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 looks an enormous ceiling, painted and bedecked with gentle 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 skedaddle and cross the road, narrowly escaping a splash of muddy water from the wheels of a rushing 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 beneath the rising rent & underpaid jobs that are the 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. Carriage driver, a plump man in his 40s, with his face flushed and chubby further added, “I was about to leave Ms,” he twinkled, “when, judging by the pace and intensity you were speeding at towards me, I understood my customer is here.”

I burst out laughing. Partly because of how witty & good humoured that thought was, and partly because of the sigh of leaving an awful glass building early and the joy of heading home in a nice, dewey weather.

Still peering through the rear view he added, “Ms, please don’t take offence, 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 back to ignition, his eyes darted back to the clogged road attentively, 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 glaring 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 rare, carefree, kind and guileless quirks of a laugh with no buried intention. A laugh meted solely because of 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 of roti and saag, he too notices the grim faces and empty eyes of the people whiling through their lunch breaks trying to make it through another day.

Perhaps he too wishes for a merrier, warmer world. Where respect and kindness are offered without prejudice. Perhaps when we laugh and acknowledge the presence of another breathing thing, we fix a tiny gash somewhere in the fabric of 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 here,
where the pink of the sky is just within reach,
& where waves crash & fall,
like a million diamonds scattering.

where cherry blossoms bloom,
with all their might,
& whirl away softly,
by a cool 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 that my head hurts,
then i see a slender beam of light escaping
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 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.

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.

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.

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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.