shitty first draft…

you know what i do best? lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. it’s my favourite activity. and then i have these weird urges. wait, who was that guy in Annie Hall who always felt an impulse to crash his car into the approaching headlights in his direction? oh well, i can’t recall the name, but yeah, that’s what these urges come the closest to. My vision gets all hazy and as soon as i feel i’m transcending the mundane realities that engulf me in the day, i snap out of it. it’s always either something stupid someone said recently or some song i had heard that gets stuck in my mind for eternity during the following week. they always get me. they do. these goddam trivialities that never let me do something big and keep me stuck. stuck, now that’s the word that defines my life. And forgive me if this sounds like a frustrated, whiny rant, but i mean, really, that’s just how i feel. it wouldn’t make you any smarter if you read this, right? it probably wouldn’t do much for you, but it would for me. a lot, actually. you know, it’s so hard to get things moving and that’s exactly what i’m trying to do here. if you haven’t already guessed, i want to write. even though i like it, i don’t do it very often. i feel stuck, yeah. so, i wait. i wait for the day when my hands would naturally reach for the pen and magically start pouring words on a paper, and not just words-on-a-blog-that-no-ever-reads words, but great words, you know. words that would move your freaking soul out of your stupid little body, and blow-your-goddam-mind kinda words. Booker prize-winning words. and Pulitzer Award-winning words. but there’s time for that, i know. and in the meanwhile, i can get myself to do nothing better than waiting for my big, *think of some crazy, inspiring art movie*-esque moment. it’s boring too, really. because the thought of going to the grave still in the shell doesn’t quite amuse me. on the contrary, it depresses the hell out of me. i dont know how some people do that. i would rather have my big, *think of some crazy, inspiring art movie*-esque moment, and fail miserably than not do anything at all. then why don’t i try, you may naturally wonder? well, i wish i knew. i also wish i asked myself this more often so that i WOULD know. but since i don’t, i dont have a lot of clear answers. it could be fear, yeah i think, that’s my best guess actually. but fear of what? greatness? failure..the big F? Meh. doesn’t matter, really. Simply put, i like writing, love it actually, and wish to do big things, but i don’t, and that’s a problem. Just that it’s not so simple. Rather it’s this entangled, enmeshed, complex web of crazy emotions and thoughts that underlie between the part from wanting to do it and not doing it. you would know that. we all do ’cause we’ve all been there. at least i hope we have. i really hope it’s something that everyone goes through during the nerve-wracking transition period to adult life, and get out of it as soon as it is complete. so, yeah, sorry for digressing, but coming back to me and writing. i like to write, but another problem is that i can’t do your average “fantastique” piece of writing. i can really either journal, like i’m doing now, you know something that reads like a long string of texts to a close friend when facing an existential crisis. Or i can be fancy, too. And i mean, Re-e-ally fancy by that. esoteric stuff that most people wouldn’t understand kind of fancy. but to tell you the truth, i can’t walk the middle path. it’s the hardest. i mean, imagine me starting off in a similar manner, pretending to be your regular, girl-next-door aspiring writer, and after two paragraphs turning on my inner Hart Crane, and shooting around fancy words, just to distinguish myself as an actually well-read, and literary kinda writer. that’s just phony crap and it’s not my thing. yeah, yeah, i get it. if this reads like something Salinger might have written, then i admit, i dig Catcher. but not only because he understood my teenage self in the most perfect way possible, but because i had found a companion in Holden. You know how they say that only someone who’s been through a similar situation understands your position best. well, he too, shared this urge of actually saying what he felt like saying, and not what he was expected to. can we just please for once allow people to do that. and i’m not just talking to you, i’m talking to myself too. we really need to give ourselves the chance to say, feel, and eventually, do things we truly want to, without the fear of being judged on the scale of perfection, and believing that we would be accepted the way we are. and even if we don’t, that’s perfectly okay because what really matters is that we accept ourselves first. that’s the most important thing, trust me. so, please, start believing in yourself a little, and go make that crappy-first painting, or write that shitty first draft, like i just did, no matter how disjointed, fragmented, and senseless it may seem. Because you would reeeally regret going to your grave in a shell, rather than trying and failing. if i can get you to understand this valuable lesson through simple words, my battle’s won.

Joie de Vivre

Dancing on embers
As the sacred passion immolates our hearts
Transfusing the breath
And transporting us to the no man’s world.
With our senses drunk on the ambrosia of existence.
As the Joie de vivre engulfs our formless forms
We forget to breathe.
Fear not my love
We’re eternal in this immortal moment.
My thirsty lips part to receive the elixir of life
Trickling down the edges of this endless ocean of nirvana.
No, I don’t wish to return to that un-magical, reasoned dimension they call reality.
Oh stay!
Let me linger here for another moment
As these azure rays revitalize, tantalize every atom of my being
And I imbibe the fire of love
Nothing but love
Un- breathed
Sacred love
How it livens my dead emotions.

