Do you see this storm raging in my heart? Do you see how my blood whirlpools and sucks your very entity in? How could you then ask me to ride with you on a boat that sails through that whirlpool? Do you think of me as so less of a human that I would lead you to the eye of the storm, oblivious to the fact that there is a storm that exists? 

My heart refuses to separate oxygenated blood from deoxygenated blood. All my arteries and veins are in a mesh. My body is going to kill me. See what you do to me? 

You’ll literally be the death of me.

A Love Letter

Hey you!

You asked me out for coffee and I said no. I think you got offended when I said no. Please let me explain my situation to you. I said no because I am too shy. I said no, not because I don’t like you, but because I am scared of my feelings for you. I am scared of not being good enough. I am scared of doing something embarrassing. I am scared of how you remind me of home; a home I never knew could exist. I say no because I am terrified to take my heart out of that steel cage I buried it in a few decades ago. I am terrified because lately I wear a stupid grin on my face everywhere I go. I think people are starting to notice. It frights the living shit out of me that now my mind aimlessly wanders to you. I would be sitting there in the middle of a test about genetics and instead of thinking about the phenotypic ratio of the peas; I would start thinking about your beautiful smile that reveals your crooked teeth. Damn it. I don’t want to think about the fullness of your lips and how mind-shattering it would be to kiss them while I’m talking to my dad about Obama’s presidency. You are living in every part of my brain and it pains me to think that I have no lucid thought left anymore.

It doesn’t make sense, you see. People say that when two people are in love, they’re good for each other. You are no good for me. I can’t write something without writing about you. I can’t eat without wondering whether you’ve eaten something too. I can’t go to bed without looking at the stars outside, pondering whether there is someone out there who wanted our stars to cross just one damned time. I take a shower and start humming a cheesy love song thinking about you. Shit, see? This is another piece of writing that you have taken over. Don’t you see how you have taken over my life?

It sickens me that my thoughts begin and end with you. My dreams? Let me tell you what a joke they are now. My dreams are promising me that we will have a small house in the suburbs of a big cold city. My dreams tell me that I’ll have a small living room with walls covered with bookshelves. There will be warm fire burning in the fire place. A love seat right in front of it. We will be sitting on that love seat, your arms around me and we will be talking about life. Shit, I don’t even know what’s wrong with me that’s how much of a goner I am.

You know, I used to be able to sit down and write satires full of angst. I used to write fiction. Words would just pour out of my head on a piece of paper and they were filled with rage. The anger in those words could kindle a fire big enough to burn every single forest in this world. But now, I can’t fucking write a piece without mentioning you in it. You know why that scares me? Because I read somewhere that a writer loves you if they write about you. I have not been able to write about anything but you.

You see why I am terrified? Because I might have fallen in love with you.

I struggle all right. The incessant threat of my words to spill out of my eyes never ceases. I have worn my heart on sleeve. They told me I needed to sew it back to its rightful place. I refused. They then told me to put it in a steel cage and bury it along the coast of Normandy. I refused yet again. 

They mocked me for my resilience. I fought the urge to fight back. I fought with all I had a war I couldn’t win. They asked me to bring a jar with me. They then took me to the Sahara desert and asked me to put every single grain of sand in that jar. Would you believe me when I told you I did my best to do so? Well I did. I started with both fists, hoping it would hurry the process. Then as the jar started filling, I used one to put the sand in while the other to level it. I wanted to put in as much as I could in the jar. Then I started choosing just the grains that looked shinier than others. But I just couldn’t put the entire desert in a jar. 

I wanted to ask for another jar. For many other jars. But it wouldn’t have been fair. There was a queue of people behind me, all holding empty jars. They wanted to accomplish what I hadn’t, knowing against all rationales they couldn’t. I wanted to scream. You just can’t put the damn desert in the jar. But would they listen? Would you?

Such is the price of sadness.

You know what sadness is?

It’s knowing pain. The kind of pain that brings you goosebumps when you hear about it.

It’s this evil evil monster that resides inside you. Kind of like a Dementor. It feeds on your wishes, your happiest memories. It brings about your guilt and then soon that is all that resides in you. For a few moments, you doubt your entire existence.

Such is the price of sadness.

Imagine, just for a second, your worst nightmares. Now imagine them in a pile. Now imagine if that is all you see.

Can you live with that feeling? Waking up and realizing that it’s another day you have to get through.

Such is the price of sadness.

There is a blackness that surrounds you. A deep, intense, darkness. Not the kind where you can see the stars and wish upon them. The kind that has no light at the end of its tunnel. Its a tunnel that keeps going on and on forever. You want to escape it. You wish to escape it. But you can’t.  

It’s a horrible feeling.

So horrible that it hurts to exist. So horrible that for a mere fraction, you want out of your skin. But what if you get used to it?

Too many emotions. I feel like I am grappling on to hopeless threads. Threads that will lose their strength with my touch. Threads that are best left untouched and unbroken. I’ve been feeling this way lately, like whatever I touch, I end up breaking. Is it a bunch of minuscule probabilities added into a gargantuan of misery? Sometimes I feel as if my failed digits value more. I don’t know what any of these words mean.

