The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

 I can barely remember what I talked about yesterday but there is so much I still remember so vividly and on a day that does seem kind, I might be tempted to tell the world all of it. But will anyone look at me the same again? Like a person that breaks down in the middle of a crowd, or a breakup story that travels through all mutual friends or how you opened up to someone that you trusted a lot or days when you are really silent, that is all you will be remembered for, stories. People do have their own mysterious way to remember you. I want to be able to tell my story, every single bit of it, about how I love and why I cry, about the simple things I am grateful for and the people that I am glad I met, about my bad days and how my voice breaks when I try to be kind, about the people who loves me and cares for me in the most soft and caressing ways. I want to be able to tell the world how I feel. I think everyone needs to tell the world what burns inside them with so much power so that t

What's so great about palindromes?  The idea of a word sounding the same when you write it backwards, meaning the same when most of the others don't. Why are we so intrigued by this? Does it make you believe in something bigger? Maybe it's because we are always surrounded by words that lose its value when you turn it back. Maybe it's because it does feel nice to believe that even when you reach the end nothing is ever going to change. In a world full of uncertainties, some of us have always found comfort in words and some days I feel the words need us too to live.  A friend I made used to send me the poems he wrote. I don't know much about him but I know how he feels, how everyday makes him feel, how much he loves his close ones and how much he was hurting. He'd send me poems he wrote for his muse and I have kept them on a pedestal in my mind so that I can always remember this is how it must feel to be loved. His poems felt like a palindrome, one that could neve

When life feels a little too much to handle I want to be able to say so. When life asks a lot from me in too little time I want to scream the unknown deadlines of my pain. When life suffocates me and then asks me to breathe I want to show how little life it could have taken anyway. When life hands out a rope made of unenthusiastic hope I want to be able to hold onto it even by a single thread. When life comforts me through a friend's "You okay?" I want to be able to say "I am not." When life strips me naked to witness my muster of emotions I want it to be in front of a faithful friend or my forgiving self. When life gives me a chance to love again I want to use it on myself. And if I still have traces of life While I stand there answering all of your questions, Please come hold my hand, let's live once again.

We came into this world together With a promise to be each other's forever. The unspeakable bond was shaken wildly When I was given away to receive love from another. I would look at you being loved so dearly And wondered if you would ever want to come back. And when life started feeling empty without you, I started out on a journey alone. I collected happiness in excess  Not wanting to fall behind on memories to share when we finally reunite. I held smiles, praises and empathy tightly Never letting even a single emotion disappear. When we met again, I held the hands of an empty stranger. You spoke in a language I couldn't decipher, You expressed affection in a way I couldn't understand You told me you lost everything  While you stood waiting for me. A guilty feeling brooded over our company, Our moody skies and rainbows  Stood baffled unable to pass through a thin wall. We sat together in silence, One full of love and the other devoid, One in a wonderland and the other gro

  I wonder how you hold a hand over your gaping wound and forgive so tenderly, So softly like the eyes that meet the arrival of spring. For once I want you to enjoy spring to the fullest before you welcome summer. I wish you'd finally find it in yourself to let it out and heal your wounds So that we could watch winter in the warmth of each other. We all kept our worries a secret and didn't realise how they were the same. A little love and tenderness could have soothed our pain but we were so oblivious. And I watched you lower your shoulders with the heaviness of the burdens on your heart. I wonder if one day you'll wake up frightened realising how effortlessly it had held you down When your tender reassurances could have lifted them. I wonder if you'll listen to me when I ask you to let people go, forgive them for yourself, let yourself be loved the way you ought to be, And to give life a chance. I promise I'll come back to you when I have enough love to give to you

  A leader was born  The day your child said she wanted the green toy and not the pink one; The day your child said he wanted pink shoes; The day your child said she preferred pants over lacy dresses; The day your child said he wanted to paint his nails; The day your child said she loved playing football; The day your child asked you if you'd take a picture of him in his new frock. A leader was born The day your child stepped out of the box that mapped their predetermined interests; The day your children believed that they were more than their gender; The day they realised they were ready to open the cages of conformity; The day they realised they were breaking stereotypes; The day they went out into the world as themselves And knew they deserved the world as the world deserves them; A leader is born One who will require your love and support To use it as a shield when hate that arises from unfamiliarity tries to hunt them down; One who will understand that love and kindness kept t

