I was going through a forgotten huge bundle of old books and notebooks today. My favorite text books, old diaries, cuttings of newspaper articles, frayed notes.. I have been dragging few cartons of such stuff since my high-school years. They are really old and some of them are even of no relevance anymore, yet there is some part of me in all those.. its hard to let them go now.

The junk also had few old writings of mine. My fascination with words and literature started early. As a kid I always enjoyed writing and reading. It was good to receive honest appreciation, but the pleasure of watching my words on a piece of paper making some sense, portraying a thought, used to be the real motivation.

I used to write under the pen name Mundane. The name itself was derived from one of my diary entries.. “..its wonderful to see those mundane yet powerful thoughts on paper..”. Dickens was my childhood God. I still love his works, but back in those days he was all I wanted to be. His art of articulating long statements, which made perfect sense, used to amaze me. He had little affinity for full-stops. Though I couldn’t get the hack of it, I never stopped trying imitating his style.

Unnecessarily long sentences, lost comprehension, few grammatical mistakes, but over all an innocent attepmt to voice my opinion. I felt really good going thorugh all those “Mundane” writings. I’ll be publishing some of those here under the category Mundane.