insecurities, and frustrations out into the open. To air out your emotions and feelings and hatred and hurt. In the end, writing really is a personal thing. It’s personal. If you write, you’re doing it to stop your head from imploding, your brain from getting liquified, or turning to mush.

Sometimes, you just need to write — not for anyone else, but for yourself. To unload the insane, inane thoughts that no one wants to hear you say out loud. Writing and penning them down, is better than bottling it all up inside, where it could explode and leave a mess — like that Cybertruck incident outside Trump Tower. A touchy subject, sure, but you get the point. You don’t want to be the guy who makes headlines for all the wrong reasons.

And neither do I. So here I am, picking up the craft again. Not for fame or recognition, but because writing keeps me grounded. It’s a small act of sanity in an otherwise chaotic world.

Lastly, I’d like to close with a small poem I wrote. It’s about myself — clearly — but when you think about it, it’s broad and universal enough to apply to anyone. I like to think it’s a poem about individuality, about being a special snowflake. Maybe I am a special snowflake.

If you like, you can even apply it to yourself.

But for me, this poem is just about me.

Anyway, here it is:

I am resurgent.
I am dormant, asleep, until needed.
Like a Bear in winter’s embrace, I wait, patient and still.
This is not the end; it is only a pause.
Once I was, and soon I will be again.

[Brief interlude of silence]

I am resurgent.
I am dormant, asleep, until I am called upon.
Like a Bear, I hibernate through the winter, drawing strength.
I am not yet departed; I exist, suspended between worlds.
Once I was, and I shall rise again.