I’ve been writing for years. I remember journalling from my teens. When I reinvented my career, I supplemented my personal writings with commercial assignments, most of which I have enjoyed. I’ve written narratives, aborted novels, ads, scripts, plays, short stories, poetry, social and political commentary, history, animations, digital books, prayers, all sorts of genres. I do it because I love to write.

I often go back to my past writings. More often than not, I cringe when I read what I had written. Sometimes because my thoughts were immature and sometimes because of basic language and syntax errors I had made.

Sometimes I cringe when I read what I had written because my perspectives have changed so much as I matured that what I felt strongly about, no longer matters to me. Other things have taken greater importance.

Some five to six years ago, I wrote a series of very (very) short stories called “Micro-fiction”. These are stories that are usually less than 200 words. I wrote these to convey a message in an extremely succinct manner. I had intended to compile a series of these, get them illustration and published.

I wrote a piece called The Masquerade Party which I revisited last night. This is one of the rare pieces that I still like very much reading it years after it was written. I edited slightly though, because I didn’t like some of the syntax and spotted an error.

So, here is The Masquerade Party, revisited 2013:

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Danny really, really, really wanted to go to that masquerade party. It wasn’t fair, he thought to himself, that mommy and daddy get to dress up in costumes and go out all night playing. Why do they get to play and not sleep until late? This was just not fair. Going to costume parties should be for kids, he thought to himself as he grumbled inside while playing with Ruth, the babysitter.

Finally, Danny grew up.

One day, he put on his mask and went to that masquerade party.

The mask never came off.

The party never ended.