|A lazy, random guy filled with uttermost curiosity.|
Some play with colours,
Others paint their lives with their bleeding hearts.
Some sleep soundly at night,
Others pray nightly for their tears to dry up.
Some drink to forgive, some drink to forget.
Some smoke to remember, some smoke to regret.
Some cry, trying to hold on,
Others smile, as they try to let go.
Some see new dreams,
Others try to gather fragments of broken ones.
Some die, some wait for oblivion
Some live, some just wait to live.
Have you seen that girl lately? I can't seem to find her now. I think she got a little lost. If you see her again, tell her I am on my way. If you get a chance to speak to her, would you tell her that I care? Maybe she is not at all lost. Maybe it's the fear she is afraid of. Fear that she might lose my love. If her fears are too strong, she might not listen to me. If you get a chance will you talk to her? Maybe she has a little grief. Would you tell her that she is loved and loved unconditionally, by a love that's greatest of all. One that waits and dreams of her, one that smiles when it thinks of her. Would you tell her that she is needed and she may hurry and bring herself back.
You absorb everything from other people, like a sponge. You're an empath. Hence, they want to talk to you, share with you and unburden themselves. But do you realise that that is weighing you down in the process? You need to learn to say a no when it gets to much for you. Okay?
Sometimes, it's hard for the ones who leave. Sometimes, it's hard for the ones who get left behind. Where are you headed?
There's something I realized about life that someday you're gonna get hurt. You're going to suffer some kind of heart break, some kind of loss.
You're going to have sleepless night and you're gonna cry yourself for hours. But still you'll have moments where you heal. Those moments are best. You feel like you're alive again and when you smile you feel like you're doing it for the first time.
Life just kind of restarts
Sometimes the only way to take a really good look at yourself is through someone else's eyes. If you're lucky, you'll like what you see or you'll at least learn from it. If you don't like what you see, all you can do is hope that you haven't burned too many bridges.
Say Good. When there is nothing good to say. Shut up! Let others speak about bad things and you be a good listener. Ensure that you are not carrying their garbage at home, but you are just helping them to keep their house clean.
And tonight was straight out of the pages of his story - the screeching wind, creaking doors, a veil of dust, columns of smoke, dark, deserted roads, flickering street lamps, whispering leaves, broken twigs, fallen branches, conspiring trees, bloody knees, dead ends and a lonely soul stranded in the middle of this mess.
It's so dangerous to play with someone's emotions because you have no idea the damage you are causing.
Don't be with someone just because you feel alone for a period of time. Don't just be with someone to fill in your gaps. Imagine what that would feel like if someone did that to you.
When someone disappears, don't let them reappear just because they feel like it. And if you've ever faced that - just remember, “it's better they did it now rather than later on.”
Don't trade who you are for who you think the world needs.
- Assorted Soul
Do people want to inflict the hurt that they have gone through on the people that they love and who hurt them in the first place? Would it make us horrible, horrible human beings?
It has been so long. I've not felt like this in a while. I want to love someone.
I felt that way too once. I thought I had so much love to give. I went around looking for people to give it to. But people don't stay long enough. So I taught myself a better use of that love. I divide it now, equally, between myself and my work.
I said I would never talk to you again. Yet, I did. Again. And again. And again. Everyday. Daily. In my head.
They judge themselves, enough, everyday, daily. Their tragedy is not in the fact that they die or get killed in the end. It is in what they let die between them and what they killed inside of them, while they lived. Their careers are those of calculating villains, but their characters those of penitent, remorseful, conscience-stricken, scared, mad, haunted ghosts of former glorious selves, and oddly enough the two lines can run parallel and even meet.
No, I do not judge them. I am them.
She is fond of me.
Fond? That's such a sorry, meaningless word. So hollow. Do you want to be fond of yourself?
Well, she likes me. I think she does. I think I have seen kindness in her eyes when she looks at me. And tenderness. She is patient with me. She could have left. There's nothing stopping her anymore. But she's here, you know.
No one is there for anyone always. But when I really need her, and when she knows I need her, in those devastating, crushing moments, she shows me she cares. I think she even loves me, in her own strange, weird way.
And how long did you take to convince yourself of this lie?
