Tuesday, 29 December 2015

Of freckles and slippers.

There you are.

All of you. 

Here I am. 

How were the last six months, he asked. Long, I thought to myself. 

How were yours. Blank. He said. 

Years until I see you again. 

On the way back home, I saw a newly opened store of clothes. 
Each cloth has a different name written on it. 
And the shop keeper waits, till the different name bearers keep coming.

“You’re not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is where we are not… No one person in the world is necessary to you or to me.”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

Sunday, 20 December 2015

Who is she.

Am I the reflection that the mirror shows, and the darkness that those eyes find in them? 

Am I the girl who probably has commitment issues, since he died?

Am I the one who left the party that night at 2 AM and sitting on the staircase cried her eyes out 'cause no matter what she did, she couldn't save her brother?

Am I the one who believes in accepting the truth, but sometimes fixes herself with coatings of lies?

Am I the happy one, who was sitting across the painting of a car in that bar and thinking of going back in time?

Am I the one who recently got her test scores and rejoiced at the thought of one day, doing something right for the world?

Am I who would give herself away, but never let others down, no matter who they were? 

Am I the girl who didn't need a second thought to leave the city, the people, when she couldn't find peace?

Am I the one this body contemplates to be in the coming future?

Am I me? 

Friday, 4 December 2015

An ode to dead ends and beginnings.

and then he said lets break each other beyond repair. Till there's nothing left of us.  

Lets fall in love beyond limitations and then leave, to never come back to each other. 

When she opened her eyes, she realized that nothing was everything she needed. And in being broken, she found herself.

Some dreams are about waking up.