I look around and see the world flow in a rhythm. The next-door neighbour, the milkman, the paan shop vendor, the activist, and the bus driver go about their day in a certain rhythm. They don’t flow where the tide takes them, but they create their own symphony and choose for themselves the life they want to continue.

I look at every other life and think everyone has it sorted. From a small peephole of my life, I watch people be themselves, but I refuse to see them as imperfect souls looking for their missing puzzle pieces. I see them as achievers and doers. But for myself, I am less kind. Why do I say that? Because at times, it feels like I wake up and flow like a cut-off branch from a tree—crashing into rocks—on a river called life. This gets me down big time! Not stressed, just feeling heavy. My mind takes the weight and blocks out happy thoughts. But there are other things that get me down, too, like climate change, absent-minded drivers, stabbers with invisible knives that come in the form of relatives, and the scary rise of AI. However, none is scarier than self-sabotaging thoughts that bring about an immense load of insecurity and stress. How does one cope with what happens on the outside and on the inside?

For the outside, one should look into stoicism. This philosophy tells you how to block out the outside noise and not be bothered when an absent-minded rider yells at you when he is the one in the wrong lane. But for the inside storm, what has worked wonders for me is writing.

Ever since I was in 8th grade, I started writing stories in the Nepali language. I loved creating characters and stories. My imaginative brain finds a home in the words that I write. I used to write for fun, but recently that has changed. Ever since I stepped into my 20s, I realised that when I scribble down my thoughts on a piece of paper, I feel a sense of relief.

When colours are haphazardly thrown on a canvas, it makes no sense. But when an artist gives shape to those colours by moving his brushes on the same canvas and creates a subject of reality—then the observers can make some sense of it. My mind is that canvas where colours are thrown haphazardly—many thoughts, opinions, regrets, and aspirations are stuffed there without any shape, and the observer, which is me in this scenario, has difficulties realising what is going on in that head. I am the observer of my mind. So, to understand myself better, I start projecting my mind’s voice on paper. Then, my thoughts get a perspective. As I start writing, the paper tells me who I am and what I want. As I write, I start to feel light, as if a big invisible weight has melted away.

Normally, I sit down to write when I sense a scarcity of enthusiasm for everyday living. When the fear of the unknown, some old grudge, or hopelessness gets the better of me, that is when I grab a pen. After writing down what I am afraid of or what stresses me out, I question what I can do about the momentary trouble. I start writing down the solutions where I tell myself to toughen up. After that motivating message, I end the journal by writing, ‘It’s me vs me’, ‘You’ve got this, and ‘You’re good, Ghimire.’

Writing has no ending, you only stop momentarily. After I finish, I read from the beginning, and it hits me that I am not a wooden log. Like me, everyone is still figuring out a way to navigate life. After pouring my emotions, I understand that comparison is a thief of joy.

Our minds trick us into believing that we are the centre of the universe. We think we are being constantly observed, judged and looked at. When in reality, everyone has their own baggage and no one has time to wonder why there is a lentil soup stain on your shirt. Also, we are convinced that everyone has it all figured out, and that’s not true either. I realise these things after I am done ranting on the paper.

Writing for me is a healthy coping mechanism because it blocks out self-sabotaging thoughts, makes me aware of myself, and I end up feeling productive. Some go to the gym, some listen to songs, and some rant about life to their family and friends, and that’s okay, too—as long as it is healthy and makes you feel light in return.

A small line from one of my writings goes like this, ‘I love writing. It saves me from meaninglessness. It gives me a reason to keep going. It’s an escape from emptiness.’ For me, writing is not work. It’s just something I do passionately and naturally. Once, I edited my novel for continuously for two hours and got up from my chair feeling fresh and energised. If I had to do something else for two hours straight, you would never hear the end of it.