Let Me Tell You Something About Depression.

(This is a poem that I had originally written with the intention of performing)

They say you feel sad all the time, I beg to differ
I do not feel sad, always. There are times when I laugh so much
that I think I just overreact on the days I suffer,
but the thing that remains true is that that only happens
once in a blue moon, when I do, in fact, manage to get
out of my bed, choose a pair of jeans over a pajama instead
and join my friends to watch a movie they had planned
we would, but from which I had withdrew, as late as I could.
They seem to think that I talk and laugh among them
so it is so absurd an idea that I may even have a reason to feel
differently, when in fact, the truth is that the times
I am with them, is when I am truly different, for they haven’t seen
me in my natural habitat. The days, the low days, as I call them
are stretches of days when all my troubles stem
from a single root, I sleep too much, but that I something I cannot help.
These days I do not wake before noon, when the world has done
half its chores, I cannot but wake up from my snores, and
even then, I lie in bed, till my stomach has growled some angry words.
But I beg it to keep quiet as I try to go about my business,
to attend the classes that I have left and not think about the ones I did not,
but then, the cursed bed pulls me its way, and wills me to sleep again and again
till the ancient moon rises and all the trouble of classes, I almost forgot.
These days the world feels weird as if I am eating sand,
road trips, movies, going out, bathing, eating food, all feels like a scam.
The days are long and the ceiling fan seems amusing, there is emptiness
around me, the world seems like a hole, a void in the dark that nothing can complete.
There is silence, the phone does ring and the doorbell too,
the silence screams louder, emptiness fills the room and there is emptiness still.  
These days, I hardly talk to anyone, and Solitude is my friend
and these are day when I don’t get out of my bed, for days on at end.
These are days that I don’t get out of bed, so I have no reason to look in a mirror
that reminds of my bruised, broken self, and I turn the lights dimmer.
Darkness feels bliss as the blackness reminds me I am alone
and I smile a little to myself, and think about every soul I know.
The Darkness and Solitude, my two dear friends, find for me great reasons,
why my friends who I took years to trust might not like me anymore
and thus begins the cycle of self-attack as my words carve scars in my esteem
 and on and on and on it goes, until my veins are clean.
And when the entire cycle happens three four times and again,
the sun finally rises, but I am a desolate survivor, there is no one to help,
and so my critical self tries again to build walls so I don’t hurt,
not realizing that I am the victim and I, myself, the killer.
And thus begins the healing, till I feel my feel my veins fuller.
On days like these, I talk selectively, and my voice feels kind of sick
and they ask me so and I wish I could tell them, I am mentally unfit
but all I say is I am fine, and there is some stress in my life,
and in this time I smile, I make it my façade, it hides my real self
and all the misery and the sadness that I had just felt.
And days later, just as I feel something close to being happy (that is when I laugh)
 it all start again, the laughter fades, my ears ring, I feel myself receding
unwillingly into that haunted land, where few have ventured, separately
and made friends with Solitude and Darkness and their friends: Loathe and Despair;
Finger nails scratching, dragging my own self as I am pleading,
crying in vain, hoping someone stops to listen, but it is an empty wail
as it all starts again, it all starts again, it all starts again and yet again.

 

About Untold Love

Inspiration to write by Sylvia Plath, Mad Girl’s Love Song’s excellent reading.

I think the city grey has seeped into my soul, 
I knead my eyes with my knuckles, trying to be awake,
alive, though I have never once felt so antique, so old.

The bells ring constantly in my ears and, expectedly bold,
Paranoia seeps through the uninviting demeanor;
head conjures up images, unforgotten and forlorn.

A sweaty hand across the cheek, weak eyes dramatically rolled,
there is pleasure in the throbbing, feverish forehead,
Although, there isn’t a part that seems even remotely untolled.

Blackness is inviting, darkness bring the stars (those old
taunts), haunting the night, with a ray of hope
And somewhere, melancholy sighs then, with a head hot and heart cold.

Perhaps that’s what I got for having loved untold:
Broken hearts, wasted murmurs, they weave through the lovely night
And when the day comes, murmurs disappear, hearts repair,
and we go drunk into our loveless, snowy, slushed lives. 

Blocked.

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.

Rita.

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.

Pocket Stories #1

She thought there was no other way left fo her. The last three years of her life had been testing. First, the battle with rug addiction, then the divorce, the custody of her children, and now, the near moneylessness. It was enough. She stared at the razor blade in her hand.

She took a deep breath, and imagined the pain it would cause. She could visualize the blade cutting through her veins and she relished it. She closed her eyes. Just as she touched the blade to her wrist, the phone vibrated. Who would want to talk to me? She picked up her phone and stared at the message. “Your book’s perfect. Out in January, 2016. Call me asap.”

She was stunned. She stared at the razor  in her hand and cried. She cried for a long time.

*Total work of fiction. Isn’t in any way related to how I feel.*

The Last String.

Another place, another time,

There’s someone like you.

Someone there with love divine,

To share with, there are a few.

Someone hopeless, beaten to pulp,

Who’s given up everything.

Bruises he hides, abuses he gulps,

Straining on the last, unbroken string.

It’ll just take a single second.

To cut the string and relieve,

Just one thing that could anytime happen,

Which will be the end to all grieve.

This was double spaced, based on some comments and feedback that I got. You see, Grandpaww has weak eyes!

Vengeance?

The sunlight creeps into the room, like a thief in the night.
Her position is pitiful.
Can’t be free when it’s her time.
Can’t be free overtime.
She only wants someone to accept her, appreciate her,
Appreciate her persistence, diligence and loyalty.
Turning up, failing not a single day.
Yet, all they do is point put her imperfections.
And she takes them all, never replying to them once.
They want her a little, but not too much.
And either way, she loses.
What should she do? Stay silent,
Even when she believes that
Vengeance is sweet?
This is her dilemma.
Her principles and beliefs one side
And her conscience on other.