The Cupboard Musings

The rains deluge
The bluish catacombs
Where twitches an underground soul.
Black dim moonlight
Piercing through translucent veils
Stirs unconscious emotions.
9 years ago, 9 years later
Still the same, still the same
The indigo sensation in my purple veins.
Was, Am, Will
Being and Becoming
Appearing, Disappearing
Clinging to his ephemeral permanence
I watch the observer evanesce.
Nothingness turns into nothingness
And vacuum fills the void.
What was?
What remains?
The indigo sensation in my purple veins
Still the same, still the same.


The emptiness of that deep space in your eyes is frightening. The words you say are nothing but sounds in the air I don’t understand. I see the end. I see destruction. A storm neither you nor I can predict, but our hearts feel it forebodingly. We see the inevitable, our minds are not ready to accept it just yet, thinking that we won’t let it happen, that we’re in control, but then, why do I feel so helpless? I know that I wouldn’t let go of your hand in the face of the storm and we’ll get through it together, but I have a certain feeling that maybe you wouldn’t care enough when the time comes. And ultimately I’ll be forced to give up, for the best of both of us, and because I would know that I’m no longer your key to happiness. In the end, love wouldn’t be strong enough to stand the test of time. Because your eyes don’t speak of love, they reflect the indifference in your heart.
I’m not a very optimistic person otherwise, but this feeling is too strong to be overlooked or attributed to my disposition. So, I do nothing but chide myself for being so negative and skeptical. I hear the clock ticking, and I squirm at the thought of having to live my life without you. Surprisingly, you seem to notice the uneasiness in my demeanor and ask what it is that’s troubling me. Nothing, I reply, for I’m too careful not offend you these days; you always seem to get annoyed at every little thing I say.
I feel the crack lines forming across my heart when you don’t even TRY to find out what’s wrong. When you take everything I say at face value, even when my body language screams of anxiety, though I try my best to cover it up with a broken smile, and I can’t help but wonder – why are you still here? No one is forcing you to stay, and if it is the thought of my heart shattering to pieces the only reason you still haven’t left, well, that’s something you don’t have to worry about. Loving you made me believe in myself, and living without you would only serve to prove how much stronger I’ve become. I couldn’t get your love, but don’t fool yourself into believing that I need your pity instead. I want the TRUTH. I can live with that. The recurring visions of you walking out on me one of these days, blaming it all on my insecure and jealous ways, are the reason I haven’t really slept for the last couple of days. What’s even more troubling is that you notice it, but never bother to enquire.
I can’t… this anymore. This could’ve been so perfect, so beautiful in some distant, alternate reality. Why not in this one? Uncertainty creeps inside of me with every passing moment. I look at you with pleading eyes. Save this. Save me.



Words…aren’t they beautiful? When woven into strings of coherent sentences, they act as a bridge between the chaotic inner world of constantly rising thoughts, feelings, ideas, and the outer reality of monotonous ruts and everyday struggles; and if it weren’t for these beautiful, harmonious words, we had a good chance of losing connection with the very essence of being human and the indescribable exaltation of being alive.

These words are my world.

They’re precious because they’re all I have. They’ve always been my selfless companions and confidantes, and I’ve always trusted them to get over stressful situations and times of loneliness. They are the only source I’ve had to understand the inner turmoil I went through, and each time, helped me decode my feelings and emotions which I otherwise had trouble understanding and that left me flustered, disoriented, and anxious.

They’ve been my hope and motivated me when I was on the brink of a breakdown. They’ve helped me rise above failures and try ‘just one last time’ each time I wanted to throw it all away and run, run until I was far enough from the insuperable problems the world inflicted on me, far from my mistakes, and far from……myself, or rather the person I had turned into.

I write for the pure joy, relief, and clarity this activity provides me with. I write for the simple reason that nothing else makes me happier than pouring words on a paper. If I were ever stuck on some remote, deserted island, all I’d need is a journal and a pen, and I’ll be the happiest person on the face of earth. Well, of course I’ll be needing food, water, and shelter from “the ever-friendly” beasts I could hope to find there, I’d spend my days wishing to die if I couldn’t find an outlet for my thoughts and feelings. Yeah, I know it sounds exaggerated, but it’s really that important to me.

We all go through highs and lows in our lives, I did too. There was a phase when my confidence levels hit rock bottom, and I stopped believing in myself. I found writing poetry and fiction intimidating, and restricted myself to journaling. I would drown out that little voice of motivation in my head with thousands of excuses, some of them being, ‘I’m not good enough’, ‘what if I fail in this as well?’

They say life is a balance of holding on and letting go. That’s precisely what I plan on doing through this blog. I need to let go of the what-ifs and should’ve-beens. I decided to start this blog as I felt it would help me be more consistent in my writing schedule, and also help me get some feedback from others, rather than just criticizing and condemning my writing on my own. This is intimidating, letting myself out in the open. Mixed feelings of vulnerability, courage, and indifference take over me, but as they say, life doesn’t offer same opportunities twice. Better to try and fail, rather than live a life of regrets. So, here I am, saying yes to my life, yes to my dreams, and taking a step towards them. I look forward to getting your feedback in order to improve and get better at doing what I love the most, that is, to write.