Three Little Pigs

My mother used to read me the story of the Three Little Pigs when I was a kid. It was one of my favourite stories. I remembered every sentence and would do the whole huff and puff bit every single time it came. I am told I was extremely amusing when I did it.

I was thinking about the story today. About the last pig's brick house and how the wolf huffed and puffed with all his might but he couldn't blow the house down.

I feel like this year, I have been that wolf. Not in the "I want the pig because pigs equal bacon" way. But in the way that I feel like I have had a brick house inside me. Full of negativity and hurt and anger and jealousy and just a lot of darkness. And I have been huffing and puffing against this physical heaviness and have constantly been failing. The load seems a little lighter sometimes, and it feels like maybe I'm just a little closer to destroying it, and I do a little happy Chandler dance, but then the weight returns, just like before.

It's gotten more and more difficult to keep huffing and puffing. And it's not like anyone can help me with it either. The wolf never did have help. The house gets bigger every day and heavier and just that much more painful. I feel like letting it crush me, because it would be so much easier. I wouldn't have to huff and puff anymore. At least I wouldn't be constantly breathless and tired and sad.

I don't even know why I keep going, to be honest. Huff and puff and huff some more.

Remember how the story of Three Little Pigs ended? The wolf dies a horrible painful death.

I sure hope that's not how my story ends.

Rein it in

Rein it in.

Dial it back.

Tone it down.

The world needs none of your effervescence, ebullience, enthusiasm.

It's the age of 140-character expressions, single-sentence status updates, check-ins, emoticons, grammatically incorrect text messages.

Practise your serious face in front of the mirror every day. Indifference is a good look to aim for.

Try an ironic smile. It's all the rage now. Oh and make sure, no teeth. Smiles which light up your eyes will make you look deranged, so must be avoided at all costs.

Keep your emotions in check. No one appreciates your excitement. It isn't fashionable.

Do not rage and rant. It makes you look ugly. And it makes you look like you care enough for something for it to let it affect you. Caring is unnecessary. And tantrums are unflattering.

Do not cry or show sadness to anyone. Use your pillow, the shower. Any sign of vulnerability is an immediate turn off. It shows a lack of depth of character and an inability to show constraint. No one has time for your drama. No one gives a tiny rat's arse.

Effusive declarations of love will serve for immediate and harsh judgement. Expressing desire, passion, love or even fondness is stupid and childish and will be treated as such. It immediately scares people away.

Hide your emotions. Anything that appears human will be treated as weak. Lock it in. Fold all of it in on itself over and over and over again till it becomes a tiny little rolled up ball of emotion which you can swallow and digest. Locking them up into chests in the dark corners of your brain should also help. Apathy is the aim. Self-preservation is the name of the game.

Tone it down.

Dial it back.

Rein it in.

Flashes

Some things just sneak up on you. Taking you completely unaware. You could be merrily traipsing through life with not a care in the world. Till kablamo!

A memory you thought you had forgotten trips you up. Or you learn something ugly about someone you thought you knew. Or there is some new horror that your mind has decided to unleash on you.

Flashes.

Momentary. Yet enough to leave you breathless and powerless.

Like a giant sucker-punch that life deals you. Right between the eyes. Leaving you with a broken and bloody nose, tears streaming down your face, completely disoriented. And all you can do is curl up into a ball, waiting for the blood and tears to dry and for the image to dissipate, so that you can go back to living.

Just one flash.

That's all it takes for everything to go to hell.

One memory, one word, one look, one moment.

Life is pretty unfair that way. Especially the sheer simplicity of it.

Be who you are

Be who you are. And do not apologise for it.
Accept who you are. And do not apologise for it.
They say it like it's the easiest thing.
Repeat it like a mantra.
Be who you are. Who you are.

What if I know who I am is all wrong.
Not because they say it is.
Because I think it is, believe it is.
Because I know better.

I know the darkness, the light.
The ugly. I see the warts, the scars.
I feel the broken bones badly mended. That creak when I move. The wounds that are still bleeding and raw.
The filth and the disease inside.
Ugly.

What if I am the reason my relationships fit so badly.
I do too much, expect too little.
What if I am the reason we fight, the reason we unravel.
And I keep picking at the loose threads, making it worse.

We condemn the murderers, the thieves, the rapists.
We say they should not exist.
That they should atone, apologise, change, even die.
When maybe that is who they are.

