When I first started travel blogging in 2010, I wrote like my life depended on it. I was still working at a desk job back then and when the clock struck 5, I knew my real work day had just begun. I would sit for hours at a café, typing feverishly on a borrowed laptop. I ignored the staff's questioning looks or the noisy crowds and even that cup that had long grown cold on the table.

After I quit my job and started traveling, I always had a notebook with me. I would scribble endless notes about the trip, inside a cramped sleeper bus, on top of van, with a flashlight in a darkened dorm room. I would then condense, write and edit all those haphazard notes the moment I could get decent wifi connection.

I wrote mostly for myself but also for the people who had started to take interest in what I wrote. Arm chair travelers, weekend warriors, dreamers, lost souls all over the world who shared the same fate: to always feel like we needed to be someplace else.

So I went on that journey of traveling across Asia with and since then, I have managed to make a living out of travel blogging for nearly 6 years. It has been that long.

But I feel that somewhere I seem to have lost my way.