A post-it story





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Availability, dating, love, etc.

There’s a line in Sally Rooney’s Conversations with Friends where, towards the very end of the book, one character says to another: “You know, I still have that impulse to be available to you.” This line struck me when I first read it, because it seemed to describe simply what love is: an impulse, a desire to always be available for a person. Now, when I first read the book, I hadn’t really dated, but later, when it happened, I saw how this simple need to always be available to someone wasn’t love. Not necessarily. Not always. It was sometimes a sure-fire way of hating yourself and perhaps even hurting others. I don’t like dating; I’ve vowed to never date. And the reason is this sense of availability, this sense of giving it my all. I haven’t particularly liked any of the, let’s see, two people I can say I dated, even though it’s a stretch, really. But in both instances, there was no real attraction to the person. They were available and bored. I was available and bored. Quite roma
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Alone time

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Nation Free editorial Alone time is a few minutes or even hours all for yourself. It can be spent at home, at a bookstore or library or even in an unknown city. There are no rules or regulations or rituals regarding alone time. Sometimes you just feel you need to be alone and you find a place you feel the most isolated from others. A need for some alone time arises in most of us. It starts like a mild breeze on a hot day and can end like a tidal wave that hits you with great force. This need, when not addressed, could turn into anxiety or depression. Pic by Sakuna Gamage However, many assume needing alone time is a sign of mental weakness; that it is only the troubled who need time away from other people, or in most cases, those familiar faces. This is far from the truth. We can’t continue to spend night and day with the same people and at some point or the other, we need to get out. If you feel like a trapped animal in your own home or school or workplace, plan a vacation wh
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Learning to Let Go

Kumara is only a name in my memories. I think he was dark, and not that tall. I think he wore shorts, but I can’t be sure. What I do remember about him is related to bikes. Since my brother was the leader of the pack, even though the pack had three girls and only one boy, we were mostly tomboys. We never had Barbies and tea sets to play with. Among our various treasures were our bikes. Since the pack of cousins was nearly all the same age, we went through the same phases together. The most excited phase for me was the bike phase. Each of us had a cycle and we loved racing each other around the heart shaped lawn in my uncle’s garden. We never spent too much time with the training wheels, and had our knees scraped too many times. I still remember the time I fell off, my bike landing on me. The sun was setting, and my body was covered in sweat. I knew my knee was bleeding and dreaded the moment the adults would clean the wound. When my uncle and aunt rushed to me, I told
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