We pass judgement
From pedestals built on hypocrisy and preconception
From our thrones of shit polished to look like gold
And in the same breath we say
Be who you are. And don't apologise for it.
Be who you are.

What if I am the thief, stealing moments that aren't mine
The liar, living under multiple masks, making appropriate conversation, saying everything right, face on, face off.
The murderer, killing a future that could be
The rapist, looting and plundering the soul of another in search of my own missing pieces.

When the mirror shows me wrong
When the principles I supposedly should stand by are ruining what I hold most dear
When this intelligence I pride myself on is eating me up from the inside
When my anxiety repeats to me how I deserve nothing, no one
When I lie down in the mud so everyone can walk over me
When I give and give while the world continues to take.

That is who I am.

Stuffing pouring out of my insides
A typhoon wreaking havoc in my brain
Words leaking out of my fingers
Bleeding ink and broken dreams
The spectres of my could-have-beens, should-have-beens, will-never-be my permanent companions.

That is who am.

How do I not apologise for it.

Forcefields

Activate.

1. Be ugly. Unattractive. Unappealing. Lots of acne helps because it's offputting. Being dark also helps because fair is beautiful and dark isn't. Or be fat, that's supposed to be unattractive too. Or be all of the above.
2. Look like a boy if you can. Short hair, loose shirt, loose jeans, floaters or sneakers and hoodie. And if you get called sir or bhaiya, smile and play along. It's good for you.
3. Practice stooping when you walk. Retreat into yourself. Become as small and unnoticeable as you possible can.
4. Learn to walk really fast.
5. Own a vehicle. Any vehicle. A scooter, a car, a cycle even. It's the best option. Screw the traffic and everything. Find a way to get one and use it all the time.
6. Use a hoodie. Zip up and the forcefield goes on. Put the hood on and it gets stronger.
7. Use earphones or headphones. Really loud.
8. Dupattas or shawls also work. Anything to cover you head, your face, your body.
9. Cover your legs till you feet. Wearing a short skirt? Cover it with a longer skirt. And don't forget the previous point.
10. Do not make eye contact. With anyone.
11. Do not smile. At anyone.
12. Do not ask for directions. Use your phone and the GPS. Or wing it. Or maybe find some lady to ask directions from.

And you know what, it'll all be futile anyway. But still try. Because it's better than feeling you gave up.

Of dropped stitches and warm woollens

Wool and knitting needles.

We each are given some. Different colours and different textures, with needles of different sizes. At different times of our lives. Every time we meet someone, we are given a ball of wool and a set of needles. And the choice to make what we choose of them. Scarves, sweaters, socks, caps, whatever it is that catches our fancy, that feels like it fits that colour, that texture, that wool.

I was given some too.

Black wool. And big needles. Just right to make myself a sweater three sizes too big, and incredibly warm. It was extremely difficult, I remember. But I kept at it. My fingers hurt. And I had to juggle all my other woollens too. I had to work just as much at the grey scarves, the dark blue knit caps and the light blue scarves and everything else. Even the tiny weird multi-coloured wannabe handkerchiefs. But I worked hardest at that sweater. I knit every link, every row. And there were days that my fingers hurt. And days that I thought that the wool would run out and days that I just didn't want to try anymore. But I kept at it, hoping that at the end I would get the warmest sweater I could hope for.

It looked like I might succeed. I knitted lots of moments into that sweater. I dropped a few stitches, lots of them, actually. But I knotted them and continued, because hey, it didn't have to be perfect, just warm. And I knew it would be. It was the nice kind of wool.

I tried it one day. Just for size. Sure, it was incomplete, but I wanted to see if I was doing it correctly.
And it didn't fit.
The sleeves were all wrong, the wool fell itchy. It was just all wrong.
I still kept at it, even then.
I didn't know what else to do.
I had spent so long on it.

That's when I found the other ball. It was the colour of honey and chocolate. Warm brown with a texture that wasn't like any I had been given till then. Needles which were not too big but not too small; still just right for that oversize sweater I wanted.

So I let my incomplete black sweater go. I realised it wasn't meant to be a sweater, after all. It's still there and I work at it now and then, but it doesn't hurt now.

This brown wool was new though. I tried going at it like I had with the black. But it wasn't working. The stitches would keep dropping and there were holes and stray threads. My fingers hurt more than ever and this time it felt like it was even more difficult than before. I had to keep unravelling and starting again and again. Which is when I realised that I was going at it the wrong way.

