It is very easy to write about not being able to write. I feel my loss has been the ability to experience. I have denied myself of indulgence. Staying careful was never on my agenda; the way it is now. My independence, my freedom of thought was my indulgence. I was free to dream, take risks, travel far-off and return; for I always knew, there is someone waiting for me at home. Now, I am out of my shell. I stay outside, work like mostly people do, managing my own expenses and staying alone (read staying careful).
I wonder what an impact this small word 'alone' can have. It gifts you vanity of independence from outside but eats you from inside. To the world you are the one encouraging change, attending big meetings, trying to revolutionize bla bla mundane stuff. But at home, it feels like the world has a bigger picture. There is history behind each conversation. At home, you are part of the struggle, you are the myth and the change agent, you are the pages and the ink, you are the reason of someone's effort and persistence and you are their wealth and their priceless possession.
Life is better now, or was so during my childhood is a wrong question. However, the answer is common; This too shall pass. :)