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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.