Thought Pot – When Do Desires Stop?

Things have been happening at lightening speed and your meek little human always struggles to stay adrift in the waves. Dropped by to catch a short breath. Hi, hello fellow souls trapped in perishable carriers.

*

How do optimistic people navigate their way through setbacks? Their blinding light pierces through my comfortably dark, stormy sky and I quickly shut it out. I’ve never been fond of optimistic people. What makes them see the world in such glory and light? There’s one pattern though – highly optimistic people have a strong foundation to fall back to.

Imagine climbing a huge, steep mountain. Some climb it knowing that they might fall to their death any second, so they measure and calculate each step, slow and trembling, trudging onwards.

Others take that same path, but with a harness. There is no falling & crashing for them.

Optimists come from a place of love and support.

*

Do you ever just briefly chance upon a life you’d like to have or a moment you’d like to live but it’s so far from where or who you are that you crumble from the weight of wanting something so painfully simple, but not having it. I feel such yearning when I see coffee shops in Paris, trains snaking their way through swiss highlands or an expanse of Irish mountains on Instagram.

How do we stop wanting? Does the yearning gradually subside? Or do we stop wishing as we grow old? Or do our lofty wishes get replaced with simple things?

‘Monks say that shedding desire is the key to a happy life. Naval says that whatever you deny yourself will end up becoming your prison.’ What is one supposed to do?

I highly recommend Naval’s Podcast on Spotify, the man talks a lot of sense without being unrealistic.

*

I have been obsessed with Ocean Vuong. Have been listening to him talk and momentarily live through what readers call ‘a happy, painful daze.’

Something he said in an interview struck me like lightning ‘when you have so little of something, that you have to imagine it.’ As someone who’s been daydreaming since childhood to cope with life, this hurt a lot.

*

Sometime back I was talking to my best friend. After cracking a few lame jokes around 3am, she suddenly goes quiet for 30 seconds, then blurts ‘I don’t remember who I used to be before 2020.’ Have you felt that way too?

*

I finished this unbelievably fulfilling show called Be Melodramatic. Story of three friends in their 30s who, after taking different career paths navigate through life and discover themselves together. A sentence made me pause the show and stare at the screen blankly.

‘People try to be strong because they want to collapse. They just do it until they think breaking down a bit wouldn’t be a problem for anyone.’

I’ll add: they bargain the persistence of their strength in exchange for a small window to rest. It’s the only way they’ll ever feel they deserve it, without becoming a burden to anyone. They’re an overly inflated balloon, always dodging the pin just in time.

*

I wish we lived in a world where we didn’t need to prove our worth to survive. I wish just being here was enough.

*

If you’ve been following the drift of what I’ve been writing here, you must know I’m a believer of telling people you care about – that they’re doing well. That you’re proud of them and their potential is infinite. Here’s  Kat Cole echoing something similar in her Podcast ‘The Power of Possible.’

“I’ve learned that when I see people for their potential and their possibilities, that they seem to live up to that more quickly than when they interact with others. The frequency that I’m let down is so low compared to the frequency that I’m proven right in people’s potential. And so it just feels like this tax, it’s like a single-digit percentage tax that is a small price to pay for getting all the upside that comes from looking at people as the great things that they are and the possibilities that they have in front of them.”

Final thought: ‘I have such high hopes for you‘ should always be followed by ‘but you shouldn’t feel burdened, just do what makes you happy and proud. It’s your life.’

Love always,

Your blogger.

August Rush

a blazing, lonely summer

passed away in a rush,

with its white noons & orange sunsets.

August showed up,

like a friendly ghost,

wrapping me in a coat, gently.

‘buckle up, big girl’, it says.

winter must be on its way,

what else would make August

come out of hiding

& grant those it loves

a friendly counsel

before it disappears

& shows up again next year,

but this time

not with a coat,

but an embrace.

Happy August to those who wrap their hands around warm mugs, to pastry lovers & chocolate enthusiasts, who have a cat & those who wish for it, to rain lovers – with or without an umbrella, to smokey chimneys and damp firewood, to curls of steam rising from your morning ginger tea, to those who sliced thick mangoes for you, those with thankless jobs, those who bake the best bread, those who never bake any, who tell you when the sky is pretty (my friend E), those who ladle your bowl to the brim with soup, my friend A whose birthday is the day i pen this, those who share the bigger half of the cookie – any one – a very happy august to you. I wish you step out and find exactly the weather you desire – every single time.

 

Oh, here’s my coat.

See you next year.

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

One Thousand Dreams Later

In one,

I am on a train chugging through green hills and blue lakes, between tall mountains casting their shadow; it never stops. There are no stations.

In another, I’m perched atop a mountain, layered in moss and dirt, gazing at fog covered valleys below. Streaks of waterfalls crack through the mountain and fall to somewhere unknown, vanishing in the fog.

I’m also seen in a house that glows orange in the mornings. Sun-rays filter through my curtains & slowly creep to my eyes. I’m awake. Grateful.

I can also see me walking through a field, between cherry trees swaying gently. I cannot see the sun but I feel it everywhere. I have learned to brew perfect coffee and make one for myself, then look at my cat. Do cats like coffee?

Mostly, I’m miserable.

There are so many versions of life that I paint every night, and now days. Unlike my neighbour’s daughter or the postal guy, there is no one place for me in the future, no destination. they think of comets, i imagine debris. They see fireworks, I see burns. it’s hard to not know what you want, ‘annoying & childish’, i was told once.

The colours stand in stark contrast to the body that spills them every day. New dreams with every canvas. The painter- sallow and wilted, weary from the weight of the world.

The canvas changes with every dream and is carefully hung on a wall on which 114 paintings rest.

He knows he will stop at 1000.

When the entire wall is one big eulogy of un-lived dreams, it is then he will vanish.

Love always,

Your blogger.

Jumping Oceans

We’re playing a game of ball,

you and I

you throw a powerful kick,

i hit back with force,

measured enough to not hurt you

you throw back another

the ball slips,

and falls in a pool behind me.

i look at it float on the surface- lifeless,

then look back at you.

who will fetch it?

you’re quiet

your eyes are glass

so i don’t say a word

and head towards the pool

my legs are shaking,

i am terrified of water

you already know.

don’t you?

my steps are steady

one

two

i jump

my body sinks in the dark,

wonder if you see the surface bubbling,

i grab the ball

and lurch back to you in victory

shuddering, drenched, weak.

i throw it you once more,

you hit back.

and so the game goes on.

if the ball were to be,

sucked into a hurricane next,

what would I do?

you already know,

don’t you?

Love always,

Your blogger.

About Twisted Hearts & Twisted Dreams

A sentence from a book I recently read has been lurking in my mind for a while. If I read it just enough, it puts my impostor syndrome to rest, at least for a bit.

‘You are not fool’s gold, shining only under a particular light. Whomever you become, whatever you make yourself into, that is who you always were. It was always in you. Not in Cambridge, not in your degree, but you.Educated, Tara Westover.

You’ve always been attributing everything you’ve done thus far to every single factor except yourself. Sometimes the time was right, a swift stroke of luck, the right person, a timid request, an accidental learning- never once considering that maybe you could do it because it was you. That the one who orchestrated those factors to your own becoming- was not anything else, but you. The rest was all backdrop. I hope you come at peace with this thought.

In the same memoir, at 15 and after enduring pain that left her with a burden of filial confusion, Tara has a dawning realisation- sometimes the very impact of trauma is that it doesn’t affect you anymore.

*breathe*

There is another profound thought that visits my head frequently, after it first entered uninvited from an anime I’ve been watching. The thoughts are of a 60 year old woman reflecting on the relationship of a younger brother with an older one.

“Killua’s overly cautious style is the product of a smothering love. A twisted, self serving love..”

Sometimes it’s easier to take all the risks that dead authors impel you to take, if you’re not held back in the guise of affection.

*

Last year was such a brutal reminder of one harsh reality after another, realities that are solely your own, customised for you.
It was like waking up from a long, foolish dream. I can’t yet say if 2020 was the worst year, but it did flip the course of, broke and altered the shape of something I hoped would break at least a decade later. The final straw let go; an event I prayed would delay itself, stormed out of nowhere and struck with its might few days before New Years eve. Now I don’t know what to do with this rubble.

*

Lately, I’ve been using this method called white noise to fall asleep. It has worked well thus far. I have started dreaming again at night, after almost a year of no dreams, pretty awesome.

There is a house that I’ve seen twice in my dream. Last time I saw it, I was fleeing from what looked like monsters. But after being left behind by everybody, I barely manage to hitchhike to safety in a car- when it crashes midway. I’m about to be attacked face first when someone appears in a flash and carries me away – where? To the very house.

The roof of that cottage is slanted and tiled, like an inverted V and it has a wide courtyard with a well in between. Creepers & vines rest on its mortar edges and there are lots of plants everywhere; potted, planted, hanging.

In the courtyard I’m greeted by the one who saved me. He’s a young boy with a green beard and green eyes, green like a parrot. He’s constantly assuring me that the house is hidden from the monsters with magic. I don’t remember myself asking him if it was.

That’s when I woke up. I’m guessing I met Peter Pan folks.

Love always,

Your blogger.

To all that outshines (& those who chase it)

what good does a single star do,
for a world chasing newer galaxies
everyday.

what good is a river
however pure & white
against the steel grey of the ocean,
the ocean it envies,
but ends up feeding

yet,

Virginia walked towards her death,
wading through a river,
weighed down by stones in her pocket,

the river was kind enough to stow her away.

