To miraquill, As an engineering student who is avidly told about entrepreneurship, I understand the growing and expanding of this app, the changes and all the other things that have happened since 2019 (I guess?). And miraquill is a good name, but even today when I install this app, I type mirakee on the search bar.
So, as a writer who was here in 2018 mirakee era, I feel conflicted. I miss the old feed, the old people who have left and perhaps, the old me, too. I have no doubt that platforms will grow but for us, the old writers, mirakee will be fond memories of our favorite people, our favorite poems, our favorite words and our favorite comment sections. So, as a writer, I feel sadness and longing for the things that once used to be.
My journey on this app will always be my fondest memory because I remember experimenting writing, then writing for validation and finally, writing for myself and accepting that. And at the expense of sounding crazy, maybe a lot of journeys are like that.
I have always wanted to write this out but felt as if it was of no importance to anyone, or me, but it is important because mirakee chased a lot of my nightmares away. I still come here to write when I want to just write and let go and I still come here to read people who bring back good old times to me and I still come back sometimes to just read.
And as I conclude, I feel acceptance for my writing, which is an important part of me and I feel acceptance of reality, as we all do. This is what life is. A good old simple chapter in our book waiting to make our future selves realize: this is good. Future is fond of simple past even if it seems complicated in the present.
When I break, may it be in such glory That you feel bewitched watching me crumble Let's create a romance so devastating They come and see and cry and come again.
When I break, may it be on the banks of the river May it be such a leap of shattered pieces That the water wonders, Will my depth cover the damage in clean deception Or will it stretch through the oceans, Like the pieces of herself?
When I break, may it be so loud It will deafen anyone who doesn't care And feel like crystal of despair and power simultaneously On the ears of people I give the power to watch me unbecome my soul essence.
When I break, may it be so blazing It burns everything that is not me And i feel content in my ashes Travelling the world.
When I break, may the trust I build be so strong It doesn't break the people I trust or me May it break everything I let happen But not everything I made happen.
When I break, may it be in an unsymmetrical poem May it make sense to everyone in their own way Enough to let me break Enough to let them break Just, enough.
Hello everyone. I'm back. Kinda? Did y'all miss me?
Okay. So I have a lot to say. I missed mirakee soooo much. I forgot how I could write whatever I want here. I've been a lil antisocial lately. It's like a lot of things making sense all at once and it gets a lil too much sometimes .
I feel guilt, embarrassment, resent, regret but the feeling that gave me the final push to download mirakee again was... I realized that we're all alone, fighting our own battles in this world and for the first time this doesn't scare me or makes me sad. I don't know. For the first time in forever, I don't feel like I need someone's attention. I'm happy having my own attention.
This is not a writeup. This is my heart bleeding the only way it knows. I've never felt like I truly belonged somewhere. I never felt I'm one of the crowd. And I wanted to. For so so long. It started a long time ago too. My parents used to work and on days when I had to be picked up from school, There were often miscommunications. I used to watch parents come and children go with them. More so often than not I was the last one to go home. I've never felt like I'm normal. I can stand in between group of people and I'll always have this feeling They all have something in common, every last one of them, that I don't. And that's why they communicate so casually. I always felt left out. I've had trust issues even before I knew the meaning of this term. I don't have anyone to call my home. No friends I can really call my true friends. You'll often find me mingling, smiling, making conversations But I'll never tell them what's on my mind. My throat refuses to let those words out of the cage. What if my thoughts, feelings, emotions are weird, different, not normal? I've tried making peace with the fact I don't know how to hold people in my life. They always slip away. All of the people surrounding me know this secret The key to my insecurities. They know or they fake confidence amazingly. Some days, most days, I feel ashamed of my own thoughts. I feel ashamed of loathing me. Other days, I pick myself up and move on. I tried talking to people, random strangers and failed. I don't really know what I want anymore. I don't really know what is normal anymore.
( i knowwww. I may or may not remove it soon. I knowww. I'm like the worst one for not replying to you people. I'm fine. Kind of. Thank you for caring. I hope you all are too.)
