You-

 

I see you

Barely hiding

Just beneath the surface

But I see you

Are you

The same snuffed out spirits

Like I see in the mirror

Unable to meet the eyes.

 

What if you see me

Like I see everything else

Unidimensional, singularly indifferent

And I see you

And want to really know you?

So I don’t.

 

What if I meet my eyes

And see just how discontented I really am?

So I don’t.

They betray the smiles and the songs

Instantly.

 

I dream

To look without averting my gaze

Be authentic, excited

Share it with you.

As I wish  was

With myself. Everyday.

 

Would it be okay

If we didn’t do the routine

Chat and wave and walk

After class?

Traded it for a

Quiet moment,

Uncompelled to make up words

To fill up silences?

 

Treat the unspoken word

With dignity

Like it would

If I could meet you

Eye to eye.

 

Just like if I could

Sit down

Just sit.

Look for lost peace

Smile a little

Outside of forced recreation

 

I twitch at the thought

It’s tempting

Like the thought

Of not being victim

To the wholly peculiar

Concept of normal

And saw

Me for me

And you for you.

 

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Flowers For A Grave

We never did say goodbye.

That’s what gets to me. Everything about this feels wrong.

Especially the fact that I’m counting on this piece to tell you what I can’t bring myself to.

It’s ironic how it went from when I could hit you up with anything just a month ago to this blankness.

This gaping void that widens the more I consider crossing it.

 

Just a month. What ever did happen?

 

I did get busy.

I got as busy as I could to hide. Conveniently.

I needed the space to stop thinking about how I was betraying you.

If having feelings is a perfectly natural instinct that people cannot avoid, so must be not reciprocating.

And I can’t.

This shouldn’t have to be this hard.

Xeno

 

xeno
n. the smallest measurable unit of human connection, typically exchanged between passing strangers—a flirtatious glance, a sympathetic nod, a shared laugh about some odd coincidence—moments that are fleeting and random but still contain powerful emotional nutrients that can alleviate the symptoms of feeling alone.

 

Two of the five young adults were deeply intimidated.

The man sitting a desk apart was dynamic and – as writers, they couldn’t point out a fitting word for his personality. They didn’t feel much shame- they barely had time to acknowledge it.

They were busy coming up with any sort of filler questions because this was a baffling interview.

All the traditional questions had been swept off a cliff because he kept coming up with nonanswers.

To what was a success, he slinked away with saying he wasn’t in the least bit successful.

To any role model figure, he’d said he had none.

To what were his hobbies, he shrugged.

 

They thanked  the heavens their Editor wasn’t there. She’d definitely have had a panic attack that he was avoiding all their questions.

This was a textbook stressful situation but he was so chatty and vivacious they weirdly felt at ease.

Three girls and one guy sitting in an office of a multi millionaire and they all felt comfortable.

Winds Of Change

Long drives in buses gave her time to think. She didn’t like that.

She put in two buds bearing rhythmic sounds and pretended to be blank.while all the while her head was misty, working away with a dull static noise that even loud music didn’t seem to filter out. The roads winding up a hill were matched to the crescendo of the song. She waveringly smiled.

She was conflicted with love, as young girls generally are at that age. The age of a blossoming. The completion of any metamorphosis. A new perspective on everything. A perpetual existential crisis.

The desire to question everything but not know the answers. Very questionable music taste.

The man in the seat next to hers observed quietly, indiscreetly.

OLIVE

There’s a blessing to your eyes

With a dainty face, the opposite of shy

The wispy flyaways, long lashes

Flutter just so slightly,

Graceful like a Knightley

In an Oscar nominated film

She wouldn’t watch.

 

The peace on her face, the expression lacking

Everything, it’s so easy to fall for her-

You should, it’s a treat to see

A sleep-struck friend. My sleep-struck friend.

 

Olive blanket, pale glow of fair skin

Speckled with red pimples, but you’ll still love her

Closed eyes that you instinctively know are pretty,

Thick hair scattered over an olive pillow.

Awake, it’s a whole new scenario.

 

You still want to be her friend though,

it’s still a treat to behold a pretty face and figure,

This time, the face is rife with irritation

And amusement and teasing glints

As she tries not at all to be cool

 

Authenticity suits her, just like her clothes

Custom made and perfectly fitted

The colours complementing her personality,

Equally vivid and mesmerizing

Carried effortlessly.

