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 clenched thinking how someone can be carrying so much pain but dance like nothing is wrong. Like they’re not screaming for help inside.

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, isn’t it?

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 bedeviled with pain,

Pain others carry well,

Or don’t. How would I know.

what I do know is pain shared is easier to carry

Like the sack of potatoes that 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 facefront,

Your brain,

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,

while I jumble between a hundred

full grown adults,

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 has now become 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.

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.

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: