Poetry

All this time I tried running after perfection. But I have now realised how powerful is to be average. To relate to the most, to accept the true self, to feel the same pain of sweating hard for our dreams and then gulping down the microscopic results, knowing how well we deserved.

It’s frustrating, isn’t it? When you are capable of climbing different mountains but not being able to summit any one of them, when not being able to be the jack of anywhere despite being good in so many aspects. That’s because we expect a lot from ourselves. Because we are our harshest critics since somewhere in our gut the wish to climb up never calms down.

So, I thought may be my strongest suit is in being average. But not mediocre. It suggests even though I do a fairly good job in most aspects of life but I still strive to do better than before, only to fail better than previously. It doesn’t mean I’ll stop chasing what I dream of. I acknowledge my traits are average or a little above but all my arts are product of the truest intentions from the depth of my heart.

They ask me what’s my favourite flower. I don’t know. I never knew which flower I liked the most. Perhaps, I liked all that weren’t estranged from their stems. I always thought I knew myself well but got tongue-tied whenever asked about it.

Even in groups I notice, people always have something to say with perfect words and well-rounded achievements and none of them zone out of boredom. They have so much to share. Weddings, property, affairs, careers, gossips all these topics come easy to them while I have nothing to contribute. Then, I’m usually cornered or pushed or pointed at as a weirdo with an uncompromising pressure to be one of their kind. The times I cave in, I usually become the bearer of the most boring, lowbrow answers. And I get too embarrassed to speak afterwards.

I see an entire universe in my mind but possess a tiny speck of dictionary to explain it. Was I wrong in knowing myself? 1 out of 1000 times is a possibility for me to say something smart in those group which I’d probably rejoice it for years. Rest 999 times I just sit there.

But it’s such a hollow pain trying to be a part of something you don’t feel you belong to. Neither I’m so horribly limited in my thoughts to enjoy a satisfying conversation. I might be clueless to talk about the elite subjects but definitely not callous towards the one who doesn’t fit in as well.

If I meet someone diving off in the same trajectory of mind as mine i would have endless things to talk about. Souvenirs, trinkets, magic, eclipses, multiverses, rains, clouds, museums, anger, outbursts, bus ride, warm tea, beaches, mountains, sunsets, death. All these little things bringing happy air in the lungs.

If I’d see someone struggling, shrinking into their bones, missing their safe-zone I’d never push them into the pit of proving themselves to the world. I would rather make feel comfortable and would want them to be themselves with me. Because that shit is rare.

When I see myself in a mirror
I see a series of pleas
patched-up together
to escape in a world of
no dimensions; no trials.
The beauty had been there.
Now, it’s a shrine of ashes.

Hundreds of stories I wrote
while growing up
in my imaginary world,
those come back and haunt
through my reflection.
Freedom has a price.
It takes away the voice.

White satin curtain
unveils a window.
Tripping it over with
a drunken stride
might break a heavy body
but rekindles the heart.
But does running away fixes you?
Do you feel ashamed when
you face yourself in the mirror?
Does your version of story ends here?
Do you believe the liberty is outside
somewhere and not in yourself?
Is your lump in throat heavier
than iron feet?

O’ the terrible fear of not having
answers to the questions.
I pack my heart
then unpack.
I reach, I love, I break.
The mirror admonishes me
to bring the old hurt
and nurse it back with
confusions that grew.
‘Love like you do.
Cry like everyone does.’
It repeats until
my tears stop
and saves the soul
till the next episode.

©kanikachugh

(more…)

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