*

what good are leaves,
once parched & broken,
from the tree they fed through life,
their colourless bones,
only to be crunched,
beneath morning rush hour footsteps

yet,

tonight, i light up a small fire,
& throw in some dry brown leaves
i look up at the trees,
dark and sentinel in the shadows,
ghosts? no, guardians.
‘thank you’ i whisper in the night,
and the wind carries the words away

yet,

what good is a quivering yellow flame,
in front of your searing blaze,
children clap in delight,
people nod in unison

’tis the greatest fire!’

They are two extremes of a whole,
it is said.
one shines bright,
& lights up a room (or at least tries to)

yet,

the other descends
in a blinding flash,
& swallows everything whole.

*

‘do you like the sunset or sunrise?’
‘sunrise’
‘why?’

‘everyone worships the rising sun’, maa says.

Love always,

your blogger.

Because This Is Our First Life

Today I’m dwelling on the slow & consistent decay of things. I loathe changes. Sadly, they are the cost we pay for growing old.

Sometimes, I feel the slow, seismic shift in time’s axis. I feel it twitch and move just a little. Cruel time licks its fingers & flips another page of life, the world shudders & goes still for a second, then moves on like it is supposed to. Your parents become a memory, friends see other occasionally, priorities change. This heart of yours that won’t stop hurting right now, learns to look away & focus on things which, at that moment, become more important.

So the tiniest speck of change makes me fold my hands in prayer to a God I don’t believe in, ‘please, please make it stop. just for a while’

**

Please look at people in the eyes and tell them they’re doing well. Squish their face with your hands & say they’re doing their best, and you’re proud of them as they should be of themselves. Sometimes it only takes it hearing it from someone else’s lips to make someone believe in themselves.

**

I love Emily Dickinson a lot. Not because of her poems, though that plays its part in her admiration, but I discovered something about her disposition that made me feel understood. And it goes like this:

Her choice to let her work get published and be available to the world, but her decision to never accept any public celebration, recognition of herself is something I resonate with strongly.

Anytime I do something mildly well, I wish to be admired and appreciated. I should like people to know I did something well.

But I do not necessarily like being celebrated. I should like to be acknowledged silently, but I don’t like being raised and upheld for worship.

Acknowledged, but not celebrated.

**

I got to know about this idea called Room 19. It is like a fictional (or at times tangible) room where your heart turns to, when it needs to get away from the world. For some it might be a corner of the house they can stay by themselves in, for some it’s inside their mind.

When I enter my room 19, I don’t speak to anyone for days. And my heart and mind are at unrest, strained from the burden of never being able to make any sense of it. Joy never enters that room. It can’t, it isn’t supposed to.

Some knock on their room 19 & let themselves in occasionally,

Aome carry it with themselves wherever they go.

During my childhood, I was always surrounded by people, my tangible needs were sufficiently met, i was safe & sound.

but in my head, I grew up alone.

I received a book in my mail box once, a gift from someone I once parted ways with.

The title of the book said, ‘Maybe You Should Talk to Someone’

Something squirmed inside. I held the heavy hardcover in my hands.
This is how I will always be looked at, from the outside. Someone who needs fixing. Someone not quite okay.
This is how I would be thought of.

Maybe, I’ve locked myself up in my room 19. I don’t go there occasionally, I live in it. Everybody in my life is outside that door. And it is going to be that way.

______________________________________________________________________________

A note: Time flies too fast to stifle words.
It is not enough to just feel them, they must be spoken aloud. words must reach another person’s heart, so they can stay there. Whether they live there or don’t, is not up to you.

Love always,

Your blogger.

Your Name?

I’ve been stopped midway, interrupted mid speech and often called at ungodly hours and posed different variations of the following question,
‘have we met somewhere before? Do i know you?’

It has become an event that occurs so frequently that the surprise that must naturally ensue such an odd remark has left me. I usually calmly reply no to the flustered, curious stranger in front of me and proceed with my day.

Regardless of whether or not doppelgängers exist in our limiting space and time, I am certain I have plenty of them. Seven, if I may go by the count of people who’ve claimed to have seen someone exactly like me at the train station, subway, airport or perhaps a dream? haha

(either that or I have a furiously common face – which makes me sad, so i’d like you to believe the previous narrative)

**

Once in high school I was asked an interesting question by a friend’s father. The principled, sturdy man examined me from afar and rebuffed,

‘Imagine the world is on the verge of ending. People are dying, it’s total chaos. We’d then need doctors, teachers, soldiers, lawyers to help save the world. The world would need their skills .. what good would artists do then?’ he scoffed & put the conversation to an end.

I didn’t have the answer then. Five years later in an almost prophetic coincidence, his words would manifest & I would have my answer and it would follow like this.

If the world were on the edge of ending, an artist would save people from dying out of despair. He would heal that which no medicine can, grief.

There sir, you have your answer.

**

My mother has a habit of never accepting compliments. If you tell her that her meal was the best course of food you’ve ever gobbled, even if you sang hymns of her culinary skills, she’d still say ‘it’s no big deal’ distractedly.
ma, it is a big deal.

So it is true what Mitch Albom said; over the course of time, we all become our parents.

**

I find it particularly funny when people snark, ‘when will you grow up?’ while shaking their head with disdain.

& it is particularly amusing because in parallel there have been people who have smiled warmly and asked me not to grow up so fast. That I sounded beyond my age which made them worry. Life is funny.

Truth is, if I were to stop being childishly obsessed with all that moves me, if i stop going crazy about all that seems too frivolous to the world to notice, i might actually lose my mind. Reality is painfully unbearable. It is dark grey so I choose to keep my mind full of odd colours, that way I have a good chance of surviving (if at all) whatever this is.

**

They say the greatest cause of suffering is desire. Do you know what my name means?

Love always,

your blogger.

Where Is Your Bookmark?

What is a bookmark? If not a promise to come back, where you left off? We go around bookmarking chapters of our life we couldn’t quite finish, that perhaps made our heart ache. But they also made our heart warm, like the winter sun on cold mornings.
Are you smiling right now?


There is a book I can’t make any sense of,
yet I cannot seem to put it away.
Flipping page after page,
with faint, lingering hope,
it’d turn to something beautiful.

One day I chance upon a chapter,
that takes my breath away,
until, after a couple of flips,
it too, stops making sense

But since abandoning things midway,
demands a strength I am yet to have,

I bookmark this chapter,
& keep it aside quietly.

Someday when I’m wiser,
and my heart has more strength,
I’ll come back to you.

Until then, I’ll let you rest,
On the shelves of my weak memory.
Hoping that when the time is right,
I may have not forgotten about you.


Keep bookmarking chapters of your life like this. Open them in secret & feel that warmth again from time to time. Or open them for good, and start all over again.

 

Love always,
Your blogger.

Tune In To Understand

As a kid, I appeared on the radio a few times. Not often enough to make me a star (clearly), but enough to recall a cluster of fond memories.

I was a part of a show hosted on my school’s local radio station. I was 14.

When I spoke for the first time in that mic, my heart thrummed loudly. We were broadcasting live. As soon as I spoke the first line, people behind the glass wall gasped. I shrunk. What mistake was it this time?

After concluding the show, I stepped out quietly, barely ready to face the barrage of reprimands waiting behind the thick wooden door. I enter the room and faces turn, all lit up. This is what I hear,

‘waaaaaah, you have a wonderful voice!’ 

if there are singular moments in time that stitch themselves up against your ageing memory, so tight that you never forget them, this was one such moment. I never believed I had a great voice until then.

I’m not really fond of the content that comes on the radio these days, but I’m fond of the idea upon which it rests. The art of listening. Understanding something without your eyes aiding you.

There is a movie called HappyThank YouMorePlease (interesting name, no?) with a scene that stuck with me. A conventionally not handsome man is pleading his uninterested muse to close her eyes and just listen to him. He requests for a chance to reveal to her what she’s unable to see. The woman is perplexed for a moment but slowly covers her eyes out of pity, much to her own surprise. After he confesses his sincerity for her in a long, impressive monologue, the scene ends with the woman opening her eyes, her jaw slightly dropped, and seeing him in a completely new light. It was as if ‘the particles in his face had rearranged themselves’ and that she was seeing him, really seeing him for the first time.

A bit too dramatic, in my opinion, but you get the underlying point right? She felt what her eyes were refusing to understand.

We’re so glued visually and busy processing it all through our eyes that we only soak what is said, and not what is meant.

When we listen, without the hundred distractions of the colour of someone’s eyes, or why their face looks tired, the empty coffee mug in their hand & why they clutch it so tight, why do their legs fidget, why does their skin glow, why do they play with their hair nervously, why is their palm smudged with ink, why is their shirt baggy .. everything that keeps our attention away from what is being said in that moment ..when we shut our eyes from this and choose to really listen, then the words shoot straight through our chest.

The transmission is straight into your heart. Whether it’s from the goddamn radio or that person you just can’t seem to understand.

Listen loud and clear. Feel the gravity of words being said to you. Their voice to yours.

“Broadcasting, love and, airplanes, do you know what they have in common?

They all require the maximum effort in the beginning.”

-Tune In For Love (a film)

Here’s a beautiful song for you.

Hope you smiled today.

Love always,

Your blogger.

Here’s to Melted Chocolates

How’s everyone doing?

It’s 3 in the morning in my part of the world and I’m in my bed trying to make a piece of chocolate melt in my mouth because that’s how I like chocolates. melted. I once heard of someone who liked their chocolates stiff and cold, snapping pieces in their mouth. Who does that? What are you a psychopath??

Nah jk man. Just eat your stupid chocolate however you like it.

I don’t have anything particularly artsy/angsty to write today. Neither is this one of those trademark, obscure poems I write out of sheer panic. I guess the chocolate is working.