 

You want to be her friend- she’s a perfect catch

Moody and lazy and pretty and kind

Caring, funny, manipulative, short fused

It’s a joy to behold her, a tall task to keep her

But you’re gonna wanna try.

 

 

As hard as she can test your nerves

As hard as her games hit you

As hard as your elation can fall,

It’s an improvement to not knowing her

It’s a privilege to know her

It’s worth taking all those pictures,

Not being in any one,

It’s a far cry from misery, it’s worth a picture credit

At least.

And her company.

 

But when you see her pretty, blank face

Sleeping soundly, the pride lost

You will wonder what changes

When the delicate eyes flutter open.

(Almost fiction, inspired by the truly unique CP. 🙂 )

On Writing

Writing, I personally think, is for the haughty.

Those who believe in their values, that their opinions are justifiable, that they can withstand criticism, who claim responsibility and ownership, even demand credit over the fruits of their mind. People with statements to defend, with battles to win against a better equipped enemy, and words to weave into a legacy. These people, I’m truly jealous of. They spin tales of pretentious awareness, write for an audience that believes in the author’s competence just a little less than the author themselves, write pitiful real life tales with happy endings for social media to fawn over, publish articles that make one believe they are the refugees unable to seek asylum rather than first world softies they really are (probably).

 

I write, though because I cannot be bothered to express otherwise.

Because I don’t like to.

Because I don’t know how to.

Because there’s not always an audience to receive.

Because there are some things you just cannot speak out.

Because everything sounds like poetry when I read it silently, the eloquence that’s often missing in speech.

And because it’s the quietest show of power there could be.

The power of the words to make harmonious comprehension, the power of an idea that could potentially change lives and the power of permanence in the fluid world of text.

 

I’ve never found more satisfaction in expression than I have whilst writing. Sadly, however, I have lost my touch, the talent that is better in memory than it probably was when I believe I had it. Hence, as a project to help my words flow, my fingers type with a hundred mistakes a minute and an effort to be accountable to the skill I think I lost, is this blog, whose story you do not know (nor wish to, presumably).

Writing here, I think, has given me more than a legitimate excuse to procrastinate from all that burdens me. It gives me an ambition to write more and for more eyes than my two, it gives me tangible goals to set (and yes, break), and a sense of propriety for what I choose to express. Thank a higher power for the internet that makes this possible.

 

Let’s also not talk about me for a change.

Except everything I write is more representative of me than what I could ever tell you. I write like people use pictures on Instagram- to tell a tale indirectly, to prove to the world they really do exist and in a more curated manner than IRL.

I couldn’t flood you with a barrage of words like I will in a particularly interesting (for me) blogpost. I couldn’t wait to find someone with the patience to listen to me rant about the most mundane, wacky, pedestrian subjects ever. Like my writing about writing.

Like how I would craft very imaginary, fictitious worlds in my head over the years but never bothered to pen the numerous stories that could be down because I was scared of how they would be received. Think Gossip Girl meets real life characters like you or me. Think pushing the limits of fanfiction.

 

All the teasers aside, writing is seriously integral to my identity now, a mirror into my small imagination that was once a labyrinth of possibilities. I intend to write till I can produce that content I like to read (or that I remember me writing), or I die.

Whichever comes first.

Vision

Let’s have a little heart to heart, because that’s all I know.

 

I’m not the best person to ask for directions nor ask for advice on you OOTD, granted, but I can see what you miss while you’re busy scrolling through the endlessness of Instagram, scratching your head over whether your party favours look picture perfect, Pintrest in real life. I’ll never ask you for a selfie, nor ask you to fix your hair if we’re out together. Even in public. I’m just here looking out for you.

I’ll see the sadness when you put on your brave smiles, I’ll be the one asking you what’s wrong because you can tell me. There will literally be no judgement in my eyes. Trust me.

Us

I love humans.

I love humans for how ‘important’ we are

For how important we perceive our lives to be-

How many lies we tell

To appease our valid, deep rooted doubts

Those which make us question life as we know it

But we don’t

For we have more on our minds

Or just really small brains

For we are a species of highly limited perception-

Able to notice the barest minimum

To All You Teasers;

Lately I’ve realized how mortified people are to be teased with me and while that is extremely offensive to me, I understand.

Let me explain.

