“The brave may not live forever, but the cautious don’t live at all.
You said you wished to be
the greatest poet ever and
set to write the most
beautiful poem ever written
to immortalize, not in the
sands of time, for they fade
with time, but in the
rocks of centuries, your muse,
Me. And though today your
calloused hand lies cold and
dead, and the exquisite
smile your godly face adorned
is bereft of any affection, just
the ghost of what lay there once,
and the hazel eyes that made
me feel like the only girl in
the world are shut close are
hopefully, at peace. I
move silently as if I am
the one who left, across the room
to the papers that lay scattered
on your desk, my name written
on them. I open them and see a spectre
of words, beautifully written
in a variety of inks, some of
which is blotched and some of
it is cut hastily and in between
the wordly chaos, I find the
most beautiful lines ever written.
As my eyes well up with
tears, I think how you wrote
the greatest poem ever,
though just for me and how you lied,
immortalizing me in just your
memories, that will ironically
be buried in the sands of,
not time, but the earth,
like your mortal self.
As I had said, I’ll always be a happy lifeaholic forever, I am proud to say that my trust hasn’t be broken.
We are privileged to have amongst us, the newly reborn, the happy lifeaholic forever, Adi from
The A Happy Lifeaholic. She deleted her old blog last month due to some personal situations, but she’s back in a completely new avatar.
She’s a ray of sunshine, truly people and is extremely smart for a 5 feet-ish someone. Go follow her, y’all, and join her as she goes on about her adventures in another country, another city, Kent, where she is pursuing her masters.
Go. I really mean go follow her.
The will to write has evaded me. My thoughts are scattered and whatever solace I found in my words has bereft me. The words that tumbled out of me earlier, as smoothly as water from a tap, are today an ocean, and I am unable to build a boat sturdy enough to move against the current. I function these days, like a plane, who is being driven by a source far superior to my own everyday.
I have never found myself so utterly helpless and unworthy. I spend seconds staring at the wall that turn into minutes and hours, and with each passing second the feeling of being a shipwrecked passenger engulfs me. The sole inspiration of writing this post came from a quote I read somewhere, “Start somewhere, anywhere. Write a few lines. Say anything. And see what happens. Don’t think about it too much or make any fancy announcements. Justwrite. It doesn’t need to be eloquent or presentable; it just needs to be written.” (Yes, I was searching for ways to overcome writer’s block!)
Let’s hope I write again, because I really feel like I am worthless right now.
Most of the times, introverts are not those people who are rude and arrogant and reticent. Sometimes, they are just people who are shy to take the first step.
We aren’t the dumb ones unable to string two words together. We are those whose minds are buzzing with ideas and thoughts and to-do lists.
Read this article by this vivacious introvert who goes by the same name, Aakansha.
A year back, I happened to write a post on introversion, and so far it has been my most read and shared blog post. In case you’re new to my blog, you can read it here. I thought about writing a part-II for it, mostly because I tend to harbor strong views on this tragically ignored crisis,
I always find a sense of solidarity with anyone who is reticent and quiet. Not because they’re missing out on fun or anything, but because I understand how hard it is to be silent in the constant hubbub and buzz around you. When the whole world is ‘trying to get their voice out there.’ Everyone trying to out-scream the other, making sure the spotlight is on them. Finding a guilty pleasure in being the life of the party.
People see you differently, don’t they? Somehow, you’re always branded by an adjective. Quiet, rude, arrogant, supercilious…
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The mountains in the background of
this gentle abode of mine
appear hazy to the weakening eyes
that saw everything but today rest in the care
of the only one who is worried enough
to care about- Rita.
There is some despair that has nested in my heart today
I can’t figure out why. Maybe, someday I’ll be happier
when I have my husband and he will crack his jokes.
Even then, even then, it will be despondent as
he will laugh out loud so much that the air
is palpable with a, strangely sad happiness, the knowledge
that the people we took care of,
we loved, we nurtured, the brought to this world
have forgotten us as we have tried to.
But I know why I feel it today as I see everyday,
some four-five unfortunate souls who are brought here,
who made the mistake of assuming that blood is thicker than water
and that somewhere down the line,
only people of same flesh and blood are
there for you. It’s just the nostalgia, just the beginning
as you come to the realize that sometimes,
promises one makes are false and the days that one had spent- futile.
Then comes the denial, the sad bitter truth
you know is true but you cannot accept, like a cancer patient
who knows that what is killing him is himself,
but also knows that humans are selfish and they can never
hurt themselves: the two paradoxes, truer than the truth
of the sun rises in east.
Finally, we knock on the doorstep of acceptance,
the truth which you have to swallow like an ugly pill that hurts at first,
but ultimately only lessens your pain. Which comes with a tang of guilt
as we know that somewhere, it must have been our fault
because our children are the sapphire and the diamonds of our lives,
and all that glitters is gold. Today, I feel the bitter pill of acceptance coming up.
With that internal and theoretical monologue in mind,
I make my way to the house that has been my home for the past seven years
and despite the melancholy I feel today, I feel
a smile make it’s home on my mouth as I see the silhouette I recognize
so perfectly- Rita. I grapple her shoulders and she turns to kiss
both my cheeks and says, in her chirpy voice,
“Aunty, you grow prettier by the year, your seventy-ninth
is even more glamorous than your seventy-eighth.”
And then, she puts the small cake in front of me
and all my friends at this old-age centre gather around
and clap as I weakly blow the candles,
when Rita says, “No aunty, make your wish.”
And my head goes back to all those small gifts
that I bought for my kids on their birthdays and the delight
on their faces and their faces when they realized that
their mother had probably become senile
after their father’s death and the relief,
evident when they dropped me here
and then I see Rita’s face looking at me,
so sincere, so innocent that I just wish,
God bless this angel.
Ethereal. Simply beautiful!
I am not my nicotine stained fingers
that tremble while making love.
I am not the ink that traces
unfathomable patterns on my skin.
I am not the scraps of metal
that adorn my vanishing being,
I am not the yellowing bottles
that rise high above my bin.
I am the string of words that come pouring out
in the unholy hours of twilight,
I am the memories given form
using fading ink and starlight.
I am the worlds greatest story,
the one that you shall never read.
I am not the garish ring
that drags my knuckles across the floor,
I am not the line of lovers
that I take behind its back.
I am not the man who took me
before I knew what it was to love,
I am not the filthy gold
he buys to cover all he lacks.
I am a ray of light scattered
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