When I was a kid i had a cousin that lived near my place. A distant cousin but I thought her more of a friend. In the evenings I used to go to her place to play. Her grandma, often spotting me running around the house would call me to her room and open her, what I now like to call, snack box. It was a small tin box with biscuits, crackers and other munchy stuff. She used to offer me some of it happily, every single day.

Fast forward 12 years, I am now sitting in my room & suddenly notice the big plastic box from which I’m munching my own snacks. Life is weird.

You know what will happen after I finish this chocolate? I will immediately rush to the kitchen and search for something really salty, like a crackhead frantically looking for weed, and I’d need it really fast or I’d throw up. It happens every single time.

I really have trouble understanding my head.

‘i need to know what goes on inside your head. i want to get inside your mind.’ A thought communicated to me multiple times by several honorary members of the human tribe. Mostly male tribe.

What’s the nicest compliment you’ve ever gotten? Mine was, ‘Aakansha, you’re poetry in motion’. That blew me away.

I sometimes open my mind box and rummage for some strand of old memory I could use to feel better. Let me do that for you right now. One moment.

..

found it

This one time I was out for lunch with a friend. We were both having really giant burgers. Like burgers so big their entire insides spill out. And I love messy food. The messier the better. But while I was licking the sauce off of my fingers enjoying every bite, he was dissecting his into neat bite sized pieces and eating like a gentleman with not a crumb out of place.

I, being the competitive asshole, decided to give it a try and failed miserably, with every ingredient slipping midair and crash landing on my plate. Noticing me staring defeatedly at my mess of a meal, he quietly assorted a perfect bite for me on his folk, bun-chicken-lettuce-onions-sauce-bun and gently put the divine assortment in my mouth, which dropped open at the site of his slowly approaching hand. The moment still makes me all warm and gooey. How thoughtful. How affectionate. No, we weren’t dating.


This was the first year I think when I didn’t post anything on my birthday. Is that good? Bad? Were you expecting another sad poem from this grey cloud? Idk bruh.

My birthday fell in quarantine which doesn’t really make a difference because so far almost every birthday has been a quarantine (lol). But this time, one small tiny special detail happened. My gorgeous best friend sent me a bottle of wine because when you’re panicking about the future on your birthday you need alcohol amirite folks? Tbh mix fruit juice would just fine for me but anyway. So the weather on my birthday night was lovely. It was nice and windy, just how I like and the stars & moon were in full lunar glory. I went to my terrace and climbed further up the top of a small storage room built there. And drank wine while watching the moon with Charlie Cunningham softly playing on my speakers.

Not bad for a sad fu*k like me hun? <Head pats>

What else? You know what I made this small list of things I wanted to rant about but I can’t remember where I wrote it.

Oh, I haven’t been sleeping well either. I sleep around 6 in the morning and wake up at 10 for work. My eyes burn but I fix them with caffeine and my boss’ rebukes.

I finished a few books and I’m absolutely hyped about it since I haven’t read dedicatedly in a long time. <well done, you miserable Demigod>

Sometimes when I’m writing here I think of my glory days on this blog. Buried beneath at least a 100 posts is my time here when I had a lot of pen friends. I don’t know where they are now, neither do they write anymore but I hope they’re okay.

I also think of starting another blog at times. Freaking crazy right? Because I don’t feel comfortable venting here anymore. A lot of people from my life know of this place. Risky stuff.

I’m done with the chocolate. Ending this rant with a beautiful Korean song I’ve had on repeat. Here’s a rough translation:

아빠는 말씀하셨다. 너무 작은 것들까지 사랑하진 말라고.
작은 것들은 하도 많아서 네가 사랑한 그 많은 것들이 언젠간 모두 널 울게 할 테니까.
나는 나쁜 아이였나보다.
아빠가 그렇게 말씀하셨음에도 나는
빨간 꼬리가 예쁜 구피를 사랑했고,
비오는 날 무작정 날 따라왔던 하얀 강아지를 사랑했고,
분홍색 끈이 예뻤던 내 여름 샌들을 사랑했다.
그래서 구피가 죽었을 때,
강아지를 잃어버렸을 때,
샌들이 낡아버렸을 때,
그리고 아버지가 돌아가셨을 때,
그때마다 난 울어야했다.
아빠 말씀이 옳았다.
내가 사랑한 것들은 모두 언젠간 날 울게 만든다.
-신지상&지오 ‘ 베리베리다이스키 ‘

Dad said. Don’t love too small things.
There are so many small things that many of the things you love will make you cry someday.
I must have been a bad child.
Even after Dad said so,
I still loved,
Goofy with a pretty red tail,
I loved the white puppy who followed me blindly on a rainy day,
I loved my summer sandals with pretty pink laces.
So when Goofy died,
When I lost my puppy,
When the sandals were worn out,
And when my father died,
Every time I had to cry.
Dad was right.
Everything I love makes me cry someday.

 

 

Hope you have a good day, wherever you are.

 

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

Anecdotes From A Big City (I)

A scene.

A pleasant pink spreads across the sky in the rush hour of a dense, cluttered city. Amidst the filth & grime below, the horizon above stretches like an enormous ceiling, painted and stroked with gentle evening colours.

I’m rushing past scattered groups of people, skipping, trodding down a lightly soaked pavement from a recent afternoon drizzle. It’s humid, I’m still somewhere between jogging and running, just enough to let people know I’m in a hurry, without giving any offence. You never wish to offend elite men in loose ties and baggy shirts, with dry lips from their 6th cigarette after a weary afternoon shift.

I’m trying to get past the crowd, balancing my two bags flung across both shoulders, while also trying not to trip and fall face first on the slippery sidewalk. Reaching the gate, I look around, “6132” ..muttering out of breath, “613 .. there you are!” Spotting my tiny, bulbous green carriage I sprint and cross the road, narrowly escaping a splash of muddy water from the wheels of a speeding sedan and land unceremoniously in the backseat.

Green carriages like these are pretty common in big cities. They are small but spacious enough for three. Swift and ventilated. Cheap and easily available. In concrete jungles, essentially built to cater to the comfort & indulgence of the rich, these carriages were a method to not let the working class get trampled under the rising rent & underpaid jobs that are a prerequisite of a bada sheher (big city).

The carriage driver looks at me through the rearview, giving me a toothy grin and chimes, “Hurrah! you made it, I was just about to cancel the ride!” I wave my clenched fist in victory & try to nod, still trying to catch a breath. Mr. Carriage driver, a plump man in his 40s, with his flushed, chubby face further added, “I was about to leave Ms,” he twinkled, “when, judging by the pace and intensity you were speeding towards me, I understood my customer is here.”

I burst out laughing. Partly because of the wit & good humour behind that statement and partly due to the joy of leaving an awful glass building early and heading home in a nice, dewey weather.

Still peering through the rear view he added, “Ms, please don’t mind, but I must say it’s been a while I’ve heard someone laugh so khul ke (freely) in this city,” he spoke kindly. We exchanged a happy glance when jolting the carriage to ignition, his eyes darted back to the clogged road, never looking back again.

I blinked.

I still think about that evening from time to time. I admit I’ve been told to have a fairly contagious laugh, enough to turn a few public eyes. But somewhere, and I say this with all humbleness, his kind remark was more than just on the visual or auditory anatomy of my laugh. I should like to believe, he was recognising the carefree, innocent and guileless quirks of a laugh with no buried intention. A laugh meted solely due to the incapacity to contain the happiness of whatever inspired it.

Why did he take a moment and appreciate something so plain? Perhaps, propped on his driver’s seat in the afternoons, with a metal box stuffed with roti and saag, he too notices the grim faces and empty eyes of people during lunch hours, young & old, spending their years serving a mighty conglomerate that once made them lofty promises of a shining, comfortable life.

Perhaps he too wishes for a merrier, warmer world. Where respect and kindness are offered without expectations. Perhaps when we laugh and acknowledge the presence of another breathing thing, we fix a tiny gash somewhere in the thinning fabric of this world.


Hope you’re keeping safe & staying inside while the Earth takes its time to reboot. To those suffering due to the pandemic, hope your grief heals a little through this prayer.

Love always,
Your blogger.

All that hangs in the air

i pour cereal in your blue, ceramic bowl
as blue as the creases of your sheets,
when you’re tossing,
& sleep is out of the question.

i’m as blue as your bowl
as fragile as the ceramic
perhaps not as glinting
but you won’t notice

cereal floats in cold milk,
‘my body is not used to warmth’
a naked corner of your diary says,
one you’ve kept since 02′
i know where you hide your diary,
in the same nook, you hide your hurt.

drops of cereal topple to the floor,
it’s 6 in the morning,
my eyes are heavy,
half open,
i feel your fingers,
untangle the knots of my morning hair
& slowly take the bowl,
walking away

my heart thaws a little.
the shampoo bottle can wait another day.

it all started,
when a song in my playlist,
asked me to knock on heaven’s door.
& there i was,
at 3 a.m,
knocking at yours.

 

 

Love always,
Your blogger.

Our Collective Fragility

What a bittersweet paradox our life is. I wish to weep and laugh at the complexity and simplicity of it.

We wish of the world to know us, but are terrified of being truly known. That life is at times a circle of trying to feel good enough about oneself against forces telling us otherwise. How our collective worth inevitably lands in the hands of those we barely know. Our sense of self affected so meteorically by external forces. 

I find it staggering how none of the structures created by men to falsely claim some sense of control over the independence of life, stand when the very foundations of the world begin to crack. When life itself is challenged. Then self worth is only limited to you, right here, in this very moment, living and breathing. It is enough.

