Photo: Abigail Keenan

Writing truly is magical. It’s the closest thing to clairvoyance that humans will ever get to. Like how else would you describe me sharing my thoughts with you without uttering a single word?

I could take you to the scorching streets of Pune, to the biting cold of Mount Furano, all within the boundaries of a sentence.

I could take you to my room window, which is usually dark when I finally reach the point of my day when I can write—and that’s either before the break of dawn, or after everyone’s gone to sleep.

Or I could show you my dream window, tacked on a cosy little shack built somewhere in the countryside. The weather would be cold, the skies gloomy, and it’d be so sparsely populated that I would be able to scream and not have my neighbours hear me.

We could go on an adventure together, you and I. We’d climb Mount Kilamanjaro, dodge LA traffic, and have tea under a teepee after learning the art of horseback riding—all in one afternoon.

But today isn’t one of those days.

Instead, today I’ll take you through my hour-long commute in traffic, where I clock into the office, and sell my time for some cash to burn.

It’s not that bad, the stable life. I get to pay for things, pad up my retirement fund, and own an insurance plan. My family has a heart history, so I best start putting money into my hospital fund for the inevitable.

I’ll take you through another two hours of traffic coming home, where I settle my chores before I pound away on the keyboard, staring at the darkness outside my room window.

I haven’t even factored in the challenges of marriage, having children, and supporting a family of my own. I don’t even know where to begin, and how I’d actually go around doing adult things.

In so many ways, I’m still a child—I don’t have anything to my name, can’t really take care of myself, and am a pretty low-achiever for a 35-year old—and the world has been magical to me thus far.

But as I brave my delayed transition into adulthood, I’ve started to grow jaded towards the novelties of life, with barely any sparkle left to look forward to.

So instead of writing a story about an underdog overcoming the odds and fighting his way to success, I’ve decided that I’d write a piece that reflects how my life is going: uneventful and uncertain.

Writing is a miracle, and it is a tool I can use to share so many things with you; but if only I could show you the apathy I have for everything, then that’d truly be magical.