Words are like paperweights weighing down the speeches of peace against war.
Words are the crutches of dry efforts that hop on its rubber self to be loud.
Words are the stagnant headache that forgets its way out and gets sewed at the lips.
Words are those identical miracles one uses to unwrap hearts like opened palms; ready to receive.
Words are the skin and bone of a devil that sticks to your tongue, conflictingly, making it more flexible.
Words are those crashing dreams of a person changing sides on his death bed; a listener he awaits.
Words are those failed bobbing of head when you give up a thing (or person) you love the most, in the name of sacrifices.
Words (for some) are afraid to be out in broad day light. Brute forces follow it like misunderstandings, misinterpretation and gravity possesses them faster than anything.
Those polysyllable touch the dust way sooner than the ears. Words are that boldness in bones tucked under the fragility of breath that can prevent a heart from rusting or ambush it for it to bleed profusely.
I touched 30 2 years ago this day. Age-shaming much? No way!! it’s the media and ads that live in a fearful world, so they scare others too. But the questions deserving perfect eye-rolls and facepalms always stand in a hungry queue “Oh! You are 30 something? you look so young.” Someone please tell them. “Darling, 30 is young” “Why you aren’t getting married?” Why, because ring in my fingers and a toddler on my waist is the only way to complete me? Sorry to have a bubble bursted but I’m not society’s Life planning math workbook or biological ticking bomb that defines my worth by following some bully timelines. I wore a cape of womanhood after so many frostbitten scuffles and relentless struggles that now it graces my flesh and bones. that’s quite enough to be the last piece of my life’s puzzle.
Journey of a timid 6-year-old trying to identify her father in a star, he said he would look it down from there, to becoming a woman who saw her mother churning herself and tending to her lost kid with 3 shifts under her wing; All this unchained a treasure I don’t ever want to part with.
My twenties were a wastral in terms of people I invested in. I let my innocence and ignorance turn alarming snoozes into blazing red flags of friendship that assassinated my self-confidence. But, now I know leaving toxicity while it swirl in a whirlpool of blame games, is not just okay but a sign of strength; of not justifying self for the smallest things.
I am finally In a better place mentally, psychologically, financially yet they want to find a manicured other-half to see me ‘settled’. They say the world is changing I’d say it always changes but on the surface because they don’t dare dip themselves amidst broken layers of depth, so ignorantly, add some ‘must(s)’ in a women’s life.
I know It’s the smallest feat but if you ask me I am proud I got to know myself. I know what I am now I know what I want My passion dances on my eyeballs with a clear vision. I don’t feel like that rusty old book at the corner of the shelf no one picks up to read, anymore. I am that freshness of a newly opened pickle jar that instantly fills the surrounding with its aroma. I’m now the potpourri of self- reliance I learned over the past years and the kindness I had been carrying since the childhood. I’m those 32 no stones left unturned whose efforts made people get inspired. Believe me, there is no expiration date to learn something new
I have accepted the fact It’s not easy finding metaphors for self while I blacken the white pages with their praises, accomplishments, triumphs. But from now onwards I’d audaciously write about my self because no one writes about the writers and I’m here to break the wheel.
At last, if you want to sway with yourself listen to “It’s hard to be a woman” From Something in the Rain 😉 I am just attracted to that song.
Have you ever drowned in order to survive? Ever been breathless in your placidness? Trying to find your meaning in this lost world, with such desparate optimism with no concerns of tautologies or oxymorons. But you are intentionally trapped in a non-familiar family under a limited sky of thoughts with a somehow-fixed broken heart, with silent roars, forced choices, like a living tablecloth that protect stains keeps a dull shine, overused but not paid heed. You are growing towards nothing just like Sun rising to finally set.
They asked me to use a limited space as though my succinct style would do justice to your illustrated beauty. But every day, without fail, I tilt my head, lift a gentle frame and scoop out your cotton pieces to save it in my ombre gallery. I know you look back at me when my eyes celebrate you.
from the one who dreams of garnishing the blue yonder with words but fails.
A thought, A random, quarter past midnight thought. What if we met earlier? what if we met when we were kids? a clean slate and a clear conscience bearers. Not burning in Spotify hot-spots but saving a seat in a school van. Not caught up in turmoils of 9-5 but weaving fairy tales over sandwich lunches. Not a seductive calling of clasping hands in malls but a sweaty parade and you fetching water for me. Not decorating the space with a prideful succulent but planting a plum sapling with demure hands and azure eyes.
It slits open my heart over a shadowed past without its existence. From teacups to popcorn dates, From Feburary winters to Christmas knocks, years got reduced to illusionary hours and woes to willful laughter. My breakfast table, those terrace railings, that chair by the windowpane, even my swaying curtains got used to to your touch. Now they get anxious in graveyard silence like a pet waiting for its Master after the day ends, only the day here has infinite, cruel hours.
A thought knackers me. Would we have been any different if we met as children? Mettlesome bull-headed(s) who didn’t learn there is a phrase called ‘let-go’ May be then we would have tried one more time and could catch our hearts mid-air before falling and getting broken.
A thought I have with a spring heart around blue winters.
Her eyes looked like unheard stories, stories that were banished and the palace gates that forbade her from entering. She was a crown-less queen but a royal full of poise. Her wagon loaded with magic hours, and words heavy with dragon fire. Sky bent when she walked, rivers roared with her touch. The nomadic souls felt at ease and the coldest hearts melted in her unspoken syllables and dab speeches. They feared her powers, so, a dynasty was made to dissipate. She didn’t vanish instead scattered her warm ashes for her stars to live longer.