We need not forget, in our quest for power & money that we’re human beings existing for a fleeting moment in a giant, incomprehensible cosmic backdrop. To not forget the decaying nature of time and that amongst the supreme impermanence of everything around you; love, joy & kindness stay the longest. Feel the greatest. Life is hard, but it can be made easy for each other. By empathy, by understanding, by being there, by reaching out, by opening yourself up. It’s terrifying to lay yourself out there in a world so undeserving of trust. Paradoxically it, for this very reason, is essential to lay yourself bare; because the world outside is too full of people afraid to share what makes them human, what makes them fragile.

 

There is no terror like that of being known. 

-Emerson.

 

Here’s what matters in the end; how you lived, how you loved, how you let yourself be loved. Evenings in a room full of strangers who love the same song as you. Music that brings people to tears. Moments that bring people to tears. These are what stay with you when your eyes close and breathing becomes labour. Not your metrics, not your payslip, not even sex. Money can help make some of those experiences richer, but it comes with no guarantee. Moments, however, can be created right here. Right now. Sometimes they’re just a hug away. Love heals the kind of grief medicine cannot. And it’s free. And it’s inside us all.

So love with all your heart. Open up. Blossom. Wilt. Decay. Go back to Earth. We all eventually will. Hold tight, we’ll be okay.  

 

Love always,

Your Blogger. 

heaven is here

you go,
wherever the urgency of time
leads you.

i wish to stay,
where the pink of our sky is just within reach,
& where waves crash & fall,
like a million diamonds scattering.

where cherry blossoms bloom,
with all their might,
carried away softly,
by a cool, summer breeze.

i want to be consumed,
evaporated,
soaked by the sky.

you go claim mountains,
as if they were your own,
i will be here,
as still as the ocean bed,
as roaring as its gut.

Poem to fix someone

Sometimes it gets so quiet my head hurts,
then i see a slender beam of morning light escape
through my curtain,
at 4 am,
and all is well for 15 seconds.

until I jerk to reality,
and go pee,
in the tiniest bathroom in the world,
but big enough to fit us.

sometimes at 3 am,
when sleep is out of the question,
i hear the distant rumble of a passing train,
bellowing through the night,
someone on that train can’t sleep either,
thinking of stuff he cannot fix,

like I think of myself.

To think that things cannot be fixed,
is a folly.
even a broken bone is healed,
what then is a broken heart?

only sometimes to get fixed soon,
you need a hand.
a pair of hands,
and a pair of eyes,
and a pair of arms.

“Come here”, I say out loud in my empty room,

“I’ll fix you.”

Love always,

Your blogger.

Roaring 20s

Hello 2020.

Hope you all had a good 2019. Mine felt like someone held me by the shoulders and jolted me throughout the year while I’m seated on an equally rough and fierce rollercoaster.

Revolutionary.

So much and so many ‘firsts’ and ‘news’ happened I have now stopped counting. I’m not the same person I used to be exactly a year back, I don’t know if that is sad or good. Perhaps the most taxing part throughout this year was, as I was musing the other day to a friend, I met a giant pool of new people in 2019, but none became a friend. A friend, in its literal meaning. A dear one, who listens, cares, calls. Not one person knows me, really knows me. It’s so odd, I wonder if this is how life becomes past a certain age. Umpteen people enter your life and sort of tag along, playing their parts in the periphery of your story and eventually leaving, but none ferry past the layers of formal decorum and touch your core, your insides, your spirit.

I used to be of the understanding that every human being, like me, makes an attempt to understand every human he co-exists around. Not to merely float and loiter until the tasks are done and the need for interaction is no more. Tries to perhaps dig, with sensitive caution, what lies inside every being. How we really are, beneath the mortal layers. Deep in our cores we’re all so sensitive, our hearts are all equally vulnerable to hurt, to rejection, to unkindness. Yet still I see no humanity. I feel no warmth. We’re all so cold, so guarded, so aloof.

Hence, I try my best to forge bonds wherever I feel an invitation from an equally giving spirit. Rest will find their own way, I hope.

I spent my New Years with the person my entire being shines around. I am an intrinsically happy person who likes to indulge in frivolous jokes and laugh till she’s crying. Situations also draped me in an equally quiet and brooding soul, but my spirit likes to jump and cry out of happiness. The burden of carrying these two extremes is a bit too much at times. But yes, I entered 2020 laughing and jumping with my best friend in a different city. I’m so grateful and blessed to have finally made it happen. We both had been yearning it for years.

Then I flew back and all went grey for a while. I felt miserable and lonely. Abandoned.

I was trying to recover from these feelings when one evening my mother calls and tells me my cousin killed himself. I couldn’t feel my insides. Almost half shivering I recalled my last meeting with him exactly two months back in a family wedding. We danced, his 10 month old daughter in his arms, both of us laughing.

My heart clenches thinking how someone can be carrying so much pain and not finding a way to relieve it.

May he be at peace, wherever he is now.

I am not the person I used to be exactly a year back. I’m too afraid of time now. Too scared of what it has in store, good or bad. Lately I feel like a ghost. All my insides are cold, like a blizzard just passed through.

May 2020 give me some warmth. May all the good that occurred this year (it did, really) give hope for more good to come. May goodbyes be lesser. May we find people who stick throughout.

May everyone feel love, may everyone know Peace.

Here’s to officially ending this decade and looking forward to a new one, which certainly promises staggering changes in our life.

Take care of each other, we’re all we have.

Love always,

Your blogger.

Altar of a Misfit

Dearest,

Here’s a glimpse of my bedside corner, bedecked with the love & patience of a plant, the sentinel presence of books, and the warm glow of a golden lamp.

What a comforting sight to turn to for a pair of fatigued, drowsy eyes?

One last look at this ethereal corner before falling asleep is a morphine for the dreadful, impassive and largely callous world the brunt of which we have to face everyday.

Only if I could embrace it, the warmth radiating through.

Until then,

Christmas is right around the corner folks. Sending some of this glow to you, may it light up your day, as it lights up my nights. 🙂

Love always,

Your blogger.

Existing in Metaphors

A list of metaphors that have become too relatable lately:

  • Living these days feels like walking on a landmine. One wrong step could make everything explode. You always have to be on your toes. Always on the edge.I hate myself for taking the joy of comfortable conversations and even more comfortable silences for granted.
  • Handling too much at once feels like trying to arrange pieces paper, and someone has switched on the fan. And you’re helplessly trying to save every bit, but failing.
  • Every conversation I now have feels like taking a test I did not study for. I’m really exhausted of always having to be on guard.
  • It also feels like I’m always holding my breath. Literally, I’m not. But emotionally, perhaps. The feeling is like in a horror film, when it reaches the climax and you’re a bundle of nerves, you know something horrific is about to happen, you’re on the edge of your seat, that singular moment when time seems to pause, that is how I feel everyday.
  • Not a metaphor: Past a certain age, every new person you meet will be good to you, as long as they’re having their needs met.

 

December is here folks and my hands are starting to get cold throughout the day. And like every year I do nothing about it but to let them be. Winter is my favourite season. I have perfectly romanticised it in my head (thanks to novels and poems) and somehow started believing that something unbelievably magical will happen to me someday in the future, in some cold snowy December.

Until then, I accrue tiny joys from strolling markets and basking in the Christmas cheer. Watching trees all lit up, tiny Santas and plastic snowflakes displayed in plastic wrappings in all their colours.

There is a young couple sipping kulhad chai from a nearby stall, breathing out fog and occasionally letting the little one have a sip too. The little one, all bundled in scarves and sweaters shudders with delight at the taste of the warm sweetness. The couple smiles too.

I move on, smiling from within.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Unrelated thought I needed to share: 

Here is a quote from this phenomenal show called Fleabag that resonated so much with me, I had trouble believing it was a show.

fleabag.jpeg

 

Merry Christmas guys, in case I log in next year now.

(I won’t though. Always do a final retrospective post before every new year, remember?)

(wow writing this entire piece suddenly brightened my mood, now that I realise this is done, I feel f*cked again.)

*sigh*

 
Love always,

Your blogger.

What is written but not said.

This poem will have no direction,

Like my life.

there is a direction, but it is too bedevilled with pain,
Pain others carry well,
Or don’t. How do I know.
what I do know is pain shared is easier to carry
Like the sack of potatoes I switched,
from one hurting hand to another.

but now it’s too hard to hold
all of this,
Days when something small but cruel hits you face-front,
Your heart,
It flees.
Perhaps recoiling to somewhere sadder,
Quietly brooding the hurt away.
with no one to call it back.

To say you don’t give a shit and to actually not give a shit
Are two different battles.
I choose to live in the ephemeral joy of not caring for 10 minutes.
For 10 minutes my heart is painless.

Sometimes, you vow you’d love yourself regardless,
And sometimes you almost do
Then the world happens.
And suddenly you don’t like mirrors.

I don’t like to be quiet.
But it now seems like the best (only?) resort.

because now,
I’m unable to carry conversations,
I feel the insincerity,
it’s leaking through their eyes.
always in the eyes.
what have we become.

Life is now a,
Constant battle between
trying to love yourself,
trying to love the world
and trying to love someone else.

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

Respite

WhatsApp Image 2019-09-29 at 7.50.56 PM

Laying down on the edge of a musty wall of a slightly secluded, sufficiently elevated square of my dwelling. Peering straight into these magnificent swirls of silver clouds; beams of sun escaping through it.

Through most part of our ephemeral existence we’re too engrossed making a living to notice;

The heavens open their gates frequently for us. At times it takes a quiet, languid afternoon of unwashed hair & ginger tea to make you notice; at times a glance above through sheer chance is enough.

Gaze. Watch. Contemplate. Let your soul rest. Let it breathe.