She wrote down his name in the front page of her book in tiny letters. She loved how wonderful it felt to leave the book around in the open with her affection for everyone to see and touch but no one ever noticed the gigantic messages hidden in those tiny letters. She would smile to herself for the little mysteries she created in her life. Sometimes she would purposely let him borrow her book and watched him look so clueless and oblivious to her love. The excitement that follows made her want to scream into the open that she was so ardently in love. She wrote down his name in page 33 of her book. They walked home together everyday and one day he told her that her smile reminded him of someone beautiful he knew. She couldn't sleep that night, she tossed and turned in her bed and then she rushed to her mirror and smiled. She looked lovely. She decided to tell him that she wanted him to be hers to hold, to love and to cherish. She wanted to surprise him with her confession. She asked

The girl cried into the night, Sounds of her sorrows reverberating, And crashing onto the neighbour's roofs. "What is it, my dear? Why are you wailing?", the neighbours hurried towards the child. "My pa came home today and slapped my ma.", she said amidst sobs. "Oh dear. These men! Their hands are conditioned  To smack women so often, The women in the house flinch like reflex on touch, And hide in the dark to escape their wrath. Oh you poor child.", they held their chin in their palms, to hold the sorrow of the child and the misfortune of her ma. The next day she cried again  And the neighbours hurried to her doorstep, The misfortune of her ma being Mumbled under their breath. "My pa is bleeding. Amma hit him without reason. Please help my pa!"she begged for their help. The neighbours peered with contempt "What a spineless man!", they laughed and they left, The echoes of their laughter settling down, Weighing down like anchors of st

The cafe was bustling with customers on a Sunday. I ordered a milkshake and gazed at how beautifully the day gave way for the night to arrive. When the milkshake was delivered to my table after a whole twenty minutes, I took a nice long sip and was devouring the happiness when I could sense the shift of change in the atmosphere. A customer had entered and suddenly the air was sucked out of its components and replaced with confusion and unwarranted hate. A transwoman. She was different, said every nudge, every whisper, and every stare. She was different, as we all are and as we all take pride in. But she was really different, they reminded her. I wondered whether people really embraced the ideology that we are all different from each other.  She sat across from me. Suddenly I felt a huge rush of emotions and thoughts playing inside me. Was I scared of how people would react? Was I worried about how she'd feel ? Was I anxious about what I wouldn't be able to do? I glanced at her

Once upon a time, there was a woman who was a little crazy in her head. Or so they said. Wait, this is how you begin stories that people listen to,right? Okay, let's continue. She found a liking to my mother because my mother was a gem when it came to conversations. She usually exhausted her evenings by talking to the old men who exchanged words only to buy more time to stare at her breasts. But since she found a liking to my mother, she'd wait around and accompany her in her evening walks. There's someone who's excited to meet you, my mother would say and I would be excited too.  One day, I finally met her. She is the type of person you'd find a immediate liking to. She talked with so much love and joy in her eyes. She was also funny, well funny in a way that might scare the society. Let me explain. While we were walking,this middle-aged man passed us by and said to my mother "Oh! You have got the best walking companion.",looked over to the woman and said

We all think about tragedies. It doesn't necessarily have to happen to us, it could be anyone's. Maybe it is an underlying feeling in ourselves borne out of sympathy. No, is it empathy? The way we dwell in the sorrow of others like we have none of our own makes me want to believe in the world. Even if it would be a sad one.  When I see someone in pain, I hope that this isn't the first time tragedy has struck them. I hope it is the fourth or fifth or second time because by then you'll slowly learn how to cope with it. And the fact that we have to is saddening by itself but aren't we all done trying asking for things to be better? Aren't we all tired of kneeling and praying in front of everyone and everything that makes us want to believe in hope again? Aren't we all tired of making closed rooms, taps running and walls our solace? Aren't you?  But the first time. The first time strikes as loud as the clock strikes twelve at night, a feeling of unknown impe

Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself all day long  Only to find myself succumbed amid Words, poems, people and minute things, Glamourising every inch of the letter, rhyme, Body and feelings. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself when I come across  romanticization of emotions by famous poets and writers, Does a person make you feel like that? Do I have to feel like that to know it's love?  Because the last time I knew I was in love, I was just happy, you know. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself as I listen to songs about heartbreak. Should I ache with every bit of my soul  And immerse myself in tunes of sorrow and remorse? Should I rock myself to sleep with every scenario playing in my head? Because the last time I felt heartbreak, I felt so very sad looking at them, you know. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself as I watch the rain without a care in the world. My mind so empty and full of thoughts That I star