I had to forget the old sweater.
That was the problem.

I had to start completely anew with this one. Not using any of the lessons from before, at least not all of them. I had to find my way again with this one. I had to unlearn. And begin on a new page, or a new stitch, if you will.

I am still working on that lovely brown sweater. And this time it looks like I might get it done. I'm not counting on it yet, but it seems to be going well. I still have lots of dropped stitches and some too loose knots and some too tight knots, but nothing too dangerous. I'm getting there.

Looks like it'll be a nice addition to my wardrobe of warm.

People are selfish. Self-centred and self-involved. Apathetic. Indifferent.

But you? You feel differently, somehow. You aren't like all of the others. You're a thinking, feeling, analytical person. Adaptable. Considerate. Intensely empathetic. Expressive. Creative. Passionate. A mind with a heart.

So you will be chewed alive. Swallowed and then spat out, covered in the slime and dregs of the world. Your soul crushed. Your mind in tatters. Defeated.

This begs the essential question of how to survive. You can't switch off. You can't cancel it out. So what do you do to protect yourself? Because hey, self-preservation is key here. And the fittest are the ones who survive.

Simple.

You fake it till you make it. Put on an act for the world and pretend to everyone else, that you are like them. You know you can get them to believe you. You've observed them, seen how they are. And you're smart. So you'll be able to blend in perfectly with your perfectly fitted mask and your elaborate deception.

Make it your personal pantomime with the world as your audience.

Pretend so hard that eventually, that brilliant analytical mind of yours learns to fool itself. So that every empathetic muscle you have atrophies through disuse. Do it long enough and well enough and then eventually you won't be trying. No act anymore. It'll become unconscious. Subconscious even.

A word of warning though. It will be hard. Your mind will turn on itself. It will turn on you. And you will hate yourself. With a vehemence you did not know you possessed.

But if you keep at it, in spite of the hate, that lie you keep telling the world, won't even be a lie. It will have turned into the truth, the one you created for yourself. The mask a part of who you are. Because you tell the same lie long enough and you will believe it. Your carefully created persona will be who you are, because you believe it as the truth.

Congratulations! You are now part of the world. Unfeeling. Indifferent. Apathetic.

Sure hope it was worth it.

An illusion of change can sometimes be more devastating than the actual change itself.

What it does is lull you into a sense of security. You rebel in the beginning but then you train yourself to get used to the change. And when you are finally used to it and have let your guard down and accepted it in its entirety, that's when the illusion fails. Like a reflection in a pond, disturbed by the slightest movement, the illusion caves in.

And that is when you see that what you grew to believe was nothing but a shadow, a lie. Nothing really changed. The illusion was just too strong, too beguiling, too seductive. And you were taken in. A lamb to slaughter. A willing participant to your own destruction.

Mute. Cooperative. Hopeful.

Change can be a cruel mistress. Its illusion, even more so.

There has to be a word for it. There is a word for everything. If not in English, then in some language.

The feeling that a large stone has dropped into your stomach, heavy, sinking. When for a second, the breath catches in your throat, stuck. When you can't see anything, everything blurs. When you need to close your eyes and remind yourself where you are and what you are doing. Remind yourself, because you lost track completely.

And the fear. A fear like no other. It's insidious and claustrophobic. And so very black. A fear that you cannot control, cannot win against. Because for that never-ending moment, which feels like an eternity, it is all you can feel, in your very bones. It holds a dagger to your throat, right where the breath catches, almost lovingly, threatening, but never hard enough to kill you. And that's the worst bit. When you know you won't die, but that it will keep coming back. When you know its always lurking, waiting to hold the cold steel against your throat, caressing but not killing. The weight of that stone in your stomach constricting and knotted tight.

All it takes it a moment, a word, a look, for it to attack again.

There has to be a word for it. And maybe if I find that word, if I know how ti describe it, explain it, maybe then I can get some help. Maybe then I'll have a little control over it. Illusory of course, but maybe, it'll help. Because otherwise, I don't think I have any hope left.

Distance makes the heart grow fonder. Familiarity breeds contempt. Too much of anything is bad. Variations on the same theme.

That if you see something often enough, or maybe experience the same thing too much, it loses value.

