A couple realisations I had in the past few months, but kept on ignoring because I am free to do so, and that makes me a tad bit scared.
1. When we love someone, somewhere we blur all of their wrong doings. Maybe we know that they are also humans and commit various mistakes. But we always stand by their side, knowing that the grass on ours side is not greener either.
2. Ever since I started reading about wars and conflicts I knew that people who die in war are numbers, numbers which speak for the valour and the extent of the war. They are names without families. But since when did those who die of the government's insufficiency and the larger vaccine politics, since when did we limit them to numbers, to newer records everyday.
3. Every time I try to understand how my brain is wired, every time I search about anxiety and feeling insufficient on the web, the blue screen tells me that I need a therapist. Someone with his or her own life problems to come and deal mine and make me feel less insufficient. My insufficiency isnt a problem to be dealt with by someone else or a disease with a certified cure. It is a reflection of my own truth.
4. I suck at taking the right decisions. For instance I am writing these realisations.
This is a complication of five letters/poetries, I never completed. Be kind. 1. To my love They say, the faster you fall in love, the sooner you fall out of it. Well if that's the case, then I fell for you at negative speed, slower than anyone can imagine. I would and I still play each of the smallest moments I spent with you at .25x speed in my mind for thousands of times, only to see how your cheeks slowly slide, while your lips curve into a smile. If this is being a hopeless romantic, then I don't even an agreement to prove that I am one. I wrote this one paragraph of shit, only to make you believe that no matter what you choose, I am not falling out of us. Never. I wish I could ..
From A love who will stay (You choose it, or you don't, it will stay)
2. I should not have agreed last night.
3. //There's a pain in my heart and it won't go away.// Day 364 of trying to keep my distance from you. Each attempt of mine is like that of ice trying to feel warmth. Is it possible? No. It is like, the ice knows that it is not meant to know what warmth feels like. But it keeps trying and trying, holding onto some hope. You see, you can not be mine, but no matter how hard I try, I come back to you, maybe somewhere I feel that no matter how cold I am, I deserve warmth.
4. To the love I am letting go
They say life is about letting go. Only when a tree let's go of all it's dried withered eaves in the harsh autumn, can it grow new beautiful ones again for its beloved spring. Only when a flower dries off and let's each of its petal fall off, can it grow into a fruit. Only when the sky let's all its clouds vent themselves all out, can the sun shine. But is life only about the new beautiful leaves, a fruit or the sun shining. I have had a thing for the harshest autumns, dried petals and dark clouds, maybe that is why letting go has never been easy for me.
From The girl who stayed
5. To My next lover
I have been staring at the ceiling long enough that I have memorised each fault that the painters made, each area they double coloured, each whole, each crack. No matter how hard I try to give this pattern no meaning, my mind takes me back to believing that i am nothing but just another crack, just another whole in someone's life, and only if that someone is as mad as me, would he ever stare long enough at me on his empty ceiling to know exactly who I am. I have given up on love. But if love finds me again through you, I want you to know that the hopeless romantic in me has not died, it is Alive. I have always given a lot more love than I had, I have given a lot of live to bullies(who deserved a slap in the face), to my ex-best friend( who maybe was never one) and to my ex-lovers( including the ones who still love me). So if I am drained of love, fill me up again. And I promise to pay you back.
From A girl who gave a lot more love than she ever had
I don't know if this is even shittier than I think It is. Also @_aradhya, thankyou❤️
/You see, I am scared, scared because I am free. They say, freedom is luxurious, but being free scares me./ Uncertainty- A Noun Meaning : The state of being uncertain.
Uncertain- An adjective Meaning : not completely confident or sure of something. Since the day I found freedom, the fear of uncertainty has been making me numb. /If I finally am free, why is it that i fear uncertainty./
Choice - A Noun Meaning - The act of choosing between two or more possibilities. If I am free, why is it that I have to choose? Why can't everything bring me muse? /What if I don't really have any alternatives And I choose the only possibility, Then isn't my freedom of choice relative?/
Maktub - A Noun Meaning : It is written When it is has already been written, do I really have a choice? /The decisions I make, are they really made by me? If not, then am I really free?/
//Could have completed atleast this rant but I have got chapters to complete. // Me posting random half written things i spent 2 mins writing, like it is completely normal. Meanwhile my English teacher be like, so you understood my classes all along??
I came across thi amazing poem on mirakee. It made me write a similar version. I know that mine is no where to be compared with the original one. But because I wrote this inspite of the very fact that I should be studying for my 10th boards, I am posting this here. Inspired by fistfight ( written by @samarlexis ) I have been here for quite a while. I still don't know who to tag, so yeah that's it. And I am sorry if the length disturbs you.
