The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

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

 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

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

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.

Maybe I've been writing a lot about love these days. Maybe I behave in a way that 'people in love' does. Maybe love is very underrated. I am very concerned about this fact. so, here is my epitome on it. Or maybe I am just ranting about why I see love from a whole different angle and it might sound weird to you guys but its a pretty elevated feeling. "I don't wanna marry", these four words can cause chaos in the most peaceful situations. Trust me, if you feel like your parents or just people doesn't give much attention to you, I promise you that these four magic words stringed together can give you the ultimate fame. You become the source of all silly debates,attention forms a heavy cloud over your head promising to shower you with it all day. I mean its nothing but its everything. I hope you are getting the gist of it. Because I relate to everything with my experiences, I might be able to tell you all about my life with this tiny topic (so shallow,huh?

  My heart beating fast,hands holding on tightly,sweating a lot,but with a huge smile on my face I said "Mom,be careful! Don't worry,I am holding the cycle." "Don't you dare leave me! Omg,I should have stayed at home. I am gonna die!!", she screamed. I let go of my hands sweating profoundly. I couldn't stop smiling at how beautiful the moment was. Someone striving to achieve their dreams is an amazing sight. It makes you believe in miracles. It makes you persistent that there is no bullshit as broken dreams- those are the dreams 'we' are scared to achieve. With my hands on my knees,hair a stupid mess,panting heavily ,I wished the whole world was there to witness the moment.   "How did I ride? Was it correct? I did it ,right?", my mom asked in a hurry. Although she cycled in a zig-zag mode which would most probably kill half the people on the road, I flashed her a thumbs up and smile. Before she could set out on another killing spree, I