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.

Tunnel

hope is but a small, weak, quivering flame.

there is no light at the end of all this

mindless darkness

demands impossible bravery

& i possess none.

i want the happiness they

talk about in poems

but now I know though

why the poets have always been doomed.

Love always,

Your blogger.

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:

Extremes

Lately my heart oscillates too much,

between boundless joy and utter despair.

The joy dissipates as fast as it arrives

The despair however lingers longer.

The centre of my heart turns cold

The core of my body layered in sheets of ice

When I breathe

It takes collective effort of every muscle.

I also feel weak, emotionally.

Drained, mentally.

I have always had a fire burning inside me,

It feeds my spirit.

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

Until a tiny, insignificant moment ignites it again,

And my heart is warmer,

like it’s home.

I live for those moments of joy,

I wait patiently for them to show up,

I revel in their uncertainty, like a drug,

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

until my heart starts beating again,

instead of thrumming.

Soon it is over.

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

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

I will come to hope more,

And after having it tossed aside,

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

but could’ve been.

My inner Seol is my consolation. 🙂

Love always,

Your blogger.

What I learnt Inside a Big Glass Building- II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

 

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

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

A Feeble Attempt at Understanding Growing Up- I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep true to the dreams of thy youth.”

 

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

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

Hello, 

Following bullet points are open to individual perspectives.

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

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


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

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

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

 

Love always,

Your Blogger. 

Bird in a long Winter (I)

Good morning,

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Love always,
Your blogger. 

Plane watcher

New cities are hard to feel at home in
every face a stranger,
every room cold
devoid of the comforting sense of familiarity. 

that’s why I find myself perched in balconies
of hotels, studios or polished penthouses
hunched over railings,
scooping a mug of strange tea.

eyes glued towards the vast expanse 
of a foggy night sky
traffic in the backdrop a distant hum,
conversations facile
while my eyes face the universe
with hope

When a plane snails its way under the moon
red lights twinkling at me, teasing.
I blink and sigh
The birds have left this city
Look,
I am now a plane watcher. 

Here’s to our Happy Endings

Hello all,

I have finally found the reason people cling to stories. 

They use fiction to heal what reality breaks. Forgive me, I do not wish to blindly mar what I dislike, but reality isn’t always pretty, nor is it anywhere close to how our heart wishes it to be. Reality and fiction run parallel, and some of us find ourselves hopelessly clinging to both with life ordaining us to maintain a healthy balance. 

It is a secret trapdoor in our vast, intimidating and often tedious material world. Some of us (rather most) wish to secretly escape through that door, never to return, while some sigh at its impossibility and content themselves with occasional peaks through it. 

I belong somewhere in the middle. There are periods where I open that trapdoor, climb through and sit there to my heart’s content. I believe I am the happiest then. Other days I try to be rational and real, two words I sincerely dislike (though understand their gravity). But even in reality, a tiny fraction in my heart still dwells in stories and imagination (and magic).

I believe others do that too; take that trapdoor with them. It gives them a tool, a feeling that helps keep the drudgery of life away, that tool is hope. The greatest drug, the foundation of our present and the promise of our future. It saves lives. It is what makes us brush the dust off and walk again.

Stories are like a bridge connecting us to that hope. They help allay our grief, ‘It’s okay. It’ll get better. Eventually. One day.’ They are a proof that we deserve happy endings, more importantly, that happy endings are possible. That they exist. 

Fiction helps mellow today’s hurt. So keep reading, listening, watching through your trapdoor. Keep it alive. There is a bright, luminous promise somewhere in there that things will be better.

They have to be. 

Love always,
Your blogger. 

Cup of Thoughts- I

Hello all,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Until then.

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

Coffee counter- behind the scenes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No sleep for this sad

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

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

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

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

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

and silently hope
they got their meal too.