The sun rises and sets alike. Whatever lies between the rise and the set is an undefined mess. All men gaze at the sunrise and the sunset. Have you ever seen someone talk of love to a noon sun? Does anyone acknowledge the coldness the sun experiences before sunset or the heat before sunrise? What happens after sunset and before sunrise? Have you ever gazed aimlessly at the sun at 9:37 a.m. and whisper to yourself a small poem, or does your body clock make you wait until it is 12 in the night, or 4 in the morning? You see many men decipher the beginning and the ends of things, situations, experiences and feelings. The ball your mother bought you for your first birthday, The bully who had crused the very same ball in front of you and you watch him do it. The day you were born, oblivious of what awaits you, what is this world you have just entered. The day you find yourself at the roof of your building, when you decide to take your life away. Falling in love, the first time you had fell, all those firsts, the first butterflies, the first glances and what not. Falling out of love, day by day, bit by bit.
The ending of each are often a lot difficult to handle then the beginning. But in the myriad of our obsession for the begin all and the end all of almost every single thing, we forget to ask the most important questions. Questions whose answers would give meaning to the reality. The sun rises not to set, rather it rises for you to know that after long hours of darkness, light traces its path to you. The sun sets not to rise again, but rather to remind you that darkness is no bad, like light it plays its own role. In the begin all and the end all, let's not forget why it all began and why it comes to a halt,. It is for the journey. The memories, the decisions, the instances, the feelings.
27th January 2021. The time was 7 ish, when my father got a call that his father passed away. He was in the bus, on his way to his hometown, back to his father to spend last moments with him. And he died when papa was in the bus.
My grandfather had been ill for a long time. He had made mistakes in his life, and he suffered for it in his aged life. When his suffering was over, he left the earth peacefully and became a speck of dust in this atmosphere. He stopped talking to everyone a week before he passed away, just muttering words and names, showing no notice for anyone who came.
I was never close to my Baba. We neither had a lovely relationship nor a hatred one. He was just there and so was I. He never asked about me and I never asked about him. We both were aware of each other. I had heard about him through mum. It was only that last year, I started thinking about him. I talked to him once before he died but he didn't speak to me. He just muttered words.
When I got his news, I couldn't cry. My heart stopped beating. I didn't know what to feel We were prepared, but it still felt sudden to me. And when I was in the bus, I didn't cry. I was normal. I didn't feel I lost someone.
Until I reached the house we had shifted from 8 years ago. When I was a few houses away, I saw my father standing. It was dawn when we reached, even the dogs who barked at everyone didn't bark, they stayed silent. Maybe they felt death as well. I saw my father. That's when I felt death. That moment right there.
I stepped inside. I looked at everyone. Silence. Sobbing. My mum cried instantly as she saw his cold self. I didn't see my Papa's father lying there. I saw my Baba. After an hour, I sat beside him. I looked at him. And I cried.
I cried less because he was not there anymore. But more because I could not recall any memory with him to remember him by. Everytime I hear my friend who's grandfather passed away talk about him profoundly, I shut my mouth and smile. I take in those memories and feel they are mine.
What made me write about this? It's been approximately 4 months since his death, why did I write now? I saw an advertisement. Honestly. I saw an advertisement of a grandfather playing with his granddaughter. I felt sad. Then I went outside and saw a star, I wished he was there resting.
My Baba's death hurts because his death wasn't just passing away of a family member but a realization for me that so much time had passed away and there was no memory of him and me that I remember or can recall.
That is what hurt.
This is something I never thought I would write about. But lately, I've been trying to write about myself, and about certain things that happened in my life. I wrote about my Baba's death.
When you start bleeding poetries at 2 a.m without your mother offering you a sanitary napkin to hide the stains , paint your lips in red and stretch them a little more than usual. Nine out of ten times she will not notice the damage!
When you start sailing poems in the ocean of melancholy and you know your father is a harbour devoid of poetry, sink deep , die slowly and accept that you will never make it to his eyes!
Jesus said, time would heal every wound that there is — a test of time, it is, standing as the sand keeps on slipping away from the crevices of the same fingers that shaped you, into the cotton-candy you are, today, and, to me.
dreams that occur to me, tinted in pink until it fades back to black and white. and, if you love oysters more than you love me; my heart's already sinking by the bedside, by the sea, too bad that the octopuses wouldn't breathe into me — sometimes, this world removes me, from its center because it wants to revolve around you, and only you.
give me a place to belong, you did — take it away, before it starts to feel like home, for a starved traveller who's been on his own, all along; all along, you knew all along, and this hospice, you were building, all along; all along, you knew death's knocking on my door.
all along, if you knew, why couldn't you tell me, make me acquainted to the death that's coming for me — come closer to give me the last kiss, before death touches the soil of my tongue; a salivary swarm and, if it makes you happy, (I would die, right here in your arms).