Between the dirty room and the messy computer desk, the uneaten rice and the big, empty bottle of water, the bank account no. on paper, and the hard rock song on play, the bills, the expenses, the debts, the work, the cancelled work, the jobhunt, the sleepless days and nights, the endless chats and video calls, the baby wails, the taunts, the family grumpings and the million plans and endeavors, there's Rachel, there's me. And you know what's so queer about this? Is that all the time, I acted okay. It's not really just an act and I don't know what to exactly call it right now or if I want to think about what to call it right now, but all I want is just to go back to one part of myself that I have missed, and it's this, my blogging. I seriously never blogged for a million light years and I don't know if there's a part of me who maybe wants to write something useful for people to see and react on, but the realization just now that, hey, this is my blog, I'm supposed to be who I am here, won over all those thoughts. Now, I will just write until I feel that it's enough. And then write some more. Maybe one day, I will look back at these posts and say hey, this was me, look at how I've changed. Honestly, I want that. But for now, for one of these quite seldom moments, I will allow myself to succumb to my fears and sadness and I will write about just being human. My name's Rachel. And I'm 24. I now live in a world where I am supposed to work for my own and for an adorable, little, pumpkin pie. I sleep less, I work hard, and I dream harder. I try to reach the world through the seamless power of the web. I touch everything with the ideas of my mind. And yet I feel powerless. That, to me, is a sin. And now, I will day to day dance with the wind as I travel the relentless but palpable beauty of the earth. I will not stop, or most likely, my spirit will not stop, until it reaches its personal utopia. This is my ego. And in a world where people get easily mixed up with what's surreal and what's necessary, I, with this blog, create THE ALTERNATIVE PERFECTION.