Hemingway had said that the sky is the daily bread of the eyes. Rightly so.
For I’m glued today. Beguiled by the work of art spread above me.

‘If all of us looked at the sky often, we’d live differently’, poured Bill Watterson through Calvin, a character tiny in stature and still unmarred by the filth of society yet capable of doling out excellent societal observations succinctly.

These frequent retreats from a world hard to keep up with are as necessary as physical sustenance. Else I’m sure, I’ll be incapable of carrying on for long.

Thankfully, the sky (for now) doesn’t have an expiry date.

 

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

The sky is a Snowglobe

If someday you & I could get close,

I know exactly where I’d want to take you,

as I fall & watch you get closer,

my heart will swell with the urge to bring you here,

however, I would wait.

wait to see if you’d also gaze with quiet astonishment,

at how vast, how grey, how midnight blue the night looks,

from my terrace

my favourite block of the concrete house,

set aside from the wrinkled sheets & unwashed dishes below.

On evenings after supper, I’m often found plopped on the musty boundary wall,

Laying down,

Staring into the night, my daily repose. Purring, resting, contemplating.

With every sigh, Posing questions to the curving sky above

Hazy with gorgeous grey clouds,

Revealing the twinkle of stars as the wind rightfully sweeps them away.

The breeze makes my skin cold, like glassy slabs. I caress, smiling at how I’d bring you here one day.

You will gaze at the sky in awe,

I will gaze at you with wonder.

 

 

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

Emotional Granularity

Emotional granularity.

art of dissecting emotions. to be aware of precisely what you feel. to also feel too much.

You feel despair all the time. It has latched on to you. You don’t feel like yourself if you’re not in despair. Just realised what a scary statement this is.

You are,

At peace when it’s solitary. Not happy, just not in angst. Not jittery. Not afraid. At least for a while. You’re okay. There is no unspoken and unaddressed pressure of saying or not saying the right things.

Since Joy is now too vague a state to achieve, you’re content with solitude. You’re content with plastic chairs on empty balconies with nowhere to prop your feet comfortably.

But at least the sky is pretty.

__________________________________________

I’m trying to condense the giant ocean of my dreams into tiny drops. That way, maybe they won’t try to drown me.

___________________________________________

You’re afraid of your ability to not speak for days and still be okay.

You’re also tired of putting on a show.

‘Oh you’re so brave. Here take another gauntlet.’

I’m not brave.

The glass building and its nauseatingly proud residents astound you. They wake up everyday and work like machines, their insides content with bright screens and fancy gadgets, filling sheets with numbers & pretending they’ve cracked the meaning of life.

Disdaining anything that doesn’t promise a promotion, money or an approving, insincere nod from the boss.

You want to shake them out of this hypnosis. But alas. You’re often shrugged off as a kid who doesn’t know what she’s doing.

Do you though, good sir/madam who doesn’t know who Fitzgerald is?

But they say knowing Fitzgerald won’t take you anywhere. If anywhere is where these fancy people go, I surely do not wish to accompany.

You’ve been thrust with a sapphire stone claiming to fix your faulty planets. The planets are not at fault, ma’am, it’s I. The stone, now encased in shiny silver sits on your lean fingers, glinting twilight blue (pretty). Your hands are still lean and pale, even though your body now isn’t.

You’re unable to polish and maintain your only physical proof of juvenescence.

*sigh*

Welp.

Tunnel

hope is but a small, weak, quivering flame.

there is no light at the end of all this

mindless darkness

demands impossible bravery

& i possess none.

i want the happiness they

talk about in poems

but now I know though

why the poets have always been doomed.

Love always,

Your blogger.

Vicariously

You were the saddest soul I knew
On your Birthday
You never lit a single candle
But ate cup noodles & fell asleep
with your phone ringing

what are candles but light that never lasts?

i saw you tipping your hat
& beaming to passerbys

‘Oh what a fine happy fellow’

The smile never reached your eyes.

on your birthday you never lit a single candle,
but they brought 5. One for each time you almost broke down.

Over a small cake propped on the xerox machine

your moment had nothing to do with me.

Except that I was there. Watching.

That night, i saw a shooting star from my roof.

you never lit a single candle,

But the sky was kind enough to light one for you.

How’s the Weather Inside your Head

I look for ways to try & prevent my heart from racing

or to not sink when they say that my face looks like the sun,

& that how marvelous to smile like I do.

I look for ways to make my life smell like damp earth,

hoping my mind to assist

Because in my head,

it is twilight,

& it is always raining.

Who is a Storm’s Muse?

Few months during the year I decide to visit this parched, dust laden, sad city and like always I’m greeted by taller towers and glassier buildings. The locals delight at my arrival, however are too occupied running errands or making (what I assume) communication through a tiny box pinned to their ears to some distant land.

Some, after months of baking like bricks in the sweltering heat, afford a slight look of gratitude above, then continue with their daily tasks unconcerned by the myriad colours of the sky.

This time I visited this city at night. So full of lights it’s like the sky is upside down. Tiny, sparkling dots moving this way and that like ants. I’m going by as ceremoniously as I can when i spot her. A tiny, motionless space in the vast labyrinth of this city perched alone on a rooftop, staring right through me. Her head is fixed above, boring through me, perhaps smiling too. I can’t see her face, she’s only a shadow but I can sense her feeling every gust of wind I’m thrusting below.

This intensity and passion; I haven’t felt this from human race for a long time. It’s like she wants to reach out- it’s like she’s already reaching out.

I almost wish to swoop her from earth and show her lands and places she’s never seen before, to fill the void in her heart from all the wonder she craves, but I must leave. Humans are too big a burden to bear. To let her know that I was here & I saw her and that her presence, however overlooked by the human race was noticed from above, I send a few raindrops below, assisted by the wind, hoping they land on her skin and she knows. She will.

*

The weather is lovely tonight. I can only see dying remains of another tedious day from my rooftop but somehow the void is not scary. “And tonight,” I chuckle covertly, I”got company.” The wind. Oh how I love the wind. The sky is a perfect grey. The moon shines and occasionally sends its silver beams my way, sneaking through rolling clouds who always seem to be in a hurry.

I gaze at the moon almost like a wolf. Grateful that I’m here to witness the sky rumbling with unease, a storm in its chest. But I want more. I’ve always wanted more of storms. Wanted to be inside them. I lower my eyes achingly and continue to walk when a tiny, perhaps stray drop of water lands on my eyelid. I look up, my eyes wide. Another one lands on my arms.

“I know,” I smile at the sky.

It didn’t rain on anyone else that night.

Love always,

Your blogger.

Other Side of A Tunnel

Somewhere in the ruins of this blog I once wrote how I read Anne Frank’s last letter often. I felt myself turned inside out by a 15 year old girl. To have your insides bared and autopsied can be frightening.

Anne called a part of her, the part she chose for others to see as a ‘frolicsome little goat.’ Who jokes around and indulges in frivolous merrymaking, who is flippant and spontaneous and can be found shrugging away hurt like a fly from milk.

She also spoke of the other part, a part she keeps hidden away from scathing eyes of the world. I revisit that letter often.

I am so complex a bundle of contradictions, so many a personalities strewn together I don’t even know how or why anybody would understand me. How can I be shallow and deep together. Sometimes, even for days if I’m lucky, I find myself grappling on the surface, trying to keep my head above water, other days I’m already crashed on the ocean bed. It’s almost a home now.

I am a Pandora’s Box. Nothing within me is delightful. Except that my covers glint with remarkable sheen, but the box houses nothing within. I’m the wrong side of a tunnel; you walk from brightness to enter the dark. A few steps and you run towards the brightness again. I don’t blame you. Who wouldn’t.

I’m a cracked porcelain jar. Ceramic smooth like fresh wax, hollow and dusty from within. I also tumble and shatter to smithereens quite easily.

Two extremes, two mammoth, thick chunks of opposites have their roots boring through me, mingling to form a tree that bears no fruit.

Love always

Your blogger.

말 없는 슬픔 – 사람또사람

First you play the song below, then you read.

I stand under the kitchen light, chopping carrots while the oil in the pot simmers. Every chomp an echo punctuating the song playing on my phone I recklessly placed on the kitchen slab.

It’s a song in a language I don’t completely understand but I feel it sewing itself up to my heart.

I stand under the only lit space in my house. House not home. Rest is all in darkness, with no movement, nothing.

The chopping becomes slow, distracted until with a final thump it ceases. I glance at the perfect empty space around me, what a metaphor for this heart. The song plays like a perfect soundtrack.

If I’m looked at from a distance, there will be a kitchen with a light, with greyish dark around & a girl standing with a knife looking at nothing.

I spend entire days not speaking a word. But my head doesn’t seem to stop buzzing. This imbalance is starting to hurt. My head makes me think of you without a face, all the time.

I’m trying to draw you in my mind.

I remember you told me you loved sunsets. Particularly the ones silhouetted in clouds. Tonight I feel like a sunset too. Except nothing about me is pink. I don’t glow. I am only shrouded in clouds and I’m sinking.

Everything would make sense with you here, even the sinking.

The catch is, I don’t know who you are.

Yet.

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

Addressing my mind- One Anxiety at a Time – II

Dear all,

Since my life lately has taken several unexpected, at times difficult turns, I sadly inform you that I will be fairly sporadic in my posts, as you may have noticed. They will often be unmethodical and anomalous. I’m trying my best to keep my creative pulse throbbing; please forgive me if you don’t find this blog as interesting as you used to. But I need this place to vent, as I currently have no other medium.

*

Yash nibbles at his plate of baked beans and draws patterns with a folk, unaware that I’m looking at him throughout. He’s wearing yellow. Bright yellow, like what you see when you look at the sun through the trees. He asks looking up, ‘so have you written something new lately?’

