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.



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.


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.