Trying to start blogging again

I logged into my WordPress account today after two years of inactivity looking to feel excited about blogging again. But since I didn’t really have anything to write about, I thought I’d just pick a random diary entry from around two months ago (context- it was written a week before I went back to college for my antepenultimate semester) and publish it, consequences be damned.

It’s not one of my most cheerful (or structured) entries, sorry about that.

–

There’s little more than a week left for college to begin. It has been a week filled (to the brim) with mixed feelings. I’ve never been closer to my future but it does seem so far out of reach. I don’t know if I crave or dread the change.

This is probably because I’ve had too much free time to think and mull things over. Note to self: psychological thrillers are not good summer reads. How these books affect me! Aren’t adults not supposed to be this impressionable? I’ve found myself seeing eye-to-eye with a post-traumatic agoraphobic (The Woman in the Window by A.J. Finn. A fun read, really). I’ve found myself reading about obsessive love disorders and worrying about possibly losing my mind. It sounds so ridiculous.

There are times when I feel completely unsure about everything. Myself, mostly. My future, these relationships I’ve grown to value so much. They’re so fragile. I can’t expect any of them to last. I keep dreaming about my tenth grade classroom. Partly, I think, because that’s the last time I felt secure about my future. Armed with my subject topper medals and my 10 CGPA, there was literally nothing I felt I couldn’t achieve. Your littlest accomplishments can envelope you so completely.

I think I’m digressing though. I had a point.

Oh, whatever.

Amma is worried about me. She’s come up to the terrace, ostensibly to examine the plants and rewash the tablecloth. She just caught a butterfly. I love her to death and beyond.

Ah. My point was- I’ll miss some things about home. And some things I will not.

#659

I saw your eyes tumble

over the curve of her throat

and skitter onto the ground-

hastily, blindly;

And it was agonizing,

like watching a flawless crystal

shattering into

countless writhing pieces

Reek

I reek

of everything I’ve allowed myself to be

To reach where I am now.

The water that cascades down my scalp

teases the filth

I didn’t know I’d left to build up.

It plays with the dirt

only to abandon it

for something shinier,

somewhere brighter.

So tired.

Some mornings,

waking up can seem like sinking.

Like sticking your head into ice-cold water

and resurfacing only when you fall into bed at night.

December

Every year, December

brings along with it,

a lot more snow than

I can handle,

along with enough memories

(of you in knitted sweaters,

your clear eyes through fogged up specs.

You, leaning in to spell

‘Finifugal’ in scrabble tiles,

your gaze burning holes on my face;

you, sprawled on the sofa,

You, everywhere)

to make me want to bury myself into it.

Stars

You speak to me

Like the wind between the leaves

of the twisted old tree

that I have become.

Teasing me, stealing my breath away

with every passing glance;

So much that you make me forget

the sun, and water,

and almost everything of consequence

and all I see everywhere

are stars.

Sometimes

Sometimes, writing is

Floating on still water,

Eyes closed, waiting

For the waves to crash onto you.

It is

Standing on the highest branch

Hands outstretched

And reaching for a star.

Sometimes, writing is

The numbness you feel

As you gaze at a bleeding wound.

It is

A knife, poised

At the edge of your temple;

That phantom you kept noticing

Out of the corner of your eye,

But vanished

Just as you turned around.

Or maybe, it’s just

Staring at a blank page

And feeling like your brain

Is looking at the mirror.

But sometimes, when you’re lucky,

Writing can be

Jumping on puddles

And grey clouds at the end of sultry days,

It can be

Kisses burning a trail across your cheek.

Or green eyes behind ink-smudged spectacles.

Or maybe, it can be

The ability to

String the most beautiful words together

In the most beautiful ways,

And the relief when you hear

The last piece of the puzzle

Clicking into place.

 

 

 

 

 

She asked me to write about rain

She asked me to write about rain

And the darkness that left us stumbling

(Us who took light and warmth for granted)

This darkness concealed our strongest

But left the bravest out in the open.

 

She asked me to write about rain

About the terror of waking up at the dead of the night

To the jarring squeal of an ambulance

The pain of seeing a fully-grown dog

Trying to stay afloat in the murky water

The dread of finding a slithering something

On the bathroom floor

The irony of having nothing to drink

When all you can see around you is water.

 

She asked me to write about rain

And the whip-like deluge which crashed through

Every wall we built, in the hope

That it would stand

Even when unity didn’t.

About nature’s tears

That cleaned long-polluted rivers

But left the streets stinking.

 

She asked me to write about rain

And the fact that all it took was some water

To make us see everything a bit more clearly

About the petrifying fear which was replaced by

A fierce, animal surge of anger, a sudden fervor,

The need to fight back, the defensiveness,

Because really,

Did they think we would fall so easily?

 

She asked me to write about rain

And I thought, “Why not.”

 

Thoughts Of You

Thoughts of you

Are only safe

When they’re cloaked

By blank stares,

Hidden beneath

Closed eyes, innocent words,

Wistful smiles.

Thoughts of you

Are well-guarded

Bound by ink chains

Trapped between pages,

Concealed; Silenced

By the scratch of a pen.

Thoughts of you

Are scattered

Strewn across

Every part of my mind

So diffused, that sometimes

I forget the beginning

Before I reach the end.

Thoughts of you

Are precious, fragile,

But yet, sometimes,

They overpower me.

Leaning precariously

Away from reality;

Almost tripping, falling.

Pulling me along

Thoughts of you frighten me

Because, the depths

Of my imagination

Are unfathomable

When it comes to you.

One thing Teen Law dictates that I do, and why I don’t do it.

A few days ago, I was talking to an acquaintance and she was asking me if I had a phone. I told her I didn’t.

“You aren’t on Whatsapp?” she asked incredulously.

“No.” “Instagram?”

“Nope.”

“But Facebook, surely?”

“No…”

“Google Plus? Anything?”

“No, but I am on Goodreads-”

She didn’t seem to hear me. “You study too much,” she said, giving me a pitying look.

This was the most idiotic thing I’d heard all day, but of course, I couldn’t tell her that. So here I am, to tell everyone else.

I don’t get why all teens are expected to strut around waving their IPhones, listening to pop songs and taking selfies. Many of us aren’t like that. And is there some sort of unspoken agreement about how people who aren’t on any social networking sites are nerds, pushovers who succumb to parental pressure, losers, primitive organisms or People Not worth Knowing?

I don’t get it. People don’t believe me when I tell them the truth: I am genuinely not interested. That’s it.

Seriously, is it so abnormal that I don’t want to pressurize myself to take the perfect photo for a profile picture, or to make myself pout like a fish, or stick my tongue out or wink ridiculously for a photo so that people who don’t mean it can tell me I look gr8 or aMAzinG?Is it so weird that I don’t want to be in ask.fm where people I’ll never know about are given a free ticket to criticize and condemn me and can easily get away with it? Is it so unbelievable that I have better things to do?

Since nobody was going to believe me, I resorted to making excuses: How being on social networking sites would make me lose IQ points and how I didn’t want to get distracted, are some of the more plausible ones (and I know, that’s saying something).

But another thing I don’t get it is why people think you’re ‘too busy studying’ when you’re not on a social networking site. It’s not like I never use the internet. People are so consumed in Facebook and Whatsapp and whatnot that they forget how much more the internet has to offer. I come online to read blurbs on goodreads, watch videos, listen to music, download ebooks, check out blog posts and check my mail. Isn’t that something?

Apparently not.

Now I have to work out a more ‘credible’ answer to “You’re studying too much” than a snort and “Hardly.”