The converse being, if something is rare, it should be treasured. That the lesser a thing happens, the more you appreciate it when it does. That the very virtue of its rarity, its uniqueness, makes it special, worth remembering, worth holding on to. That the less something happens, anything at all, the more it means.

But then, does repetition really take away from the beauty or intensity of a feeling? Does seeing something, saying something, experiencing something many times, really take away from how much it means? A sunset doesn't become less pretty if you see it every day. The stars are still mesmerising even if you see them every night. Gratitude when expressed often only makes one happier. Smiling a lot never hurt anyone and no one says that it reduces the light in one's eyes just because it's done too often. Love doesn't really become worthless because you express it a lot. A sweet gesture that makes someone's day better doesn't mean that the rarer it is, the better.

Because I repeat myself a lot. And I say the same thing a lot. And I feel the same things a lot. And I express the same things a lot, maybe in different ways.

But I don't think any of that decreases the intensity with which I feel those things or how much I mean them when I express them.

At least, I don't think it does.

Does it?

"Call when and if you want."

And you laugh. And ask why I think you wouldn't want.

It's because I would never put it past you. The existence of the possibility that one day you will wake up and just not want me anymore, is as much of a truth as the existence of the universe itself. Because people change and they move on. They grow up, grow out.

You are human. Just as human as the rest of us. Just as human as me.

So I never forget the possibility that you will one day, just not want me.

The possibility that I will fade like a forgotten memory.
Become a number discarded.
A string of symbols on an old phone bill.
A picture deleted to free space on a phone.
A sensation from a distant past.

Just another dust particle in a shaft of light, one among many.

Insignificant.

So no, I do not make the mistake of assuming, for that will only cause pain in the end.

And you shouldn't either.

Ever need a reminder that you are an inconsequential speck of organic matter on a miniscule speck of dust in an unimaginably vast universe? When your problems seem too overwhelming or your life seems to much to deal with, need a reality check?

Watch the sun set, turning the sky orange and pink and a thousand colours in between. Listen to the waves, their rhythm perfect. See the tides come in and go out, the same way every day, influenced by the charms of a moon millions of miles away. Watch the moonlight glint off the sea, the crests of the waves illuminated by borrowed sunlight. Watch the fish dart in and out of the corals in a compact self-sustainable world. Pick up shells off the beach and watch as the one you picked up is replaced by another with the next wave.

That is when you'll realise that no matter what it is that you do; live, die, exist, it does not matter. You are barely a stitch in the fabric of time and space. An anomaly in the giant scheme of things. The world will continue to sustain without you, as it always has. You make no difference, your worries are pointless, your life meaningless. You come from nothing and will fade away into nothing, part of nothing, belonging to nothing.

A speck of organic matter on a speck of dust.

Reality check?

Ding ding ding!

Helpless

So much of our frustration and anger and fear is rooted in helplessness.

A feeling of being powerless. Of not being in control. Of feeling like things are happening to us without us wanting them or needing them or even seeing them coming. Of wanting to help but not being able to. Of seeing something go wrong but not being able to make it right. Of watching someone suffer and not being able to make it better.

It comes from a feeling of watching life happen to you. Of wanting and not having. Of knowing and not being able to say. Of waiting and watching while not being able to do. Of dreaming and not being able to see those dreams through.

Because uncertainty brings with it vulnerability; and the very distinct possibility of suffering. It goes against the nature of self-preservation that we are all born with. Against the idea of survival. Against our very genetic codes.

Which is why we grasp at straws. Anything at all to make us feel like there is some reason, some purpose for what happens to us. We believe in God, create Gods. We make up religions and rules that will explain why we do what we do. We look for peace. We try to surrender, try to go against the very fibre of what we are made of, the very idea of survival itself.

We created sciences out of understanding, hoping that would give us some control. We came up with meanings for shapes we believe the stars make, name them constellations and believe that we now miraculously KNOW something. We organise and categorise, hoping external order will translate to the internal. Lists and routines and orderly bookshelves and perfectly stacked cupboards, which we hope will help with the chaos inside. We give names to the immaterial, find words for everything. We boss over those beneath us, because the power makes us feel like we have some sort of control, over someone else if not ourselves. We talk sense into the meaningless. We scramble and grope in the dark and fight and struggle.

We hope that maybe, just maybe, these things will give us just a modicum of control. Will help in some minuscule way. That maybe it will change the inevitable.

Though we know it is all futile.