I am thoughtless. I am overflowing with thoughts. My brain is ready to explode but my mouth betrays my brain. Can parts of your body be at odds with each other? Can one part of your body be fighting a battle against the other part? Can one lose a war within self? How do you explain that, though? 

Hi, my name is _____ and I lost to myself. The blood that you see? It’s because my heart didn’t agree with my brain and my mouth raged a war of silence on my brain. 

Grotesque images of pointless words.

I am not even sure why I write anymore. I used to because I thought I could. I used to because this was the only ray of light. But now? I am not so sure.

I have nothing to say. My verbiage reveals only this statement. I have nothing to say and think. My verbose should burn in fires of inferno. But I think, the unnecessity of my words will be chunked out.

I have given up, I deem. 

Listen

It’s one of those nights that sits heavy on your shoulders and coerces you to question your answers. Why do you believe that way? Who gave you the right to form an opinion just yet? Where are you headed? Have you fully paid your debts?

Sometimes I ponder if there is such a thing as a guilt-free conscience. I wonder how much the thoughts of those who have wronged legally, weigh. Is the anchor of their deeds enough to bring their entire ship crumbling down? Or despite weighing thousands of tons, it still floats painlessly? 

I wonder if the darkness has ever felt the need to prove itself. You and I, we keep blaming darkness for what resides within us. We keep associating darkness with unknown, guilt, melancholy. What if light is the real culprit? Should darkness not be praised for following light everywhere? Just think about it, you can bring light into the dark, but never dark into the light. Darkness sits there silently as light breathes into the darkness. It sits there silently as gradually light erodes darkness. It replaces it. It becomes it. It bears silently the burdens of our fingers. It never speaks. And yet, when light betrays us, darkness holds its ground. It cares not for what you may have said or done, it serves its purpose of being dark. That is it. It keeps serving its purpose. 

And really everything does. Light keeps invading darkness. Darkness keeps returning after light. The sky keeps being blue. The sun remains yellow. The grass grows. The waves crash into the ocean and then retreat to crash again. The birds chirp in the morning without failing. The earth keeps spinning and revolving. How true are Newton’s words when he says that an object in motion stays in motion-it never fails to serve its purpose unless or until affected by an outside force.

The entire universe sings its songs. All we have to do is listen.  

On Time

Unspoken words. Silence penetrating every pour of my sour body. I am laughing and crying at the same time. There is a boulder on my shoulder. I need to understand its weight but I can’t seem to find a beginning. I decide to work backwards but I can’t find an end either. It’s a chaos of middle and I need a way out of the center of this massive ubiquity of self. How do I do that though?

I know that I need to carry this boulder with me. I can’t just abandon it somewhere and forget about it. There are things in life that need t be carried along. You just don’t forget to bring water with you when you’re travelling. It’s a necessity that you just can’t rid yourself from.

Time is such a necessity. You just don’t dump memories in an ocean and forget about them. You don’t just put hopes for the future in a cardboard box and bury them, in hopes that rain will decay the paper fabric of the box. You don’t just burn who you are and start afresh. You carry it with you. You pride in it. You learn from it. You write about it. You sing about it. You paint about it. You teach it. You embrace it. But you don’t get rid of it.

Such is the burden of Time. You learn to carry the weight of your past and future in your present.

Absurd

The real absurdity of life lies in the fact that late night hours, when a person is supposed to be sleep, arouse in one the most artistic thoughts.

The absurdity lies in the fact that a person depends on a conversation to spark within self a peculiar desire to create.

The absurdity lies in the fact that words written by another soul on a similar hour in the other corner of the world kindle within one a fire to do something. 

The absurdity lies in the fact that one fights and struggles and tries to survive on a land that never belonged to one.

The absurdity lies in the fact that thousands of years ago someone decided to take what belonged to someone else and to this day no one objects to it.

The absurdity lies in the fact that life depends on the social norm.

No the absurdity lies in none of these things and all of these things. Who is to say what’s absurd and what’s not? How do you make that decision? Is there a council of people merely appointed to differentiate absurdities from the norm?

How absurd is the word absurd? Who decided that absurd shall carry the meaning of absurd?

Wouldn’t it be just incredible to meet such people?

Heck if I had a Tardis, I would gather all the great minds Earth has experienced, and would invite them over for a coffee/tea party. How absurdly awesome that would be?

The Art of Letting Go.

I am tired. Most of the words I write end up in a trash can. My thoughts refuse to unravel. My ideas have all been used. I think I will create something today. I think that after so many days of tormented emptyness, my letters will form words that make sense. But the universe is known for having a sick sense of humor. Every time I try, I fail.

But it’s okay. It’s okay because as I sip my coffee at 2 AM, I am reminded of the countless writers before me who lived such nights. They tried and tried and tried and I don’t even know if I have the right to call myself a writer when I can’t even figure out my own words. 

