wisteria_

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Maybe writing mundane everyday things, is better than not writing at all. Sigh.

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  • wisteria_ 3w

    It's too soon to write about a hurt that hasn't yet fallen off the tree. It's too early to have insights when your brain is juggling the possibility of it all turning out to be unreal. Afterall, illusions are the most comfy places to build homes in.

    There's quite not a reason to ask for, when someone decides to leave you. What are you even gonna ask? Is there any possible answer that hurts a little less? The time, the situation, the phases.

    There's a metaphor I'm scared of, with the whole life in me. The buds of excitement piling bright on grass, with prancing steps, a great day! The heart brimming with someone's presence, and suddenly, or gradually it's time for the sun to set. The picnic's over. Being the last one to pack the bags, when everyone has already left. Oh that heart ripping feeling.

    It's a good idea to collect the memories and paste a smile on your face. But every moment that your instincts yearn to hear a word from them, how many memories do you gobble up? And it was never wrong to part, it was just surreal. A dream's ending, a convinced romance juts out of the cocoon and soars, unreachably.

    I'm not writing with tears, so does this count as a sober story? My eyes have dried of pain.

    A few days ago, I wrote this for him, "I don't carry you in each step of my scary journey. I don't carry you in every tear or smile. But as I dance my inadequate way, through this shaky road of mine, it's easy to find you every time I look back. It's easy to feel you with me. Maybe we can walk two different roads in togetherness. Just maybe."

    And maybe it was easier to give up. A friend told me, the ideal amount of break downs in a relationship should be zero. And I was already way past that limit. But I still had it in me. Maybe it isn't such a good idea to drain out every ounce of resilience you hold. Maybe, when it requires too many efforts, it's not worth them. Maybe. The pain lies in maybe.

    I think about missing people. The people I already missed, and crawled to a limit where I don't miss them anymore. It will be the same for this person, for every person. Missing people is funny when you know the person you miss exists in no reality.

    It's interesting, how a bond ends. Once the conclusion is pulled out of the bag, nothing remains the same. The love language developed over a period is rendered useless, only pricking in memories. And the way you looked at the same person, is coloured in so many insecurities. Never again will two people sit together and feel the same. Once broken, it's never mended the same. Sometimes, it's never even mended.

    The last of the tears are always played, with failing memory of a premature dream's death. There's song and sunset. And a hope that nights, and early dawns are lesser grey.

    I loved as much as I could, and I believe he did too. We loved in our own ways, we'll part in our own ways too. I will learn to sleep with how there's no why to ask for things in life.

  • wisteria_ 5w

    Just an inconsistent attempt at writing.

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    Somewhere down the half done night,
    Looking at images of sky on the phone,
    With my skyless days and nights,
    There aren't many words to wither off my tongue.
    To write is an anomaly now,
    To the intent of piling up till it spills,
    In headaches and upset gut,
    It spills in pangs of silence.
    Happiness is as temporary a feeling,
    As having done some work for the day.
    Lately, I have started singing out loud,
    It makes me feel more alive.
    Maybe this something, that i started,
    As a half burnt half baked poem,
    Might just end up being another conversation,
    I ain't a poet, I don't have the life in me to be one.
    Sadness requires a lot of courage these days.
    I miss trees as usual, the leaves, the calm,
    my eyes lurk out of the windows,
    In boring lectures, dreaming of leaves singing.
    The love that settles slowly, settles deep,
    And I know not of a lot of other reasons to smile.
    It also settles like a fear, of change,
    Of doom, of burning down everything flammable,
    Before it catches fire, itself.
    But love is tranquil in the days I don't think,
    It hugs me like I have something to hold onto.
    I wish to tell some people,
    How they mean the world to me.
    Midst the empty rolling chair,
    And a presentation waiting for me,
    Maybe I will have enough memories,
    To sustain myself, to keep myself warm.

