The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

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