I know, all too well, the urge to tease people with others and how it’s unkind but so much fun if they don’t appreciate the teasing. It’s such a sadistic pleasure to tease people with people they outrightly dislike- although it’s a pain in the A to be on the receiving end of this behaviour. Worse still, the more extreme your aversion to be teased with somebody, the more of a ship it becomes.

There’s two possible outcomes to this teasing (from friends’ perspective):

1. That the ship eventually transforms into a real thing and you can take credit for all the “matchmaking” that is, even by a far stretch of imagination, not.
2. It’s sufficient payment for your sins of a similar fashion for which you have to paypaypay.

 

In my case, the reason nobody wants to be teased with me is probably because some people ARE and to all of you, all I have to say is sorry. You probably have some karmic baggage from previous generations.

What I genuinely cannot understand though, is why people that have faced the pain of being teased continue to do so!

I realize that most of the people I’ve been teased with have at some point or the other been on my radar so I have little to offer as justification in that case. In case you really wanted to know, nothing came out of the teasing. (Thanks, friends.

(To be frank, I spent multiple years of my life hung up on someone because my friends’ teasing made me see them in a whole new light but I didn’t tell them this until very recently. Ha- serves you right.) )

HOWEVER in the case when I can plausibly never have any feelings for anyone, teasing is literally the worst deterrent for any potential friendship, too and this I cannot accept. I’m being serious because this fear is apparent to me when guys talk as testily as people ever can- there’s just so much social pressure people can withstand and I’m not all that interesting that people will go against the grain to talk to me, so please don’t make it awkward? Thanks.

It’s just a damn shame when the possibility of friendship is lost on account of aimless whisperers. Just saying.

 

Just before you forget, tease as you wish to be teased in return.

Also, people that are afraid of approaching people out of fear of people teasing them- you’re pansies of the highest order. Just saying.

Just A Reality Check.

So I recently watched an animated movie after too much of a sabbatical from the world of animation and you know what? I totally loved the film- it had a mature story line, a classic plot twist, the underdog phenomenon and brilliant animation.

These attributes, however, confuse me when I remember I was watching a film meant for kids.

The movie was supposed to be for kids so why was I not impressed by the lightness, the colours, the magic of innocence and just the crazy simplicity of the story?

Because movies just aren’t made that way now. Especially for kids.

The big business model that films must be a part of to survive has inevitably caused an ageing for these supposedly innocent films- case in point- the Toy Story franchise and Inside Out- which obviously widens the demographic but presents such a characteristic, formula based film to impressive youngsters, I can’t help but sigh to myself.

 

Trust me when I say this isn’t good.

 

I think there’s already pressure to grow and be socially accepted without us promoting a certain kind of reality through mainstream film, media.

Is there any out for people to grow outside of society and its norms? I doubt.

Is there a reason why we really shouldn’t present formulated reality to kids? Yes, please change this rhetoric!?

Kids shouldn’t be led down your narrow field of experience nor be force fed beliefs that will ultimately fail them when they really need to call upon them.

 

Have you ever felt like life was getting too monotonous and totally unlike the excitement and good-frenzy that you associated with a good life? I did. I do. My friends do as well. My ultimate OMFG moment, when I realized nothing was interesting taught me just this- that life gets worse with expectation.

It sucks that we have to pick and choose among all of our life the moments that were fun and cool and forget the others because of the monotony and drudgery they would otherwise remind us of. This classification based on what a good life has to be- never normal and varying over a significant spectrum of emotions- leaves me so distraught because every single low I go through reinforces the belief in me that I have lost. Lost what? Who cares? It’s just the bitterness of failure that steeps my rational mind, because of one little setback- I can’t handle it.  

 

Boredom, paralysis, sadness are clear signs of failure, right?

I have to say yes because status quo decided that for me.

I have no real sense of reality because then I’d accept willingly the tasks I am assigned, I’d quietly sit out the days when I’m low as an unchained anchor and I’d know now, not to dream of perfection in life.

Balance- balance is all I can hope for because perfection is just too much of an ideal notion.

However we still hold on, clutching to the faint hopes that perfection will actually prevail someday, so it can restore our faith in our own beliefs- ones we can no longer trust but can’t find the strength to shake off.

Grow up, guys.  Let kids grow up normally, too (not with the sparkling barbie style glasses that promise endless parties and dancing and perfectly groomed gentlemen to fulfil her every whim).