We continue trying. And continue hoping. And continue fighting for a doomed cause.

Because at least that little bit, the trying, the hoping, the praying; at least that is in our control.

Multiplicity

The quality or state of being multiple or various.

This word is one reason I love stories. They allow me to be multiple characters. Because when I am reading, I am part of a completely new, different world.

It is also why I love superhero stories.

Yes, they are mostly about the good winning over the bad. And just the idea of having superhero swooping in to always save the day, can be very comforting. Also, the larger than life aspect that those comics have works very well as an escape.

What personally intrigues me about superheroes is the idea of hiding who you truly are. Batman/Bruce Wayne, Superman/Clark Kent, Spiderman/Peter Parker and lots of others. They all hide their true identities. There is one major aspect of protecting who they love. There is also the idea that a mask or an a superhero identity allows the villains to fear you, adds to the personality of the hero. But I think it also has to do with protect themselves. To hide behind the mask, the identity, is an escape for the hero too. They have their moments of doubt and their conflicts, but in the end it comes down to acting, throughout.

And this is where I identify most with the superhero idea. No, it isn't some inspirational thing about how we are all capable of more than we know. What I mean is that we are all constantly hiding. Perpetually tucking away parts of us that peek out unexpectedly. We don't have the superheroes' identities or powers, but we do have their masks. We put on facades and play roles every single day. We have a work face when in the office. The family face for home, the agony aunt for one group of friends. The face for the one are romantically involved with so that they continue to find us interesting. The oh yes, I am a fun person face for the other group of friends. The intellectual act. The listener for your best friends. So many different faces. So many different masks. Every single day. Every single minute.

So when Shakespeare talked about the world being a stage and all men and women merely being players, this is what I think he was talking about. Where life itself is a stage, and we play the characters in our own stories.

All of it is extremely tiring though. The superheroes do it for a noble reason. We, for an entirely selfish one. Self preservation. Survival. That's why we hide so much. Leaving ourselves vulnerable leaves us open to pain and betrayal. It opens us to judgement.

And then this whole charade begs the question, is anything in our lives true? Is love true? Or is it just a mask loving another mask? Is hate true? A character playing off another character. Envy, anger, jealousy, empathy, sympathy. All of it. Isn't all of it an illusion of truth?

This is why I love superhero comics. They have so many layers. So much to offer beneath the bluster and action and sometimes fantastic storylines. Well-constructed make you think. There is so much to find.

Waiting

So much of life is spent waiting. For something to happen, something to come. For change. And then to get used to the change while also hating it for happening. For the right job, the one where waking up on a Monday to get to work is not the worst thing in the world. For a holiday, because it would mean a break from the tedium of every day.

We wait for love. For the right person. Someone we are told will save us, make us whole. Someone we know will not, but will definitely try.

We wait for friendship. For those people who will truly listen to us, accept us wholly and completely and stay through the worst times because those make all the good times even better.

We constantly wait for the right time. To take off, to come back. To say what we truly mean. To hear what we need to hear. To be ourselves. To enjoy ourselves. Because we believe that it is only the right moment that will validate whatever it is we have been waiting for.

So much of our life is spent just waiting. I wish we could stop waiting so much and actually maybe start doing, believing. Being.

More importantly, just saying.

Because for some things there will never be the right time or the right place. Like telling someone that you love them. Or someone that you don't.

Then again, doing and saying are difficult things. Waiting is safer, less risks involved.

If only we tried, though. Things would be much more difficult. But then at least they would be different. Maybe with a little more truth to them.

There are empty spaces in your heart my hands are too small to fill. Conversations I can't have because I don't know the words. Places inside you I cannot go because they are only yours to haunt. There are gaps and lulls that come and go more often than I would like. Problems I cannot fix, ghosts I cannot banish because they appear only to you.

There is broken glass and shattered dreams that eat you from within and cut me when I pick them up. Mountains you have to climb that I cannot climb with you. There are graves you dig for your desires and hopes that I cannot undo. There are distances too far for my tiny feet to traverse, too many miles for my tired limbs to cross. There are continents between us we created, walls we built up I do not have the ability to climb. Masks I cannot see through, lies I cannot spot.

There is much I cannot do. I am an irrational, illogical human being filled with frailties I did not ask for and cannot change.

Know how I know these things? Come closer, and I'll let you in on a secret.