My smile fades slightly and I turn my attention towards the traffic outside the cafe we’re in. ‘Not really. I’ve lost inspiration. I don’t remember when or what I wrote last.’

Yash trembles a little, ‘Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you ever say that,’ he says shaking his head (& unkempt curly hair). I feel a flame rekindling inside me. If there is even one heart who doesn’t want me to stop writing, it is inspiration enough.

‘When do you leave?’ he asks, not looking up this time.

‘Tonight.’ He nods and takes the final bite.

*

Lately in a span of 4-5 months I’ve met several new, strange people. Their smile confuses me. It’s never genuine; forced, practiced. One stranger who sits opposite me has chuckled and remarked several times, ‘You are soo weird,’ she says.

‘Yaar, ye puri khiski hui hai (Mate, she’s totally insane),’ says another boy who sits next to her. I wonder if he means it or is solely reiterating because I suspect he has a crush on her.

I come home and gaze at the ceiling. I love gazing. At the sky. At the distance. At the trees.

A family member pauses his game, follows my gaze and looks back at me, “What are you staring at?” I meet his eyes and say nothing, “How did you turn out so weird?” he clicks his tongue and resumes playing.

The older I get, the weirder I become. More out of place and not understood. I cannot seem to connect with people, even after trying.

I’m watching myself recoiling in a cocoon.

*

4 girls and I, ogling at a guy from behind, who’s buying coffee. “Iced Americano to go please.”

“Wow he’s handsome,” says one. “Agree,” nods the other.
“Wonder if he has a girlfriend.”
“He’s not fit guys. He has a tiny bump for a belly,” snarks one.

All four of them narrow their eyes and look closely. “Yep.” They turn back disappointedly.

I don’t say a word but think how I had found him disarmingly handsome ever since he had stepped in. Before them I had first noticed his baggy shirt, and how he scratched his hair and closed his eyes frequently. I loved how his beard was scruffy. I watched his eyes dart the menu and finally rest on ‘Iced Americano.’

I loved the tiny bump. It showed he probably worked hard, sitting for long hours gruelling in front of a screen. He needed sustenance. I loved his baggy shirt after a long, tiring day. I loved how unaware he was of my gaze, of his surroundings. His direct stare at the exact gap between the menu board and soda machine.

“None of you had a chance,” I ponder looking at the girls.

He was probably wanting that coffee more than a girlfriend haha.

Addressing my mind- One Anxiety at a Time.

Only after you’ve sat and mingled in a sea of complete strangers and tried to feel a little at place, only then will you realise that at times the most sinking, wounding and difficult question to answer is, ‘Hey, how are you?’

*

Now I realise why I was thrust with the weight of blurry vision since childhood. Whoever runs the universe knew I was going to face things that’ll require me to cry. Cry frequently. Cry secretly. That’s why I was given glasses. To sob and unburden behind a thick veil of sheet. To snugly hide the swollen eyes and sit among people like nothing happened.

How I wish it also gave me fortitude to ferry past all the sorrow it so conveniently bestowed.

*

Also, I have lately been brooding over the enormous burden of getting to know someone utterly new. Which thread, in a giant, tumbled heap of threads do you pick up, when they say they wish to unravel your depth. I sit tangled in a labyrinth of stories. Where do I begin?

*

But with you, I wish to first gently tap on the sheet of your freezing heart. Then maybe place my palms softly, to let some warmth seep through. Then wait, for years even, to let my warmth melt your cold. Even if my hands bruise blue. To slowly allow you to be soft again. To be warm again. To love again.

Cup Of Thoughts-III

A thought came knocking in my head at an odd hour, desperate to be shared. Here it is:

 

Always be extravagant in your declarations of love. Never shy away from using richer, deeper vocabulary.

Foster affection as much as you can.

Let it all out, one sigh at a time.

 

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

The Only Tree on a Hill

After what feels like centuries a story has been brewing inside me, earnest to be put on paper. Enjoy. 

My grandfather housed a distinct fondness for trees. A love he happily passed on to me after failing to do so with my father. Being a reclusive child I seldom ventured outdoors, fearing human malice for, as a kid I was once pushed in a muddy ditch for committing the innocent crime of being the new girl in town.

The cucoon into which I invariably recoiled in grew into a home. I turned inwards for respite and befriended books and nature to ward loneliness. But the queer claws of time germinated an odd upheaval in my bosom. A longing for something so elusive it prevented me, at times from getting sleep.

Perhaps, my grandfather sensed this turmoil within me, an utter restlessness and angst for desiring something farther from my reach, and invisible to the eye- like friendship but not with a human form. Humans repelled me.

Thus, one cool April morning when the sun was tepid enough to cake us in its warmth and the air still tasted of dew my grandfather took me to a nearby hill, where I often previously went for walks. I noticed the clatter of a shovel tied to his waist against keys dangling from a belt loop, and a small plastic bag full of what seemed like dirt; but didn’t say a word.

We stopped at the highest crest the hill could afford. A few gulls croaked in the distance and a warm breeze swept the fields. Far East, I could see our little house, a tiny dot within a green pasture, a muddy road snaking its way into it.

“Do you know why we’re here?” my grandfather asked with a twinkle in his eyes, breaking my reverie.

I shook my head. Even at the usually stimulating age of fourteen, my heart somehow was always too tired to speak.

“I’m here to introduce you to a friend. Who will stay with you throughout your years and will stay further for your posterity and perhaps further for more generations to come.” 

With this he dug a small pit in the heart of the earth and handed me the bag of dirt, which upon closer observation, bore a tiny sapling. I placed the sapling in the ditch gently and pat it shut.

My grandfather passed away shortly after and I found respite in the sapling when my heart ached too much for him. Its existence became my purpose. I spent my youth watering, nurturing and at times even talking to it.

Time flew past like gusts of wind and ten long years later, I sit under what grew into a magnificent, sentinel, behemoth tree- lush and green, watching over me like a silent guardian. The distant longing inside me quelled with the tree’s pristine, watchful presence- quiet and sincere. The tree taught me stillness and how to give without expecting.

My grandfather gave my restless ship an anchor. He gave direction to my rapid thoughts. The tree embodied his own spirit, omnipresent but never holding you back.

Today, sitting under its shadow I brood over my life so far. Remember those who left and bemoan those who never arrived. I hope the tree will remain, if nature permits, perhaps for centuries,  and will continue granting stillness to those running from the future’s chaos. I pray it assuages their inner wounds too, doled out by a callous world.

A warm breeze tussles my hair and makes the leaves above rustle with delight. I’m pulled back to the present.

‘I know friend’, I muse looking up, ‘you too like the breeze as I do.’ 

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

 

Cup of Thoughts- II

Lately, my tiny circle of friends (actually, triangle of friends since there’s only 3 of us) have been pondering over this crazy concept called ‘seeing the world from a third perspective’, in our very unpolished, non-fancy definition. The foundation of this idea was laid when the three of us, one morning at 2 am shared our mutual fear and panic over what is happening in our milieu.

Literally everybody is being thrown in the same pit of social, academic, professional, personal, filial pressure and nobody seems to be doing anything about it. Millennial life has been reduced to apps. Right swipe for love, coupon codes for cheap junk food, educational gurus spewing with academic wisdom, cabs relocating you from one door to another. These concepts, initially built as ‘services’ now dictate our lives.

There is also a meditational app emulating ‘sounds of nature’; chirping of birds, rustling of trees, bubbling of waterfalls, to help people ‘calm down’ from their daily dose of subways and cabs.

How can anybody not see how terribly messed up is that?

There are people running to therapy from unendurable despair and stress, suicide rates continue scaling new heights, every possible nuance of humanity is beaten and whisked into a social media stunt, homeless are freezing in the cold while extravagance continues to flourish online. Celebrity weddings and all the glitter and glam circling it continues stripping the whole occasion of its true essence- everything reeks of pretence.

I feel like it has all been upscaled and taken on such massive levels, that performing those same tasks for ordinary folks (who cannot financially or socially match those levels) has become a source of crippling anxiety. The enormity of it scares them. One heartbreaking result of all this is that it is silencing middle class, no showbiz people into forced reticence.

So what seeing the world from a third perspective means is being painfully aware of all the above. To witness a civilization in shambles by mass consumerism, a world constantly deprioritizing values and putting pomp and show on a pedestal. To always feel like a spectator and a misfit. To not be able to relate to any recent ‘fad’ rounding the internet. To sort of stand in the middle of a giant mob, where everyone is rushing to some vague, momentary purpose, a state of total disorder and haste, where you are the only quiet, still, sinking entity around.

This idea, if sat and brooded over carefully, will make your soul turn inwards. It will make the voice in your head louder and unfortunately, your heart heavier.

What do you think?

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

 

Note: If you wish to read Cup of Thoughts- I, click here. 

Listen to this beautiful track by Luke Sital Singh here:

Extremes

Lately my heart oscillates too much,

between boundless joy and utter despair.

The joy dissipates as fast as it arrives

The despair however lingers longer.

The centre of my heart turns cold

The core of my body layered in sheets of ice

When I breathe

It takes collective effort of every muscle.

I also feel weak, emotionally.

Drained, mentally.

I have always had a fire burning inside me,

It feeds my spirit.

In despair, the fire dies. Only wisps of spoke remain.

Until a tiny, insignificant moment ignites it again,

And my heart is warmer,

like it’s home.

I live for those moments of joy,

I wait patiently for them to show up,

I revel in their uncertainty, like a drug,

I wait for them to grant me a quick flash of intense euphoria,

until my heart starts beating again,

instead of thrumming.

Soon it is over.

