The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

Pic credits: Bobbi Whiteman. To my Man on the moon  There are two things I am absolutely terrible at : directions and writing secret letters. And the irony of it is almost funny because I can't stop thinking about all the places I would go and all the words I would splash on a piece of paper to let someone know that I love them with all of my being. You have to take credit for the ignited hope in my heart that hasn't been washed down by my interaction with others and I would always be grateful to you for that. I do confuse myself sometimes. I remember the most strangest things about places. How the sun shines a little differently on the east side of the park, or how the leaves refuse to let out a scrunching sound on that particular lane because of all the shade, or how a wind blows as I walk down that small road from where I can see my home at exactly 6:26pm. I know it sounds all stupid, it probably might be but anything to hear you laugh. Seriously though, I got lost in a mall

Art by Owen Gent The scorching heat of the afternoon was unbearable, clothes melting into the skin, bodies becoming a salty sea, and minds wandering around frenzied. Estha, Rahel and Sophie mol looks like they are having the times of their lives, running around in the sun, playing in the boat. The sound of their laughter pierces through the walls of the old house, holding it together. Holding the image I have of my home together, a house that creaks with my past, drunk odours, the sounds of fathers slapping mothers and of sons slapping fathers. Their laughter feels like a small version of me picking up all the scattered pieces of the image with bleeding hands telling me 'one day, this will be home.' ..... I slowly undress myself, removing each piece of clothing and savouring the restricted air touching me. I step inside. As the water slowly makes its way, touching every part of my body I remember Velutha. I rest my head against the wall and wish it was his shoulder, the one whe

He wakes up to the music playing in his room. He lies on his back and stares blankly at the ceiling. Then again at the decrepit music system he refuses to throw out. It was a gift, and for him it was a machine of memories. The actual owner was a lady, a music lover herself. The majority kind, the ones that love to listen but can't sing even in their dreams. Maybe that is why she loved Mark. A singer that lived in black and white until he met her. When Mark died, she stopped listening to music. She decided to give away the music player altogether, an action that made one think that she didn't want any remnants of his existence. But then again she gave it to him, her nextdoor neighbour. One can't help but think that everytime he plays his music, she dances in her hallway with Mark's soul. *You make me feel like, I've been locked out of heaven, for too long.* (Locked out of heaven- Bruno Mars) He looks over to the naked woman sleeping next to him. He doesn't rememb

I wake up from what seems like a long sleep. My body is too tired to move. Before I open my eyes, I stretch my hands to reach out to my bedside stand so as to grab my spectacles. It had become a habit almost, not allowing myself to see with my weak vision. It had worsened throughout the years. I can feel how weak I have become. My hands brush past the stand, wait it was a table, unfamiliar texture. I knock down something, which wakes up someone sitting on a chair beside my bed. I open my eyes, I can barely make out my mom from the mirage of her familiarity. She tells me everything is okay which clearly implies that it is not. I ask for my spectacles. She hands them over to me. The first thing I notice is her face. Dried tears. I caress my weak hands over her soft skin. "Why are you crying?" She burst into sobs of tears and fears. She runs out, leaving me alone. Is it right to leave a dying person alone? Dying. It doesn't matter anymore. I  still remember how I sc