  • wisteria_ 8w

    Today, I'd rather write than die. I am amidst realisations. Always am I guess. One pill at a time. And maybe one day I'll be cured. But maybe my existence starts from a delusion and ends on one too. Maybe this is just another existential rant, or maybe I haven't breathed in a while, and I breathe well only when I spill.

    I'd talk about insecurities if someone wants to listen. Alienation rings loud in my bones the moment I pull up a bag on my shoulders and walk to a place, I think is an absolute waste of time, mostly. I see myself floating, going round and round in circles, with every person I meet everyday. It's a weird thing. Inexplicably weird, if you haven't already felt so, to the shudder of your teeth, and with the words you called out, unheard.

    Maybe friendship is for people, who are able to wear their truth, who are able to know their truth. I often find myself, spiralling inwards, throwing more words into the pile of unsaid. Maybe I just drank all the times I did, to speak a few words. And I have ranted in front of strangers. And seen them become not so strange, in that moment. But that's all I do.

    Last week, or let's just say the whole last month, was filled with more crying spells than I had in months. But maybe, it's only when I cry, I scream out. But if I see someone else crying before I would, I'd probably not scream. I'd simply forgive. It's probably weak to be so. But my grievances always fall short of reason in front of someone's misery. How do I handle myself?

    I thought of a friend today. A friend who isn't a friend anymore. I remember birthdays, and I don't wish anymore. Maybe that's just a way of curling deeper into a place where no one can find me. I would say I suffocate much here, but then I still won't be able to release myself out.

    I think of how someone would remember, how someone perceives me. That's not something I can control, nor do I want to. But it feels weird, to say that maybe if I don't bawl my eyes out, no one would listen to the pause I'm leaving behind each syllable. And maybe no one is supposed to hear that too.

    Usually I see people smiling, and it scares me to think I don't smile all that much. I liked being loud and fun. A part of me did. But maybe now, I just can't retrieve some old pieces. And maybe that's the answer to who I am. A puzzle whose pieces are lost and found, a puzzle that's never complete.

    Maybe I'm just going back to who I was a few years ago. Drowning out the noise of happy people, with my ear phones bleeding out. I read somewhere, "I don't know what's worse : to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you have always wanted to be, and feel alone." Today, feels especially alone.

    My mind tries to stop me from writing all this, because I don't want to sound desperate. But to be honest, who is anyways gonna read this and remember me. And I'm pretty the sky won't fall if the world got to know I'm lonely from time to time.

    It's difficult to be with people, even the ones who tell me they want to be around me. It's difficult because I never drain the pretense I carry. How do I wear myself to my day, in a way I wouldn't still think my laughter is too loud, or my hair are too strange, or why nobody would want to sit with me if they knew all that I think.

    Maybe this is how a new city meets you at first. You can count on all the faces to unmask sometime. The thing is mostly, you find yourself waiting for that.

  • wisteria_ 9w

    Ek surahi mein atka chaand,
    Maine duur kisi talaab mein bikher dia,
    Woh puchte mujhse main kon hu,
    Mera har jawab sifar ka muntazir,
    Woh puchte hai mai kon hu,
    Maine na jaane kab sach bolna chhod dia.

    Kohre si khwaishon mein, seher ko basiirat kahaan
    Mai wo jo har din shab ka intezaar karti hu,
    Shab-korii me aaina talaashne.

  • wisteria_ 13w

    Not even trying to be writer/poet.

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    I spend my afternoons in a grave search of words. It's a brief affliction in my mouth, that stops me from saying the things I don't seem to forget. It seems all too dark and messy, my insides mostly bloat with unhealthy suppers and thoughts. I have tried long enough to write something pretty or feel something pretty, but maybe the past few days haven't been easy.

    And maybe I'm too scared of everything, even of writing these words, of every word of mine falling against the concrete. How long should a break be, before it becomes an attempt to avoid work and invite pity, how long should a break be, so that you don't have to curse yourself for taking one.