I know because I have them too. The cracks and spaces, the darkness and the nightmares, the walls, the masks, the emptiness. The scars. The stories. I have them too.

We all do.

I wish I was

Impervious
Protected
Impenetrable
Invulnerable
Stronger
Logical
Secure
Cold
Distant
Detached
Selfish
Self-centred

I wish I was
More like you

Happy birthday, you

There are some traditions which are worth following. The rest might fall by the wayside, what with changing lifestyles and too much work, or too less work, or a multitude of other reasons.

This tradition though, I shall keep at. Every year. Hopefully.

Both of us know how important words are. How much they mean to both of us. And how sometimes, they make the best gifts, barring hugs. And yes, we don't really keep in touch. And yes, we end up complaining about the same things way too much. And yes we might disagree on a lot of things (SMOKING). But we also agree on a lot of things too (that whatsapp smiley is awesome, walks are good etc).

Your last birthday letter is pinned up on my board at home. And the notebook you gave me travels everywhere with me. It doesn't smell like coffee anymore, but it's full of my favourite words.

I miss you, and think of you a lot. Who else will come and steal food from me when she has run out of money because she ate one too many times at a fancy place? Who else will I make coffee for when I am saving milk for breakfast the next day? Who else will I take long, conversation-filled walks with? And who else will calm me down when I need someone after 48 hours of no sleep (you know what I'm talking about)?

So here's a birthday note from me to you.

Have a great day, love.

With lots of tight hugs,
Your teddy bear.

Grey, blue, white
The clouds whisper

Listen close, listen well
And you will hear the stories they tell

Secrets
Of the ever-expanding sky
Of the horizon they own
Of the exploits of the wind
Of the heartbreaks of the stars

Tales
Of
Petrichor,
Lightning,
Storms.

Stretch your hands out
And just maybe
They will let you touch them

Grey, blue, white
Elusive
Mystical
Gorgeous

You are cloudy days
Overcast skies

You are the promise of rain
When it's coming
But you know not when

You are confusion
Contradiction
Thunder and lightning
Fire and electricity
Powerful

You are a hurricane
Of doubts and fears
Devastating
Punishing

You are a black hole
All-consuming
Famished
Yearning
Needing

Yet human
Imperfect and flawed

You are everything
And nothing

Me.
Mine.

Comfortable

I tend to think in pictures. And there are certain pictures that are constantly in my head. That I tend to hold on to, that I wish I could translate to reality. They are extremely cliched, but for me they are important. It's a paradox, seeing as how I hate being cliched, but hey, sometimes it's allowed.

A sheet under a tree on a breezy evening. Me, leaning against said tree, reading. Or proofing/editing what could possibly be the next big bestseller. You lying with your head on my lap. Dozing or reading or listening to music. Or even just daydreaming.

A comfortable four-poster bed. With a massive and extremely soft blanket. Us cozy under said blanket, watching something on a laptop or on the BIG TV.

You are lounging on a sofa. Channel surfing. And I am on the floor, resting against the sofa, reading or working. Your hand is lazily playing with my hair.

The one thing common in all these things is how comfortable it all is. Feels as natural as breathing. It's just the presence of you that is important. What you are doing is irrelevant. It's familiar, it's warm, it's a feeling of home.

Because being with you, is like being home.

Naked

Naked
Powerless
Beautiful
Raw

Stripped
Of defences
Of masks
Of walls
Of pretences

Completely, truly vulnerable
Trusting
Scared
Honest
Frail
Human

Giving
Surrendering
Entirely
All one has
All one is

No protection
No guards
No lies

You might see me without my clothes.
But only I can choose when you can truly see me naked.

Two Double O

So it's that time again. When I try to come up with something genius to signify this milestone in my life, because a milestone it is.

Two hundred posts. And four years of writing. About fifty posts per year, four posts per month, on average. That's quite a bit if you break it down.

And again, after thinking about it for the longest time and drawing a complete blank, I am just going to say that I am thankful.

For books. For language. For the ability to translate to writing all, okay, most of the thoughts that swirl around in this head of mine; for the ability to string together a coherent sentence. For an outlet. For communication and conversation. For poetry and art. For inspiration. For thought itself. For great thinkers and authors. For the ability to remember and record. For memory. For colour and light. For pictures. For technology.

I am thankful, for words. They are all I have. All I ever will have.

Four years, two hundred posts, and a never-ending journey of discovery.

Here is to you, dear blog.

