i am 25 year old , i still have xerox(photocopy of my first story) which i wrote it on 11th standard on my desk always , recently my friends visited my room early morning after one of my friends sister marriage , i was showing them that sheet , that story was read by many people in the college where i studied 11th and 12th

Thats when i started to write , then i was posting motivation quotes some small stories , etc then when i enter engineering i started journalling my random thoughts in books , even poetries

god knows , where those books have gone , upuntil last year. i dont know what inspired me i use to get this deep psychological thoughts , thats because i read a lot , i mean boatload of things . i started to post quotes , and my views in the name of punyakoti . lot of people who have read that have said me i am good thinker as well writer my own friends cousins sister has appreciated it .

although my writings were confined in the book , but it was hard to see book when ever i wanted a reflection on my thought and it was hard to write in book since i type fast and i am professinal engineer it is easier for me to write online thats why this punyakoti writings born.and this blog also acts as proof of work that i am hyper focused and i can do something for very very long time just to improve myself.

the more i write , more i love my self and how i evolved below is the reason why i write …

I am a writer of everything.

Not just the profound or poetic.
I write like I bleed involuntarily, obsessively.
Sometimes in perfect metaphors.
Sometimes in half sentences that make no sense to anyone but me.

Journals, rants, intrusive thoughts, texts I’ll never send,
angry paragraphs in the notes app,
soft lines written after midnight,
weird thoughts like “What if time is just memory’s shadow?”

it doesn’t matter.

If it itches the mind, I scratch it in words.
If it stabs the soul, I stitch it with sentences.

Some people write to impress.
I write to disarm myself.

Every time I write, I commit a small rebellion
against forgetting,
against silence,
against the version of me that pretends to be “fine.”

I write down the ugly.
I write down the sacred.
I write down the thought that made me flinch while brushing my teeth this morning.

The random ones?
Oh, they’re the most real.

• “What if I’ve already lived this life before, just worse?”
• “Does everyone secretly grieve who they could have been?”
• “I think I miss people I made up in my head.”
• “Why does love feel like waiting?”

My writing isn’t curated.
It’s collected noise, turned into meaning.

Sometimes it’s a whisper.
Sometimes it screams.
Sometimes it’s just a line that says:

“I don’t know what this feeling is, but it’s loud.”

I don’t write to explain.
I write to exhale.

Because if I don’t write it down,
it loops forever
echoing, distorting, turning into anxiety with no name.

So I catch it.
Trap it.
Ink it.
Set it free.

So who am I, when I write?

I am the mad scientist of emotion.
The silent archivist of chaos.
The scribe of beauty, confusion, pain, wonder, and those strange thoughts that hit me in traffic , shower or in most of the cases while talking to my two close friends

I write because some thoughts deserve a grave.
Others deserve wings.

Either way, I give them somewhere to go.