A giant heaviness seems to have taken residence in my heart,

I have a feeling it won’t leave, but grow.

I will come to hope more,

And after having it tossed aside,

I will learn to live in the comforting possibility of what never was,

but could’ve been.

My inner Seol is my consolation. 🙂

Love always,

Your blogger.

What I learnt Inside a Big Glass Building- II

I do not wish to divulge much except that I spend 8 hours a day inside a building made of glass.

Funny, its glass bosom doesn’t make it fragile, but rather steely, like a cage.

People inside glass buildings are devoid of warmth. They also happen to be slightly twisted (for lack of a better word). They say stuff they don’t actually mean, and keep silent when you wish they’d speak.

Your frequent attempts at making friends will be rebuffed with an impassive grin. This is a place camaraderie is rejected with a smile so sly you’d end up thinking there’s something wrong with you. This is where you need to remind yourself otherwise, or the building will swallow you whole.

I try my best to be as kind as I possibly can. To be myself so as to give some other frail heart the courage to be itself too, but so far it has all been in vain. The nicer you are, the more they feed off of you.

This is also a place they ask you your position in life, to gauge the level of nice they need to portray.

I have deftly observed every human in my vicinity here. To some I have even given a score. But the score is irrespective of how little dependance can be placed on the appearance of either character or merit. Every day strengthens my resolve to never end up like them.

I have also lost my appetite or my distinct fondness of food. Most of the time I’m swallowing to sustain my organs.

The commute back home is my only pocket of contemplation. And my heart is so heavy with the burden of an entire, joyless day that, after lying about how great my day was to those who ask, I find myself crawling under a blanket and never wishing to see the light again.

Thank heavens for all the novels I’ve read, they assuage my grief with the naive hope that things will get better, like they did for our heroes stuck in pages. I will also try my best to empathise more, everybody has a story, the people in my vicinity have a story too; who am I to impart judgement?

Hoping for a better tomorrow (& happy that the person reading this is here for me),

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

 

Update: January 18th- I lost an earring inside this glass castle. Which somehow, makes everything worse.

Note: If you wish to read the first part go here.

A Feeble Attempt at Understanding Growing Up- I

Something occurs just as we reach the brink of adulthood. Not that there’s any defined door to being an adult, but a change, a subtle shift in disposition occurs where a seed of distrust for the world is planted, often from frequent disappointments. The sapling that once bloomed with tenderness and a sense of wonder is often abandoned behind concrete walls freshly built- a repercussion of facing the ‘outside’ world.

And gradually, like moss creeping upon forest grounds and slowly climbing up tree trunks, distrust transforms into malice, upon realisation that the ‘outside’ wouldn’t think twice before smothering us to death. Out of fear of pain our hearts bridle up, our shields held high and walls ever growing.

The circle continues swooping each one in its vicious pull, damaging one human after another. Until all we’re left with are a sea of people carrying the immense burden of their walls with a tiny sapling living inside them.

This sapling carries the power of fostering immense love and kindness, but is too layered (protected?) by fear, anger, jealousy and pretence. It also represents our imagination, our sense of wonder for this world, our love for wild possibilities- all abandoned and replaced with a suffocating idea people call being ‘realistic.’ I dislike this word, not for what it represents, but how people bend and break it into justifying cruelty, hatred and immorality.

Reality in itself is never ugly. It is pure and pristine. It is exactly what you overlook everyday. Your interpretation and manifestation of it makes it ugly. The filth you contribute to it, makes it ugly. Your choice of ignoring your conscience- that too yearns for the same love and empathy it denies to foster- makes it ugly.

So where did it all go wrong? How do we break this circle?

The circle breaks the day you give that sapling a chance to grow into a strong, mighty tree. They day you stop being unkind, and realise the value (and lack) of empathy and love in this world. The day you stop answering hatred with hatred and replace it with forgiveness- not because they deserve it, but because you deserve peace. The day you pick your imagination up, shake the dust off and begin dreaming again, the day you make friends like you did when you were a kid- with eagerness, curiosity and love. It will end the day we stop being at war with each other and realise we’re in this together.

The day, no matter how hard it gets, you stick to your morals and your choice to be a kind, nurturing and loving human being. Please be good. The world needs it now more than ever.

“Keep true to the dreams of thy youth.”

 

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

What I learnt Inside a Big Glass Building (and a Happy New Year)!

Hello, 

Following bullet points are open to individual perspectives.

  1. This building is a machine. Its fuel is its people. It feeds on their soul.
  2. The only sounds are of beeping automatic locks of opaque glass doors, clicking of heels on an immaculately polished floor and remnants of quick phone calls made by humans who always seem to be in a hurry.
  3. Literally nobody cares. Breaks my heart.
  4. When people smile, they smile out of obligation, not choice.
  5. No love. It is like love arrived at this building’s door and turned away from all the malice.
  6. They’re nice to you because:
                  -they need you to get some work done.
                  -they are professionally obligated.
  7. No empathy. No one even tries to foster any. People make zero efforts to reach out. Zero.
  8. If someone senses you’re distressed, they’ll freeze and become unreachable. 
  9. You have to get used to eating meals alone. I’m sure everyone hates it the same, yet no one barely makes an effort to fix it. 
  10. Cafeterias are some of the scariest places in the world. 
  11. The moment it feels like they’re being too nice to you- be wary, there is some ulterior motive. 
  12. Nothing about the question, ‘How are you?’ is ever, even vaguely concerned with your well being but is asked solely to skip to the real purpose behind seeking you.
  13. You never make friends inside glass buildings. You only get to know a few strangers. 
  14. There is an abysmal lack of human warmth inside this glass castle. Poker faces, frowns, heads bent deep in cell phones or glued to a big screen pepper the hallway 24/7. 
  15. Everyday, I look around and I’m appalled by how badly we, as human beings- the one animal capable of nursing so much joy and affection- have fucked up. We really truly did. Maybe my quarrel really is with the state of the world- and not the glass building. If that is the case, I have a long battle to fight. 

 I miss greeting a face which is happy to see me. 


We have been together for so many years, thank you for being my constant companions.  I hope my blog helped you in some way, or made your heart slightly warmer, or gave you hope where you couldn’t find one.

Let us promise to do our parts in healing through art, through love and by being ourselves. Happy New Year guys. Wish you the best year of your life so far.

Thank you for everything, truly. See you on the other side. 

 

Love always,

Your Blogger. 

Bird in a long Winter (I)

Good morning,

Winter has finally settled in my part of the world (if I may be so bold as to claim it). Today my city felt like one of those dewy, misty mornings of London I’ve only read about in books.

A dense, quiet fog wafts through the air and the world below my balcony seems to be in a standstill.

I can’t tell you the details of the world below because my eyes are forever fixated towards the sky. 

The sky from my balcony appears to be the lightest shade of blue. Like today the sky is too tired to gleam. Too exhausted to shine. And the sun, no sign of it. 

Before my mind plays its tricks and I’m reminded of the enormity of this world I step inside and try to warm my freezing feet; a quandary I face every December.

Failing to do so, I take a deep breath and open my laptop, typing solemnly and ready to tame another, jaded day. 

 

 

Love always,
Your blogger. 

Cup of Thoughts- I

Hello all,

It’s been a while since I gathered the strength or willingness to directly reach out to you all. It’s not like I didn’t have thoughts to share (i always have thoughts to share) but I was waiting for something to stir me out of this mental hibernation I had purposely decided to settle into. And today on this rainy afternoon I managed to find it- or rather it found me.

I’m not going to go into detail as to what it is- I’ve decided to save that for some other day, but I do wish to share what it talked about.

While I was growing up, there was a small corner in my mind- one that didn’t indulge in mindless frivolities or amusing every minute of the day with a joke- in which a seed was planted, right at the moment I opened the page of a book. I remember that small corner getting more fertile and rich as I waded through classes, but all the more shoved away as I reached high school- perhaps due to my fear that it might be ridiculed, if exposed.

Now having passed those stages and after having experiences (both bitter and sweet) that honed me into who I am today, that small corner has matured, grown and occupied every rim of my mind, save a little for experience to fill. And now I find myself understanding every facet of life through this filter.

A thought I was fostering for a long time was recently addressed by a person I look up to, through a monthly letter sent to his readers, and that letter forms the content of ‘it’ today.

It spoke of the noise of the world. And by how each passing day that noise seems to grow louder and fiercer to the point that we’ve now chosen to ignore it and function along with it (i don’t know which is worse.)

When we stand on the cusp of adulthood, we’re asked to find our place in this world. Mostly through screaming what we are capable of accomplishing and grappling for that spotlight. We’re told that the world won’t notice us until we grab it by the collar and shake its attention towards us. That this world is a magnificent, malicious giant who won’t listen to you until you’re out there screaming ‘hey look what i can do’ with the rest.

My question has always been plain and simple. ‘What if I don’t wish to scream?’ What if the spotlight never appealed to me? What if in this world of distinguished humans who’re out there scaling new mountains everyday, I simply wish to walk along.

What if I choose to see the glass for what it is- rather than empty or full.

What if what I need in my corner of the world is the ability to simply be; without the looming threat of being ‘left behind’. To exist with art and find meaning on my way, while I try my best to foster love, kindness and empathy, should others ever need it.

I never wish to be part of this disorder. But rather help those who chose to lunge but are suffering. The letter said that beautiful things like art/poetry/love/kindness and empathy often come in a whisper. But since we’re all screaming and the noise is deafening, they whir past us. Some who’re wiser feel their presence at times but are unable to grasp it- the world being too big a distraction.

The world always seems too daunting to me. Too big for someone so small, so insignificant. I know that should I ever choose to scream along, my voice will be hushed before I’ve even opened my mouth, because I won’t.

