Picking up a pen. And opening my notebook to a fresh page. I keep writing.
Remembering times I’ve jotted down thoughts in Southeast Asia’s tropical humidity. Hands sticking to the paper. Ink smudging along the way.
Or cities on the subcontinent where I’ve huddled in a blanket. At my desk. On mornings when tile floors and no heat mean cold seeps into the bones.
Regardless, I keep writing.
