The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

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

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