My refrigerator is a mess. It's almost been eleven months since I bought the cheese, almost nine since it expired, almost seven since you died. The cheese for the Paprika Pie, you were supposed to teach me how to bake. It doesn't stink, you know. It's just there, wrapped in plastic, 'authentic greek Feta'. I just don't have the heart to throw it out, and so it stays.
It's almost frustrating how your death affects me. In the most mundane of things, the shattering finality of it. The stabbing invasiveness in every moment I experience, the beautiful ones, the tragic ones, every place I go to. You will have none of that, nothing. Every future photograph will find you missing.
But today's about cheese. While I'm away at work, my roommate decides to clean the refrigerator. When I return home, I find the cheese in the garbage. 'You...', I say dumbly, 'you... threw the cheese...' 'Yes, duh!' comes the almost irritated reply, 'Do you NOT look at the expiry dates or what!'
"I absolutely want nothing but to be held right now", she manages to whisper in between sniffles as the grip of her fingers entwined on mine tightens.
I look at her helplessly, my fists clench. How much more? I wonder, grudging. How close do I need to hold you for you to stop wanting to be held? How tight should my clasp on you be for you to not uproot my nails when you turn your back on me? All over again. I want to say it out loud and preface it with a bitter laugh. I don't, ofcourse. Because she's breaking down. And I'm tagging along, whether I like it or not.
"I'm such a mess", she finally forces a sigh, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation, almost mad at herself.
"You're such a ... Rudolph", I retort confused, only half joking because her sniffling nose beneath those glossy eyes is a shade of crimson due to all the sobbing over a jerk who wouldn rather love someone else. I close my eyes before they can roll.
"Stop making me laugh."
"Stop crying then!" I almost shout. Staring blankly at her, my face expressionless, hopefully not at all transparent to the frustration coursing through me.
She gives me one of her defiant looks. The one that says I'm-not-mad-but-I'm-gonna-be-a-brat. Eyes indignant, lips puckered up into a little pout. Face flushed and nose red. So much for having the prettiest face on the planet. Pathetic!
"Keep looking at me like that and I'll kiss you till you drop", I say with a straight face, not at all joking.
But she snorts. Ofcourse.
"You mean like my very platonic roommate?" She laughs, making finger quotes around "platonic", evidently recalling what the bastard had said.
"Don't you quote that jerk to me, it's repulsive!" I clench my fist again.
"Hey! Don't be like that now. It's not his fault and you know it. We don't get to choose whom we fall for", says the girl who has just spent two hours breaking down, in defence of her heartbreaker.
"Besides", she continues, "I love the way he loves him. Keenan makes him happy in a way I never can. I'd never have known of the existence of that doe-eyed smile if it wasn't for him.", says this girl like it's the only truth she's ever known. Like it's not at all a punch in the gut to say it out loud. This girl who says stuff such as this with utmost sincerity and then wonders at 2:00 ams if there's anything even remotely lovable about her.
"I love the way he loves him."
I reiterate her words to myself, over and over again, because that's the only set of words that makes sense tonight.
They hang in the air around us as I hold her fragile frame a little closer than I intend to.
hazy when it rains i look out of a window stretching my palms towards freedom pretending that there is more to this world while a subdued part of me wonders what more can i ever see through the only window i am allowed to keep
fuzzy when it's cold my window is frosted with facades and faint cries of everything that is protecting me from what lives outside my room that my crutches cannot distinguish with two clicks on the ground on the other side of the only window i am allowed to keep
bright in summer, i feel heat i try to look outside but my eyes betray me as i fail to make sense of the beauty that i've only drawn in pictures that are now paper planes, flying i scratch the window, try to break through for myself a view that is for once not adulterated with the descriptions from the eyes of everyone else who's been luckier than me to see the world, unfiltered but what view do i see when my eyes physically prevent me from distinguishing between sky blue and tree green as i sit behind a dead black screen realising, that to me, the world shall always look alike, through whatever window i'm allowed to keep.