tell me, what's worse ? forgetting my birthday, or, moving past the people who remind me of that cursed day ? nothing is going to fill the craters, the crevices, no Bible is going to compensate for the verses, that the heated Carnot engine inside my six-inch-screen had ingested into its heat-sink.
pardon the thermodynamics, pardon my tendencies, seeking science in tragedies — the wave of unwarranted spite, it washes you over like a misplaced summer breeze in the middle of November. so, here's the warm breeze at the cusp of a wintry realisation : you would rather take it to the stories since, the lack of validation, made you feel bitter.
nothing punches a hole into my heart, bigger than leaving home and my parents, exactly before the hour of my adulthood — exactly before, the death-clock tends to twenty. my mother had asked me to have faith, and, honestly, if there was somebody up there : I would have asked him to help me; to blow the heaven's trumpet, help me, in the death of my innocence.
Society never fails to abuse pretty reckless behaviour of her heels, never fails to deliver advices—longer than the length of her kurti but certainly fails to hold discussions over the front page article about her success story.
Silence is peaceful and harmful. Some days, it cleans the filthy mindset and some days, forms a noose 'round successive frustrations, bringing the best out of one, digging the worst out of another.