The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

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

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

To the ones that dance, Imagine yourself in a room that has beautiful windows, they are open and the curtains are swaying so elegantly, a dance of love with the wind, one would assume. Suddenly the room fills with a soft music, you are confused and surprised. It's a slow song, and the next thing you know you are dancing. At a point, you close your eyes. Now you can see the blinding lights and thousands and thousands of people are watching you. You freeze you become anxious and nervous. You can hear their confusion too. You start running, but the stage seems to move around in circles. So you stop, you are helpless. You close your eyes and remember. Remember the time when you danced around naked in the shower and felt like the sexiest being on earth. Remember the time when you had a disco party inside your head when others played sad songs and stared out of the window and how you couldn't stop thinking if they were swirling around too inside their head. Remember the time when you

 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

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

The world is spinning around so fast around me, I feel like I am not even a part of it. But here I am in an overpriced dress, sitting in a coffee shop, holding the coffee cup a little too tightly, taking occasional sips and pretending that it was saving me. Is this even my favourite coffee shop? Why does the coffee taste like this- a little sway from being perfect? It irritates me even more. I know something can be done to fix the coffee but I can't exactly point it out. My life feels the same. Should I take control and ask them to make me another cup? Oh, the girl looks naive. I will just chuck it. I was getting late anyway. Maybe that is what is wrong with me. Pointing it out.  When your love life is a mess, the last place you want to be is at a wedding. Is it just me or is the happiness in the room pissing all of you? It's just me, it's just me. Why does everything look like a reminder that I am unhappy. I need to get out of here. I will just collect myself and be there

Chapter - 4 Love,love, love, where do I start? I loved being in love. No, I love being in love. I fell in love with eye contacts and smiles the moment I heard stories of long-lost loves. The ones where they promised to come back but wasn't heard of after, lost in time and wars.The ones where they confessed to each other only through eyes and hesitated to attend a get together party 23 years later being another's spouse. The ones that got lost in letters,in diaries, in terrible sights and in their smiles when they hear the word 'love'.  I love words. I love how I'd have to pause in between love stories and giggle. I remember finishing 'The God of Small things' and thinking how much Velutha loved Ammu and the most beautiful part is she knew. I remember praying for Cecilia and Robbie to reunite halfway through the book 'Atonement'. I love characters even though they are the writer's imaginations. The writers are strange creatures, they have the imme

Chapter - 3  A small note. I can't seem to remember the last time I felt like I wanted to disappear, which is a good sign. Disappear as in not an attempt for people to understand my worth, but just to erase the whole existence. When I think of it now, I feel like I was cruel to myself.  To Lily, I am sorry to have let you believe that you were in this alone for as long as I could remember. I know things would have been much better for you if only I'd answered those cries for help. I am glad that you stood up for yourself when they shamed you, even though you had to face consequences for the way you talked. I wished to console you but you were thinking about it too, like I was - was it true what they said? Was it really true? I cried a little when I saw you look in the mirror, never shredding a tear because you were used to it.  I am sorry that I let you believe that you couldn't love yourself, let alone others . The thoughts we had that you would always be a passer-by in ev

Chapter 2: Hate. Hate is such a strong word. I could never bring myself to look someone in the face and say 'I hate you' and mean it. But I have met people who could and it frightens me. The mere possibility of someone being filled with dread and anger at the thought of someone else. I always ask why, why do you hate them but the answers always go over my head. It scares me even more because I know it might be possible for me, for me to hate a person. Here's a story.  My grandma and I have these sessions in the afternoon where we talk until one of us falls asleep. We tell stories, talk about the day, talk about the future and sometimes about the past. One such afternoon, she decided to tell me a story. I still believe to this day that it was the comforting sunlight that gave enough warmth as a mother's breast, or the coolness of the pillow that would rock me to sleep, or the strange assurance of a listener that would be present till the end of the story, was what gave h

This is it. Chapter 1: Skies. I don't remember the first time I fell in love with the sky, but I vaguely remember why. I had a very poor eyesight and my eyes would always be glued to the ground. I knew something was wrong but was so hesitant as to seek anyone's help. When I knowingly started shifting to the first benches in classrooms and scrapping my knees every so often, I decided to tell my mother. I still remember that day. The day I got my first pair of spectacles, I looked away from the ground and then up. It was such a beautiful sight and I felt loved. It filled my little heart with so much glee to see such refined colours. And my first thought was 'Is this how everyone sees?' . Strange, isn't it? What's even more strange is the fact that I enjoy watching the sky alone. Not with a group of friends, or with a lover, or with someone who needs a shoulder to cry on. But alone. I was and still am afraid to share somethin g so magnificent an

You can see her in your drying tears, The ones you never wiped away, Because you knew it was to be the mark, The mark of that beautiful moment. You can see her in your mirror as she stares at your soul, That tells you to fight for what you really desire, You know who she is but you refuse to accept, Because the chains of your broken wings has left bruises. But I hope you realise that the glimpse, The glimpse of your soul, The glimpse of your heart, And the glimpse of your magic, It has a magnificent story to tell, A story that illuminates the very presence of your being.