despondency, where do you hide in company?

it was a sunday morning, two weeks after moving to bangalore. my flat mates had gone out for the weekend. I woke up and found myself all alone in that house. I remember making a late breakfast, a boiled egg and some noodles. it had been a little after noon, and this feeling hit me like a truck. it was intense. I remember it not being so pleasant, but I was curious. I had never experienced anything like that before. I tried to deconstruct it. I sat there at the kitchen table for a bit, just soaking it in. trying to comprehend the strange, new feeling. just when I was settling in, something distracted me. maybe the ping of a notification on my phone, I forget. I moved on to watching some tv show and soon that feeling faded away, it faded away into the background

had a weird day today. today, reminds me of that day

I think I miss people. I’d be in my own bubble but sit nestled among everyone. just being a fragment of the hustle bustle around

adrift

you’ve drifted away,
I can see it in your eyes

you search for another when you look into mine

you aren’t here, love
not anymore

not anymore, love
no more

who do you tell the stories to

I like words. The way they sound.

A friend had asked, ‘why do you write?’

I think the desire to express, to be heard is human. I wrote my first poem when I was eight. At least that’s the one I vividly remember. It was for a friend who was moving away. 

Writing is a form of expression for me. It lets me be. No expectations, no boundaries. Just raw thoughts on paper. It is liberating.

I started journaling in middle school. The notebook was a gift from my father. When I revisited those yellowed pages, I found it full of random musings, not a detailed account of my day, but rather thoughts swirling around in my head. End of high school, I picked up a domain name and started a blog. Yes, this space you see right here. A bunch of poems bundled away in some corner of the internet. It felt safe. It was my safe space. 

I write because I want to. To an outsider, the words might seem trivial, mundane even. An abstraction. Not for anyone else to comprehend, I write for myself. Something compels me to. 

It’s my form of gentle and honest observation. It helps me make sense of things. In the thick of things, I might not comprehend what is happening around me. But if I’ve documented it, in hindsight, like putting a puzzle together, it all makes sense.

It clears out the fog, an exercise in clarity.

I feel fortunate that writing found me. Words give me company. Like an old friend’s company, it feels safe. Warm and comfortable.

For as long as I have words by my side. My savior, my solace. 

how long will you hide?

quiet,
honest

hidden away

a quotidian existence

reset

splattered,
the day disintegrates
red dripping out

how do you sew back together
the little blocks of time?

life, a mere piece of paper?

Yesterday, after a long time I sat down to edit my resume. In the midst of the backspacing, trying to align the words just right, a thought struck me.

For the longest time I believed that our resume defined us. I feared that this piece of paper, all but a checklist, boxes to tick off, defined my life. That my life was accountable for it.

When considering a break, I was warned. I’d be held accountable for that time. I’d have to answer piercing questions about what I did in that time, in my time. I wondered, is there any point to it all? To live for a piece for paper.

I believed that our professional achievements dictated and defined the course our life took. Granted, to an extent it does, not denying that. But with time I’ve realised that there’s more, a lot more to it.

It is important but not everything.

Like a big puzzle you put together. Life’s like that, a big picture and the career you build is merely one piece of the grand puzzle. It becomes rich and beautiful only when all the different pieces are stacked together. Not one piece repeating indefinitely.

It’s the medley of all things different that reveals the true beauty of life. Not to be circumscribed by a mere piece of paper.

careful, be gentle

all it took
was a little kindness,

and my heart
was yours
to keep

to be honest

I miss you

I think about you,
sometimes

blues

My heart feels oddly sick today. There’s this heaviness. Like those dark, grey clouds outside the window.

A very particular kind of sadness. No, not the sadness that trails the love struck and heart broken. It’s something else, something on the cusp. It just hangs there, quiet and unseen.

I feel torn. Torn in this moment. This breathing, pulsing full of now. Soon a memory. A memory.

It’s a Sunday today. A quiet evening. Almost 6. There are heavy brooding clouds in the sky. And my heart chooses to imitate the sky today.

take care, will you?

soft, and fragile

tenderly,
I place this little heart of mine
in your care 

and hope,
hope 
for a tiny miracle