"My muse? What a strange thing to ask." I said, looking deeply into the eyes of the person sitting across me. She looked a bit intimidated and I felt an unease nudging in myself to relax the mood.  "I mean, what a wonderful thing to ask." I said with a sigh. She reminded me why I stopped conversing with people in the first place; the impending idea of being nice to everyone was eating me alive. It didn't come as easy as before. When she asked to meet, I said yes because I was tired of how I saw the world and I desperately needed to watch it with someone with different ideas to save myself. I recognised her as soon as I stepped into the cafe. It was hard not to notice her with her bright yellow dress that had hundreds of small cars on it. I caught a glimpse of myself through the glass doors as I prepared to leave. So different. So very different. I took a deep breath, turned around and walked toward her table.  "Hey. Did I make you wait for long?" I ask

How do you tell someone that they mean a lot to you because a few words stringed together would never do justice to how they make you feel. How someone feels like a beautiful clear day you'd watch after a stormy night, both of them magnificent on their own but we wouldn't appreciate one if the other weren't present. How someone feels like the hands that guide the paper boats in rainy season, while all the others watched theirs sink. How someone feels like the type of person you have always wanted to meet but never knew until you started talking to them. Someone that carried the burdens of her life on her shoulders yet laughed so brightly that your heart eases just a little knowing that she's here. She saw the world for its cruelty and kindness. She saw everyone for their insecurities and strengths. But she was kind about it, undeniably. And I saw her. She is the humblest person I have ever known. She'd take me out on walks and share the most complicated parts of her

People never know how to fill the pages of their diary, or how to love someone without hurting them eventually, or how to tell someone that they have found solace in them. But people try. They try to copy the pages of someone's diary, try to amend mistakes, try to look a person in the eye and voice words that are so real that they become the embodiment of happiness. And people fail. They fail to find themselves in what they wrote, they hurt them over and over again, they practise saying things that never touch the intensity of what they want to convey. But people try again.  I have written in so many diaries. But I have completed none. I have tried writing everyday but then realised my life was uneventful. I then tried writing on days when something eventful happened or I was being dramatic but I believed that every moment is worth living for. And then it became a cycle. But eventually along the way, I found myself in those pages. I still remember the day I read through my old diar

A bell in the back of my mind, It keeps counts, one, two, three, The numbers are lost on me now Stitching itself onto my skin,my eyes my conscience, my love. The closet I finally opened has locked me from inside In a bigger, vulnerable, scarier closet. I have nightmares of how people look at me, like A person that doesn't deserve to love Or to be loved. All because of the gender I chose. Four, five, six, I live in a bed of lies, the pillows Have collected the truths I cry about, My sexuality is hidden under the carpet Of understanding It screams everytime someone knocks on the door Only to be muffled by fibres of insecurity And lack of reassurance. Seven, eight, nine I could see the change in people's eyes When I finally walked out They never looked at me the same. My heart pushed me forward Telling me I deserve everything I deserve to experience as much as the next person My life was in shackles but my heart was free And little by little, it help

Pic credits: Tammy York Dear music How do I start this letter? Should I yell at you first or tell you about how grateful I am for your existence or should I just ask you the question I have always wanted to ask "How do you do it?".  I can't say that I have always been an ardent admirer of you. To be honest, I was more into fairy tales, stories and books when I was young. Not because I loved the stories or fell into the depth of all the words and meanings but because I felt like I was a part of a world that someone else made and they wanted someone to listen to it and I am a good listener. You see, I have always wanted to belong somewhere and the words made me a perfect cradle. But don't get jealous, I am here to talk about you.  I used to listen to you at night just so I can sleep. It's not poetic in any way, don't be mistaken. I had a crush then and when you arrived I could easily make impossible scenarios inside my head and go to sleep when my brain gets tir

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

 I have always hated endings. Be it a sad movie, a car ride, a lunch date, a conversation, the mere inevitability that all things come to an end. Be it good or bad. The bolt of relief for the latter immediately being replaced by ingratitude.  But I have always loved beginnings and the 'in-betweens'.  The last time I went for a car ride, I couldn't stop thinking how much the music had affected my surroundings. A happy song lifted the spirits of everyone inside and outside, in the middle it was like the whole world had become a part of a big musical if they liked it or not, but the end was always a disaster. The people still rushing by without even giving a thought to the end beat, the trees swaying way too energetically for an ending, the snoring of your sibling sitting right next to you, you just know this was not the ending you wanted. It's the same with any trip. Even though I fuss a lot about the whole journey, I secretly love sitting in the same position until I fee