I read flawed Literature and cry. I read Classics and cry. For the same reason that those who wrote those words cried. My words appear to be on an intergalactic highway that leads to a world far far away. But if they don’t make sense in my world, then there must be a world where they do. And with that in mind, I bid them farewell. For I have known the art of letting go.

Alone

You know what kind of writers are my favorite? The kind who’re able to express their thoughts through everyday things. Like I love those who use metaphors that we can relate to.

It’s like the thing with being alone. You think you’ll never find someone who understands because you feel you’re so twisted and chaotic that it might get tiring for the other person but then all of a sudden you find that person in some aisle at a grocery store buying your favorite cereal or eating Doritos with ketchup. And it’s like someone gets you. You think of the odds and the countless defenses you put up around your heart because you think that certainly no one in this entire world could put up with you but there is.

I mean you honestly believe that everything is at a war with everything else. You try and try to bring peace to one part only to find that every other thing in the entire universe has started a World War. You think you’re doomed to fail. I mean isn’t World Peace part of that Utopian world satirists rage against. But then you find that someone who understands you. Who understands the exact meaning of your “um…like…I mean to say…”  Who reveals you through the silence you’re sharing. It’s just so strange and wonderful that you start believing it’s a dream. 

And maybe it is. Who knows? But in that pandemonium when your world is coming crashing down around you, when your guts are battling each other, when your two hands are holding knives both at your throat; you find that one person who understands you and you know that your problems are far from over but you also realize that it’s nice to know someone who can empathize.

(P.S. These were my thoughts after reading The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen)

You know what I recently realized? Books teach you to empathize.

I mean normally you’d hear that someone killed someone and you’re likely to condemn the killer. You’d see it as something black and white. But when you read a book, from the perspective of a killer, you realize that you know maybe the killer was provoked. Not saying that the victim should attack (although idk about this….hmm). But what I am saying is that books make you realize that there are a billion fucked up minds out there and that there are a billion fucked up reasons for doing the fucked up things. And all the fucked up reasons are immersed in a gray cloud. And sometimes that gray cloud is lingering towards the white side of the color palette. And that makes you question your lifelong held morality. It shakes your world. It’s like growing up your entire life thinking that sky is blue but then realizing that the blue is really every color but blue because blue is the only color that light reflects. 

I am rambling now. But sometimes when I read books, I can empathize more with murderers than with people who appear to be like me.

This has been a post. In other news, it’s about to rain. It’s beautiful.

The Words I Write.

I am writing all these letters. These jumbled up squiggly lines on a crumpled piece of paper I found lying on the floor. I am clenching my fist, my nails digging my palm. Frustrated. Annoyed. I am trying, believe me I am. I just can’t get the words out.

They are there. In my brain, my thoughts are there. I just can’t reach them. I know two languages fluently, maybe three. But my words need a language that hasn’t been invented yet. My words need a funnel that will enable them to flow neatly without spilling into nothingness. But where do I find a funnel that channels the abstract? 

Fucking abstract. The vague, the unknown, the blob of mushy gray. I hate it. I despise my lack of creativity. I loathe writers. I hate them for using the words of a known language the way they do. I hate them for appealing to ethos and pathos and logos when my writing is mere bathos. Writing? I wouldn’t even call this piece of shit writing. It’s like the USB cords that secretly get jumbled up at night. I don’t know how to un-do their mess. 

Oscar Wilde says that life is really years defined in chaos. I hate him for saying that. I hate all those who say the truth using lies. Because that is the worst kind of truth. If you feel something, you’re guilty as charged. If you don’t, you’re still guilty. The perfect catch-22. 

Life is a chaos. Everything is a chaos. Is that why we desperately cling on to any conformity or normality we find in ourselves? Because we can’t fucking find our way out of this pandemonium.  

They tell you to live your dreams. They tell you to live. How the fuck are you to live when you can’t even fucking survive? It’s like they’re coercing you to fly high just so they can watch you fall and break your skull. Sadistic creatures. 

So as I sit to type this up, all I can say is, I despise the nature of truth. 

I am cleaning shards of a broken glass. Piece by piece, but they seem to have been spread everywhere. Some more invisible than others. Some sharper than others. Some capable of piercing through my skin and gushing the coursing velvet liquid out. And some merely reflecting the sunshine that falls on them. 

I apologize to the shard that just took my blood. I apologize because I see it is gnawed from the edges. It has been broken. It was a part of something, and now? It just lies there. Helpless and waiting to be thrown away. 

My Poetry

Old melodies, frivolous words, and late night coffee,
Too many books, thoughts, and anchors,
This is poetry for me, my poetry:
Sentences without verbs, 
Sentences with fragments. 
A dirty room, a basket full of laundry, and 
Chipped nails with scraps of blue.
What defines life?
There is only one thing-the constant
Rise and fall of sternum,
As I exhale carbondioxide and inhale oxygen.
This is life in its raw fundamental Self,
Not Art, not Poetry, not Beauty
But human breath-nothing more.