A friend once remarked that I am someone who has a blog but isn't comfortable being tagged as a blogger.

I agree with her on that.

Being a graduate student currently taking up Methods of Research, I've learned that the first step in supporting my claim is to dig up the dictionary definition of the word blogger, pick concepts and constructs within the definition and establish a framework demonstrating that I am, indeed, NOT a blogger.

BUT...

Being a graduate student taking up Methods of Research has got nothing to do with this. Plus, the definition of a blogger is a person who updates a weblog. Meaning, my theory of me not being a blogger may easily be proven as invalid.

The point is...

I am not a blogger for the simple and downright honest reason that I don't feel like one. I shy away from the word 'writer', too, so please don't call me that upfront unless you want me to blush. What I believe I have here are stories.

There are days I feel like I've stumbled upon a treasure in the form of a book. Read through it, lived through it and the next sensible step is share it. That is my story.

Once in a while, in the middle of what could have been a terrible month, I wake up to a perfect day. From sunrise to sundown, everything goes according to plan. I feel beautiful, strong and, more importantly, I feel like I can get things done. I have the option to snap a picture and post it somewhere for all the world wide web to see, as a remembrance. But that is not how I wish to relive this day in the future. So I write about it. That is my story.

There are Birthdays and Christmases, New Years and Valentine's days across many years. Despite traditions and familiarity, there would always be something that would make this year's celebration different from all the others. That is my story.

There are days I feel beaten to the core, my fingertips too tired and heavy I couldn't convince myself to count the blessings, instead. Days when you know you've lost. There is hope, yes, but hope rests in the arms of tomorrow. Today I let them win. That is a sad story. But it's a story, still.

There are mornings I wake up to when all I can care about is myself. Some days I notice the strangers; I notice the children roaming beside the highway obviously without a parent to watch over them. Suddenly I take notice of others' struggles. I realize how difficult difficult can get for other people. I stop for a moment. Think. Pray. Feel. That is my story.

And then there are days that look ordinary, went by ordinarily- from the outside. But I know the troubles I keep inside, like a raging river a day after the storm.  The questions that fill the empty moments, the worries, the ugly things invisible to the naked eye but fatal to the core. Those days don't look pretty, don't end happy, but those are my stories.

I do not simply blog here. I do not simply write the words. I tell you a story. In Haruki Murakami's words:

“Which is why I am writing (this book). To think. To understand. It just happens to be the way I'm made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them.”

All of us have stories and we share them in whatever way fits us. I chose written words. You may say I could have kept a diary, instead. Believe me, that was the easier choice back then. Putting my stories out there is a brave step on my part. This space you are staring at, the words you read here, these are all part of who I am. This is a basket full of vulnerability, genuineness, hopes and dreams, and I am handing it to you.

I do not write about fashion or trends or restaurants or whatever the next big thing will be; I write stories. And from the bottom of my heart, I thank you for taking the time to get to know me through this. Handing you my stories and us talking about them are two different things, so if you are my friend, please pretend you've never come across this page. I am not that brave, yet.

One day, maybe.