Who would I be without these lies? :)
You had come, unasked. Knocked on the door, uninvited. You were let in. Given a spare key. Accepted, acknowledged, embraced, fed, nourished, gradually worshipped, and eventually loved. You stayed and healed, bit by bit, everyday, daily. And now you want to leave. Maybe because you have discovered that, that was a magic key which only gets heavier with time. Maybe because you don't want to afford the rent. Maybe because you have healed completely. Maybe because you had always planned on leaving.
Maybe because you are selfish. Simple.
But remember, you had come unasked.
To his Brain: Have you ever learnt to be quiet? Shut Up, please. I've had enough!
Brain to him: You're screaming at the wrong person. It's your heart, silly!
And have you ever allowed the Rain to kiss you and caress you, love you and make love to you? You'll rarely find a more passionate lover.
Have you ever been able to keep track of the shifting tectonic plates of your heart, over cups of shared coffee?
I lost some weight recently: 13 kgs in the last 2 months. It hasn't made me happy. Most people look happy/ feel happy/ pretend to be happy in such a situation but I have only been reminded of how I've lived my entire life seeking acknowledgement. Ever since I was little every time I played the piano or wrote a story or topped in an exam or sang a song or painted on the walls or translated a poem I sought acknowledgement: from mum and dad or best friend or favourite teacher, someone or the other, always. Maybe I was born that way. I realized that I've perhaps never really done anything that has defined my life in any significant way for myself alone. I lost weight seeking acknowledgement...
"Gift me a metaphor", she said.
- "You are a necklace of fireworks. You light from both ends."
But I am not a palace anymore,
Only a housing cooperative with flats now
And their endless claimants.
This one is for the husband,
Those for the children,
That for the old mother-in-law,
The remaining nooks and crannies
Divided among guests, relatives.
I am Draupadi,
Shared, though differently, you know.
I don’t have it in me to give you my all, all over again,
Like before. But I’ll try, I still can –
Roaring rivers do not die at low tide.
You too have aged then, have you?
Submitted to the authority of decline?
In my eyes, though, I still see you wearing that crown,
I still see that royal umbrella spread over your crown.
I see those stars which have kept alive in their flesh
And their bones the wisdom of their ancestors,
Towards your eyes, like sparrows, like mynahs,
Looking to build permanent nests.
What have you not got in life?
Why this hurt, angry pride?
If I could check this wave of destruction
What a woman does at night, whom she talks to, goes out on walks with or eats with or plays with should be her business, entirely and not subject to your dirty judgement. Some day, just for day perhaps, focus on how she employs her time from sunrise to sunset. You'll be surprised to know, there's much much more to her than you are willing to give her credit for..
He: The thesaurus that I have been following lists 'love' as one of the ten saddest words in the English language.
She: I have heard of this school of thought which says love isnt love unless there is a little bit of tragedy involved.
He: I belonged to that school too, till a couple of weeks ago. That's when I realised how I had been romanticising tragedy all my life and that when real pain hits you, all such notions of poetry and being elevated to tragic pedestal collapse immediately.
I will pass through you, my beloved city,
Like a ship with a merchandise of spices passing through a shore
Like a cloud shaped like a heavenly city
Passing through your sky only once
Like a mendicant with a moon-crown
Passing your door for alms
Like a snow flower appearing
In your sun-lit winter morning
Like a soft breeze that fondled your exhausted body unforgettably
I too will pass through you
O my beloved city
Of many joys
Of many taverns with oldest wines
Of temples with forgotten deities of the earth
I will bring nothing to you
I will take nothing from you
Only this fragrance I was born with
That comes with me everywhere
Will I ...
When the sun comes up this silence will melt
And evaporate through our skins.
You, who has witnessed,
And I, who have travelled
And the stories we seek in our dissected
will no longer require the jaded
brilliance of words.
Perhaps even wisdom will be found
at the bottom of teacups
and all other places we are afraid to
Because it is still cold.
When the mist clears a travelogue will
of journeys undertaken in hardship and alone.
And all that we have lost in migration
Will be retrieved by us.
One by one.
Till we find within each other’s voids
What we sometimes feel is lost.
How did you realise that you're no longer in love with her?
I stopped waiting.
Delete chat history?
No. NO. Fuck. Nononono. Goddamnitno. N.O. Fuck.
And with one careless yes, that could not be undone, he managed to undo all the carefully targeted NOs that had been the reason of his undoing, thread by veinlike-thread, over the last fifty four nights.
Our histories, like our memories, are nothing but stories. A new one is only one wayward word away.