Here is to me.

Full opposite

Holidays are supposed to rejuvenate and revitalize. Recharge your batteries so that you can get back to work better and refreshed. They are a break from the drudgery of every day life and they equip you to handle it better when you get back. They give you great stories to tell and write about. Maybe even a few adventures.

At least they're supposed to.

Then, why do I end up feeling even worse than before after I get back from a holiday? They're never long enough and the goodbyes just keep getting more difficult. You would think that the more you take, the better you end up feeling, but it seems to be working in reverse for me because all it shows me is that what I am coming back to just doesn't fit right anymore. It just ends up being a horrible jolt into a very depressing reality. Where the escape ends up being a trap in itself.

Holidays seem to end up messing me up even more than I was before I went on them.

Sigh.

Talk about fail.

Give in

Give in to the darkness
Succumb

The doubts and fears
Those nagging questions
The nightmares
Surrender to them
Give in to the darkness

Why fight?
You'll lose
Why struggle?
You'll fail
Give in to the darkness

Curl into a ball
Don't push it away
Let it take over
Let it win
Give in to the darkness

Lose yourself
Forget the world
Broken and defeated
Don't hold on so tight
Give in to the darkness

It's cold
It's scary
But it's easier than failing
Falling
Give in to the darkness

Let go
Disappear
Alone
And powerless
Give in to the darkness

Him

This is a different version of something I wrote a few years back. I tried reworking around the same basic idea to see if I could do something new with it. That was called "Her". You can read it here


I close my eyes
And I find him

Beautiful
Perfect.
Mine.

At least he was
For a little while.

The memories might have faded
The colours not as bright
But even when he left
His pictures stayed

I grew to love him
And I believed,
And hoped.

I poured my words into him
Wrote him poems of longing and love
With my stubby inadequate fingers
I wrote him my thoughts.

But he left,
When he had promised to stay.

And all I have now
Are his pictures.
His smile, his eyes
Etched into my brain.

Pictures where once was laughter
Dust, where once were sandcastles

I created him
After he left
I created us.
From the crumpled sheets and the books
From his scent on my pillows
From the strands of hair on the floor

I kept his pictures and created more.

I created him.

And he...
He destroyed me.

Our life plays out in a series of patterns. They repeat over and over again, invisible but always present. These insidious patterns govern everything from the rhythm of our breath to the way our bodies function.

You might try to look for these patterns and may even succeed in identifying them. But don't kid yourself into believing you can change them.

You try to break out of the pattern, but again, that little rebellion also becomes a part of it. You decide not to slip up again, vow to change, to not let those actions govern your life. But you fool yourself, every time you even think you have succeeded.

You will fall off the wagon, do everything that is bad for you, will continue making excuses for the people around you, will continue putting yourself in the line of fire, and will continue feeling like crap at the end of the day.

Good day, losers.

Lend me your eyes. For you see me in ways I can never see myself. You see potential I don't even think exists. Believe me capable of things I know I cannot do. You think me beautiful, tell me I am pretty.

But when I look into a mirror all I see are my faults. The scars and blemishes. The bruises and bumps and scratches, the scabs and the peeling skin. All I see is imperfection, ugliness, healed over wounds fixed with tape and glue. Missing puzzle pieces.

Lend me your eyes, and maybe then I will see myself the way you see me.

I bite back the words I truly want to say. Chew them down, swallow them, like bittersweet medicines. Bury them under layers and layers of doubts, fears, insecurities, lies; six feet under, hoping they'll die buried alive. But they return, every night, when the sun sets and the stars come out. The moon summons them and they rise, looking for release.

Why though?

Because I'm waiting for the perfect time? Or the right setting? Or maybe it's too early? I haven't analysed the lines enough, maybe. Or haven't put the feelings behind the words through the rough choppy waters of the logical thought process. Haven't philosophised or complicated or dramatised or rationalised them enough.

Or maybe smart and logical as I think I am, maybe all I truly am is insecure and afraid. Irrational and foolish. Too careful? Too careless? Confused. And stupid.

Wanderlust

A constant desire to be somewhere else, do something else. To be someone else.
A life different from the one you are living. People different from the ones you know.
Places which are unknown. Food which is exotic.
A need to disappear, in the hope you can find yourself.
You know you are looking for something, but you have no idea what.
And your feet never stay still and you are perpetually restless.
And ideas swirl in your head and you can't hold on to any one of them long enough to put it down.
You want to experience more, feel more, make mistakes and pretend to learn from them.
Calm doesn't come, sleep is full of dreams and nightmares.
So much to do, so little time.

