The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

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

I can sense my desire to reach out to you. To delicately wrap my fingers around that one single thread, Keeping my reflexes in control to not make a mistake, One strong pull and I would have you broken, In my arms for a while, I would feel you, Never really knowing how to fix you. So I take my time, and with each touch I murmur my desire to my lips, Reminding myself of why I had to have you. But is that what it takes? Oh is that what it takes. And then it broke, the thin thread stroking my fingers, Lifeless and calm, neither the strong wind nor I could resurrect you, You didn't budge even a little, so I left you there, My heart too weak to try and my hands bleeding, Not a tear fell, not a single heartbeat, not even a tinge of regret, But a thought whizzed by, and echoed indifference. And I knew, This is not what it takes.

After years of struggling, we finally convinced Papa. We were taking driving classes. It was super fun when we had them together. After an exhausting 10 minutes of driving each, we three would come home giggling. The teacher would drop us off at the bakery. Despite the plans we made yesterday night after the heavy dinner, we would drift into bakery with such big smiles. One lime soda, two neiyappam and one undampori . Within seconds, we were devouring it like hungry kids. Someone you were nice to the other day would come to talk to us and you would tuck away the remaining neiyappam back into the plastic bag, struggling to swallow the piece you had in your mouth . Oh god, how much I love her. It's these small moments,you know. You see them doing something as simple as brushing their hair or picking up a flower that you realise you love them. Eventually, we would reach home, sweating, thirsty and utterly tired. We would lie down on the bed. We would compliment Ryan on his

He writes down the name of every girl he has fallen in love with. What a strange thing to do. For people like us, for whom love came like the showers in desert, so rare, using a pen and a paper to remember people was futile. We had them etched in our hearts. Too beautifully sculpted for eternity. I could sense pride in his eyes. I wanted to erase it. I told him there was nothing so precious about his little idea. He calls us rigid, too scared to open up, to fall in love, always worried about the consequences. He was right. I kept my silence, hastily thinking of ways to prove him wrong. He wanted me to talk. Not to listen, but to prove me wrong again and again. And I wanted to talk. But I wanted to listen more. So I ask him about the girls. His stories were exceptional. I didn't want to admit it at first, but I finally gave in. People like him, they gave it all. All of them, whole. The intense desire to prove him wrong turned to faint admiration. And within seconds, I started

Among all the wildflowers I have ever met, You will always hold a special place. Never would I be able to explain, The intimacy of our paper-thin encounter, And the glorious journey thereafter. I passed by you the first time, the second time, and well the third time does bring the charm. And then and there, I knew, I felt, The cluster of magic being added to our stories. As the day passes, taking back all the memories and regrets, Stripping us of all the miniscule moments of emotions, I still can't help remembering my life without you. Among all the wildflowers I have found in the wild, I hope you love the place you bloomed.

There are many moments in one's life that makes us realise that nothing will be the same anymore. The air you breathe, your own voice, your home, the sky, everything looks different now. It could be for better or for worse. And as a person, I keep these moments close to my heart. Be it damaging or enlightening, they always have a place. A place I visit often. The day was as boring as any day could be. Everyone moving on with their daily chores and conversations. The same faces I see everyday, I walk by everyday, only today I actually wanted to know how they were feeling today. I wanted to know whether they were happy or sad, anxious or relaxed, angry or monotonous. I wanted to know. Because I knew this day wasn't like the other days. At least for me. I could see him, cycling away, in front of me. I wondered whether he felt the same. I don't remember what happened that day. I think people lie when they say they can remember a day like they were living it today. A bl

If I ask you about your dreams, don't reveal them to me. I might steal it. Not the whole of it, but tiny parts of it. Parts you thought didn't mean much but was the very being of it. But if you ever let your guard down and ignore my warning, I would listen to you with an open heart. I would smile and laugh, sympathize and try to empathize, and maybe fall in love with your dreams. As much as I love big dreams, I have a soft spot for the small tiny ones. The tiny intimidate ones. And when I see you again, I would thank you for giving me a wonderful time. But you would never know why. I stole it from you but you would never realise it. The perfect crime. Someone once told me never write about people. People you love. People you hate. People you meet. People who just exist. It is too cruel of an act to suppress them within a bundle of words. Let the words free, let it emerge in the form of sound, let it hit the air, let it just be there. But I was scared. Words were my solace.