Author: Kanika

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Does anyone else see doorknobs as safety metaphors? ‘A fist-size piece for different weekdays.’ When an urge to enter into a new space after a fight, or same boredom aggravates, we look for a doorknob.
Am I only one who tries to find meaning in all these stupid things? Because whatever else that is understood by the world, just so plainly skims over my head. I don’t know what the world needs. I don’t know what I need from me but I wish to find an island with no concept of time. So, I’m not running after or running out of anything and could softly say:
Dear August, just don’t leave me yet.

Sometimes i feel I have so much of love inside me that it bleeds out as sadness and disappointments.

• 

• 

So, I am back after a few months. Busy building a new nest after my previous Pinterest room left me with bittersweet memories. Some of you might have forgotten me. Can’t complain. I forgot me too.
This is the view from my new balcony. A view to die for. Or, A view to live for. The things you say to yourself make up your little moments and moments make life, isn’t it? Coming to a foreign land isn’t always a deck of flowers or a starry wreath that might look shinier from afar. My dense mouth can all say that I have been busy but I know how lost I had felt. Being busy isn’t an excuse to stop doing things you love so I am definite I could have squeezed some time to write but couldn’t. All this time I thought I was shrinking into a ball of yarn with uneven surfaces of threads and finally being sucked into nothingness. I wanted this to be a happy post. Sorry, I started off with the wrong foot. But then what’s the point of art if I couldn’t tell myself the truth? If I don’t feel okay I must admit. If I am feeling nothing I must face it. I stand there to look at this infinite beauty. Mortal and honied. All the more reasons to love life esp being in one of the most beautiful continents. So, I thought I would write this for a stranger. To whom I would not force feed to think only positive thoughts. To the one with whom I can join in the nothingness and be there through silences, to the one I can assure that you aren’t a burden and you are allowed to feel deep pride. To ascertain that when you planted grief as the wall hangings, it became an overgrown décor after years and you aren’t tortured by it anymore, that you don’t have to run away from the madness and the odor of your heart is expanding, trying to smell like the struggle of the new petals being born. The strange serendipity between you and your smile will stumble upon simple things on an ordinary day again. Your ball of yarn wasn’t turning into nothingness but into a floral sweater to keep you intact and warm. All this to a stranger and a year older ‘me’ to go down memory lane to remember. You made it through it. You can do it again.

©kanikachugh

How many times have you built a home,
in how many places,
In how many moments,
in how many people?
Don’t you get bored? Or tired?
especially when you’re one of the snails making it.

One big round stone that requires minimum 10 hands and 50 motivational speeches each day to lift it.
Rolling through life
making where you could
not where you wanted.
The morning drudgery work again,
calling an unknown ground home at night.

How many times your smartwatch will tell you how far you are from home..
How many times you’ll change favourites in Google maps.

Home wasn’t supposed to change so often.
It was supposed to be warm, clingy, run-of-the-mill, home-baked-cake-fragrant walls.
where no one could see you clenching your teeth or curling toes.

Home was supposed to sing
and nod along your shaky tunes.
And the roof to protect you from thunderstorms,
from up and beneath.
It was supposed to make you wanna do forbidden things
without having to give up on your easy happiness.
A fairy land with huge moons
not a dim lit room with melting wax.

Home- all the beauty and the flowers;
and you, looking from afar like a wandering star.

I am such a needy person.
I need to have everything.
I need the stars, the moon,
the birthday candles,
picnic baskets,
tiny predictions,
chameleon memory,
Polaroid pictures,
hands that hold,
hands that feed,
a Five star hotel,
a burger van.

I need,
No two consecutive nights crying,
unlimited times of messing up,
A rush to change the world,
a clock to lock good things in,
a north pole of fiery dreams,
a south pole for my criminal words,
the lamps that would flicker
in the test of time.
I need to know my
eulogy before I die.
I need all
and I’d would pack
it in a flower metal box
and place it under a small
tree of an olive family
passing its essence into the roots.
So, when I would wear a
Lilac cardigan I would
know I have everything.

©kanikachugh

It’s just june and the world’s

unkindness is already at its peak.

Protect yourself at all costs.

©kanikachugh

There is a certain
dexterity my diary holds
of frowning ironies and
gypsy butterflies.
With tragic notes like a
daily reminder from a suffering ‘Sylvia’,
and the harvest of words I reward myself with your spring beauty,
it suffocates and rejoices.

You don’t know even
half of your beauty
that resurrects the dead hearts
and resuscitates my old papers
dying below the weight of
everlasting winter flakes.
And my words don’t even know
half of the vocab to describe you
filling up the boring spaces between us
by holding the moon in a spoon.

My tongue lifts to trace
your essence in some
literal symbols
so tender to touch,
so far away like clouds
that fills up my sky
with their moving smiles
and opaque nature.
Making me wonder
if my words will ever be able
to penetrate you like
an holy attempt of sunshine.

Some days,
my diary holds
gape(s) and gasp(s)
and all sorts of drama
in Gothic style.
The other days
It produces a visual
of you as my new Lord
waiting to be worshipped.

I appear, my veil ugly
the gravity around me, uglier
knowing you love the outcasts.
I gaze at you
with fondness.
You look at me
with pitiful eyes.
But I know, I have words
And words will
take your heart away.

I would have choosen death
over sympathies, anytime
but knowing it’s you
I chose to live
And my mute book,
to scream your
appreciation in 26 letters
to pass on the stories
to our great-grandchildren
of how we met,
Because
There were only words,
words were all we had
to take our hearts away.

Love wins when
you see only love
and not abominations.

Someday somewhere,
sitting on the window side of a plane
my metal dreams would fly high donning a straw-hat and virgin cells
and
I wouldn’t regret my decision.

Somewhere leaving the iron gates of my heart ajar would let a stranger of a new city cross a threshold in a summery dress and I wouldn’t pine over taking off the veils.

Someday standing under an unknown tree with fresh honey and unpolluted wings, I won’t blame my ambitions like an angry Roman mob attempting to vent the frustrations out.

Someday my wild spirit wouldn’t be the murderer of my mere wants
and would show herself swinging up in the garden,
shaking hands with the wind and
exhausting every cell with delight.

Someday somewhere while building sandcastles I wouldn’t forget to include a swing set
so I could slope off the yard or an intangible syllable
wherever it’d get lonely.

Someday I’d stop proving myself to you in my mind and find an exit before a furious clock could hit three.

Someday you’ll choose me.
And so will I.