It's so easy to slip back into old habits. So very easy. To return to exactly what you wanted to run away from.

Habits are comfortable, which us why they're so difficult to get rid of. But even the uncomfortable ones which brought you pain and sorrow and discomfort, even those which you know are bad for you, those are difficult to leave behind too.

You run away from them, and you decide you want happiness elsewhere, but it doesn't last long.

Because some habits seep into your blood. And no matter how far you run, how much you try, those will never go away. And you will slip up, fall off the wagon. And hate yourself for it. Powerless against it.

Because some habits are here to stay. Especially the ones that do you no good.

You thrash and fight
Against the bars of the cage
Find yourself locked in
Frustrated and powerless
Trapped like a bird longing to fly free
You tire yourself out
Chafe against the chains
As they burn your skin
And leave raw, painful welts
Helpless, hungry, angry, crazy
You rage against your bonds

And through it all
You don't realise the simple truth,
You built that cage yourself
Forged every link of that chain
Tied yourself down
Threw away the key

Lost, misguided soul
You fight only against yourself.

What I wish I could say to you

You were the one that got away. The one I wish I had kissed the night you dropped me home. When you gave me a hug goodnight, and I could smell the perfume you were wearing, I wish I had leaned in and kissed your breath away, because that is exactly what I wanted to do. I knew you wanted it too, because I could see it in your eyes, but I was too scared to do it, so the moment passed and you left.

You are the one I wish I had never left behind, to chase something else, something I thought I wanted then.

I wish I had told you then how much you meant to me. I wish when you had reached across the table and held my hand that I had never let go.

You made me feel special, beautiful. You took me as I am with no complaints and loved me for the crazy, weird, always-thinking person that I am. You never made me feel like I wasn't good enough for you. You made me feel wanted when I felt completely alone; loved when I thought I didn't deserve it.

You will always be the one that I could have had if only I had given it more time and patience.

You will always be the one that got away.

Empty tables, empty chairs.

Bottles left uncorked, empty wine glasses.

Barren porcelain vases with no flowers. Delicate china gathering dust.

Poems never written, words wasted. Sheet music yellowing and torn.

Letters to no one, crumpled, fading. A broken guitar, rusted strings.

Candles left unlit. Pretty dresses, tailored suits, musty and moth-eaten.

Stark reminders of dinners missed, of conversations never had. Signs of memories never made. Of promises never whispered, of hands never held. Marks of broken hearts, of scars unhealed, of futures forsaken. Telling stories of hopes and dreams, left to rot.

Of wasted potential.

Empty tables, empty chairs.

Tonight is a night for quiet. For the beauty of the moon calling out to her waves. For the madness of distance. And the warmth of blankets. Tonight is a night for poetry, for longing, for music. It is a night to let desperation to take over. For calm to come when the frustration runs its course. Tonight is a night for the base and the unruly, for the poignant, the intellectual.

Tonight, let us go crazy together, tear each other to pieces, put each other together. Let us break free, tie each other down. Let us forget it all, and then remember. Let us hold each other tight and let each other go.

Tonight is a night for conversation. For silences. For malice, for beauty. For green-eyed jealousy and honey-eyed lust.

Tonight is a night for me and you. For love and beauty. For whispers and screams. For us.

Come to me love, for tonight, is ours.

December and January are my favourite months of the year.

Not only because it is Christmas time and birthday time. Though those are two major reasons :)

I like them because these months means winter. And winter is my favourite season.

Winter means cold. And cold brings people closer. You find comfort in a friend's hug. Hands are held and stuffed in jacket pockets. You hold people tighter, closer.

Winter is about blankets. About foggy days and mist and walks. About watching the stars when it is cold and revelling in the beauty of a moon playing hide and seek in the clouds.

Coffee and hot chocolate and hot croissants make sense all the time.

Winter is about scarves and jackets and socks and sweaters and gloves and warmth.

And even on the dark lonely nights, when there is no one to snuggle with, winter is about finding company in yourself. About snuggling in with your favourite tv shows or your favourite books. About settling in with some Cohen, listening and thinking and writing. About snoozing the alarm five times every morning because under the sheets is too warm and comfy.

I love winter.