Morjim wasn’t just a destination; it was an uncharted territory within me, waiting to be discovered. The air smelled of salt, smoke, and unfiltered ambition—a heady cocktail that hit harder than any drink.
The sands of Morjim were littered with stories, some whispered by the waves, others scrawled in cigarette butts and half-finished sketches. I walked into the hostels—half ruin, half shrine—where artists gathered like moths to a flame too beautiful to resist and too dangerous to survive.
We weren’t strangers for long; names dissolved into the ether as ideas ignited over cheap beers and heady debates.
I bled my ideas on the paper like a man attempting to outrun his own shadow while listening to music that sounded like raw confessions. It wasn't always a pleasure. Truth rarely is.
However, in the middle of the chaos, I realised that creation and destruction are identical twins caught in a never-ending rhythm.
A filmmaker with a thousand doubts, I left Goa with fewer answers and more questions—the kind that keep you alive.
Spiritually, I learned detachment.
Artistically, I learned surrender.
Pernem district of North Goa didn’t give me clarity, but it gave me courage. Sometimes, that’s more than enough.