That’s why I choose to remain in this corner, playing my part through what I write, hoping somewhere someone who’s stuck in the disorder bumps across it, and finds a moment of peace. Until then, I shall sit and nurture and grow as much as I can.

Go out there and make your mark. Look up at the stars more often.

If the disorder becomes too wild and you choose to look away from it, I’m right here waiting.

 

Until then.

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

Coffee counter- behind the scenes

briskly she wakes up at 4
and shrugs off tiny remains of the dream that lingers from last night
it’s December
month of endings
giving way to beginnings

she scurries to the bathroom
and before the crisp morning air
could bite her lungs
and remind her she’s human

she’s behind the counter again
taking the morning shift
brewing coffee like she once
brewed her dreams

her eyes are of glass
smile is mechanical
‘thank you sir, please visit again’
like an encrypted code

the morning rush dies down
and she peers at the remains of
a coffee cup
once full of bubbling fuel
now only tiny specks of brown dirt

who could’ve guessed something
so coveted and longed for,
fresh and strong an hour ago
would reduce to nothing
in a few slurps

her eyes meet a mirror
she looks away
this metaphor is too much to endure

a bell rings
her thoughts break
and then a voice escapes out of her
without even trying
then a smile
like a mechanism
‘good morning sir, what can I get you today?’

No sleep for this sad

The date was 15th,
and my head bobbed with the train’s rythemic jolts
two hours past midnight & everyone’s asleep
white ghosts hanging in the air
swaying softly as the train lulls them

the window which I peer through is shrouded in dark
and my own, restless reflection ornates it
Until i raise my head
and see lights twinkling in the distance
it’s a factory

I see small figures on metal beams
Pounding the hammer for tomorrow’s meal
silhouettes of smoke
rise through tall chambers
like a serpent keeping watch
the workers grind
quiet and morose

hours past midnight
and my train marches through
the factory recedes from view
so do the workers

the window is dark again
I’ll keep peering
untill tomorrow morning when I deboard
sip my morning tea at the station

and silently hope
they got their meal too.

 

Yet so far

In the math of two numbers
My life vacillates
11:10
So close to being lucky
So close to being loved
So close to being chosen
So close to 11:11
Almost
But never quite there.

I see the shore every time
From the boat
In which I paddle alone
Grappling, sweating
I reach out
Almost
I almost reach the shore
But I don’t make it.
Just like the numbers
11:10

I’m running
I see the finish line
I see the ribbon fluttering in the wind
I see it between my labored breaths
It’s right there
Only if I could just stretch my hand and grab it
But I don’t. I can’t.
Almost.

In a sea of numbers
I’ll always be 11:10
Almost reaching what my heart desires
But just missing it
Almost
But never quite there.

Don’t take my hand

My palms were never soft. If you ever held my hand you’d feel they’ve been chiseled and worked with.

They’re not fleshy, they’re not silken. They don’t possess any generic mark of femininity.

They are flat and pale. Like a slab of colorless granite. Green veins pulsate beneath my cold, pasty skin.

The upper terrain is rigged and rough, with blotches of sun burns I try to hide.

My palms are so even, so toned. There is no plumpness to denote that they were ever fostered or caressed.

So when you hold them, you might flinch, but you’ll come to know what years of struggle does to a pair of hands.

Because unlike other women, I never had a chance to be soft.

A Spatial Affair

Have I ever told you how much I love space?

Outer space.

The first time I ever managed to foster an ambition, I was 10 years old fashioning a blunt hair cut, dirty brown hoodie and eyes that weren’t blind without glasses. Hopping up and down with the kind of earnestness you expect from a kid who believes he’s just found his purpose in life, I announced with as much resolve as I could, “Mum, when I grow up, I will be an astronaut.”

In return I was thrust with a bag full of clothes that needed dry cleaning.

But my passion never snuffed. I went ahead and made a fat, exhaustingly detailed project on ‘The Solar System’ for my yearly submissions and ended up getting full marks.
“If I can get full marks here, I can surely become an astronaut”, my ten year old brain schemed eagerly.

But then I grew up. And slowly with each passing year and with the arrival of Physics, Chemistry and Math died my dream of ever stepping into space. Later arrived teenage angst, thick glasses and youthful indiscretion and my love for stars and planets was unwillingly buried under copious amounts of schoolwork.

After a decade when I unearthed that passion again and held it in my hand it seemed to throb with life; old but stronger and fiercer. And now when I look at it with grown up prudence I understand that my love for space has always been solely from the eyes of a romantic.

I love the stars for being stars. I see space as a vast painting, a gigantic portal of beauty and wonder. There is life in the cosmos. When the universe takes deep breaths our sky shakes a little. Meteors are sparkling messages from one galaxy to another. When the sky is pink, someone’s wish has been answered, when it is grey, somewhere someone’s heart is heavy. The universe is a huge, magnificent work of art, one that we’re too small and too puny to comprehend but too nosy to not be part of. It is for this reason that when you gaze at the night sky dotted with silver stars, your problems don’t seem so big.

This is how the artist in me has romanticized space and this is how it shall always be.

On December 13th after midnight, I lay on my terrace alone and watched the night sky slowly emblazoned with a dozen meteors. There was complete stillness except for an occasional brush of cold, frigid wind. First a thin streak of silver light slowly pierced through the velvety dark and I gulped and shivered a little.

And before I could blinked, the night was jewelled with a splendid meteor shower, an ethereal scenery painted by a strange, elusive artist above.

Reader, it was the most beautiful and heart warming feeling I ever experienced.

While the night before me swirled and danced with a thousand shades of gold, a strange, subdued part of me whispered and tugged at my sleeve. It made me turn my head and stare at the empty space next to me. Subconsciously I wondered how it’d be to experience something this miraculous next to someone. It’d be comforting to look sideways and smile in between, no?

The Geminid meteor shower arrives every December. I close my eyes and make a wish.

Maybe years from now on some December evening, the universe would be considerate and the sky will be pink, for me.

Love always,

Your blogger.


Close your eyes.
Turn off the lights.
Listen to it alone.


P.s- I hope everyone realizes the above piece is purely fictional. There’s no way I could’ve watched the Geminid Meteor Shower from my terrace in the heart of a bustling city. But since I yearned to experience it, I chose to live the event by wondering and writing about how it would feel like.
That’s all I could do, couldn’t I?

Love always,

Your blogger.

Talk is Cheap

Every Saturday evening at six, I sit amidst a sea of people in a small cafe North of Rivendell. It’s another such Saturday today.

The air around me crackles with words I don’t follow. I can’t distinguish voices, so it sounds like a perpetual buzzing in air. Mouths move, words are uttered but their meaning gets lost in a haze midway.

I take tiny, measured sips of my coffee, its warmth pulsating in my veins; my excuse for silence. The cubicle in which I sit is jammed with practiced smiles – not too much; not too little – and conspicuous gulps. The girl with a ruffled bow has her camera out already.

Someone utters something witty and our close knit huddle erupts in laughter. I don’t. My mind is befogged and I’m trying to focus on the label stuck to the bottle of hot sauce.
‘Manufactured in Hogsmeade.’ Peculiar.

I hook a finger in the collar of my turtleneck and pull, craning my neck slightly.
“Geez,” I glance at the sweater less arms around me, “doesn’t anybody else feel the brunt of December?”

Someone nudges me on the side. I turn and behold a perfect set of eyebrows creased in confusion. Inquiringly, she jerks her head up a little (sensing that my mind was distracted) and attempts to pull me back into the hubbub of the group.

I smile reassuringly and pretend to listen but the buzzing continues. She grins and rejoins the conversation, triumphing at the outcome.

What are they talking about?

I get stuck on a boy opposite me. I wonder if anyone noticed the blotch of ink on his left hand. His eyes are puffy and shoulders are slouching. He looks exhausted and appears skinnier than the last I saw him. He sits, beaming at everyone and clutching his mug tightly, holding on to the warmth he’s paying for.

I look away and peer through the frosted window I chose to sit next to. The street outside is a greyish blur.
“From the other side of this translucent glass,” I muse, “we must be a blur too. Five silhouettes.”

Glancing above I follow a thin wire of dazzling yellow lights hanging on rusted nails hammered several Christmases ago.

Everything twists further out of focus when suddenly – a voice hits me and the world zooms into sharp focus. I’m snapped back to clarity, crisp sounds of slurps and munches reach me. The conversation is suddenly discernible.

“Oh! Did anybody notice the sky this evening? Such a distinct, rain-washed midnight blue! I could see outlines of stars on the horizon when I walked here.”

The scruffy boy opposite me sighs and looks around the table, hoping for someone to mirror his spirit.

I smile at him feverishly.

See now the table has my attention.

Fleeting pillars

I put my chin softly, carefully
On your shoulders
They seem strong
like you have the world depending on them.
I take my first, calm, heavy breath in ages,
and look at you, looking at something else
you don’t even know.
you are looked at like that.
wonder if you’ll shrug & walk away
or will it make you sit and brood
the knowledge,
That you are looked at like that.

 

life has been gazing at, from a distance. From a safe distance.
life has been wanting to take a plunge but panicking on the first step.

Life has been aching from a distance.
Life has usually been a giant, barren field.

that gets flowers and rain occasionally.

 

my chin still rests on your sturdy, capable arms. Far more capable to ever turn towards me.

I know it. So I close my eyes and try live the brief comfort wholly.

And then I feel you slipping away.

then you stand and walk in a direction I can’t follow.
then I see you not looking back.

my chin plunges down and I take a moment to find balance.

you never knew,
If only for while,

you put all my fears to rest.

 

 

Love always,

Your blogger.