When the Fox Finally Visits My Mind...

It has been a long time since I touched my blog. For weeks, I was waiting for that one spark a small flame that would make me write again. But like the poet in The Thought Fox, I sat still, staring into the dark forest of my thoughts, hoping that some invisible creature of inspiration would step out. It didn’t. The page stayed empty, and my pen looked back at me with silent disappointment.

Many things happened in the meantime  trips, conversations, dramas, and more dramas (life seems to have a subscription to those). People came, people left, messages popped up, and emotions played hide and seek. Yet, strangely, my pen refused to move. It was as if my words were on strike, demanding better stories, better moods, or maybe a better version of me.

And now, here I am, writing again not because something grand happened, but because nothing particularly did. Maybe that’s the beauty of it. The present moment, with all its noise and stillness, suddenly feels enough. I realized that the spark I was waiting for was not outside but quietly sitting inside, sipping tea, waiting for me to notice.

So, I write. Not to impress or confess, but to exist. To tell myself that I am still here, wandering between thought and ink. Life is funny that way it makes a drama out of everything, and I, the ever confused playwright, keep rewriting the same scene. Maybe that’s what writing really is catching that sly fox of thought before it disappears again into the forest of the mind.

At least today, it paused long enough for me to say, “Hello again.”

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