    I don't want to be asking for sympathy, but from where I am looking, the world is hazy to a point I choke on the blur. Maybe it's just because I have been inside my room for too long. There's nothing to say, and there's a lot to say. The alarm inside my gut doesn't stop. It rings through my blood and I'm unable to sleep, eat or walk.

    Someone asked me, why do you hate to admit you're not fine. Maybe because I have not been fine for a very long time. And I don't know how many more days, till this anxiety stays a part of me. I know anxiety is just an indicator. I know maybe I should just read a good book. Maybe I should talk to someone, but tell them what.

    Maybe if I try hard enough, I'll be okay. But I just wish I didn't have to try so much, to be able to breath peacefully.

  • wisteria_ 14w

    Maybe.

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    Maybe I'll never be who I wanted to be, maybe I'll never once sit again and feel enough to breathe out my lungs, and inhale everything that it means to be a human. The only part of my humanness I inhabit the most is uncertainty.

    I feel lighter when he smiles, even through miles sleeping between us. I feel like I can live when a friend listens to my ramble, and tells me what makes her cry. A hope to find a newness, in a not-so-new city, I spend my nights in dreams often.

    In this walk, tears seem to be falling, one wrong or right turn ahead. Everything changes, every moment, till the dead end settles in my heart. As long as I forgive myself with every step of the journey, I smile fine.

    People are like leaves, when they fall from your tree, you can't ever pick them up the same. They become autumns, except in your memories. It's the strangest currency of your mind, the memory of someone, everyone, a smile, a word or two, a promise, a shared anxiety, something.

    Life fades in weird ways. Magnifying and minimising through our lenses. I have sensed a wistful tinge in my lens, that never leaves, and it's painful, yet livable. I'm trying to find myself livable through these lenses.

    I garden no grudge for anyone, inside these imperfect fences of my life. I hope everyone enjoys a good sip of tea every once in a while, with a good conversation maybe. I would only smile these days when I see smiles.

    On those heavy monsoons of my heart, when I become the last anchor of each dream of mine, and the world sits sun dried on my fears, I fumble, I falter, I soak in the dreary thoughts, barely living. Maybe I'm not a vessel of hopes, I'm just a person of chance.

    I will walk when I can, fall when I have to, and maybe that's enough. Maybe, if I keep walking, many eyes won't hold pity for me, when I close mine. Maybe I'd have danced enough and laughed enough, and loved enough. Maybe.

  • wisteria_ 14w

    Having the whole world settling peacefully beside your table and lamp, is a rare flickering feeling.

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    Rattle these bones, and dip my flesh in wist,
    There ought to be a day one shows up to a mirror.
    And the hammer cracks on glass,
    Reflection is just the truest thing you shouldn't believe,
    This world is a reflection on a passing lake.

    You might still ask for a flood, when the eyes dry up,
    There's always been a box of all wishes one buries,
    And another picks up for a heavy legacy
    And rotten beards growing arguments.
    You never know where the hair loses its shade,
    And you colour yourself in murk.

    Roll over the hill, and brush against a rafflesia,
    You shall smell half as dead,
    As the saddest pebble on the shore
    Or the person walking on a road,
    As pretty as your gloom, as filthy as your worst fear.

    Maybe a mountain would save one,
    But empty pockets don't show you realities from top of the world, you must already see them.
    You gotta bear many winds just after a rain,
    To know the cold you feel,
    And the cold that brings knees to cobbles.

    Don't forget to breathe every silence,
    Between the burns on your left arm,
    One for every day, words didn't fall like honey,
    No one is the only one with a knife under their pillow,
    No one is the only one with no death wish.

    You would hear chats on every corner of road,
    And skeletons ready to bulge a grin.
    The lights are what keep the monsters away,
    Unless there are too many of them,
    With you among too many people.

    Words are only a maze, to say the things,
    I'd rather vomit in a sink and forget.
    I'm all the same and all too different,
    Living a world to another,
    Making up stories I'd never live.

    Maybe I only write because I'm scared today.

  • wisteria_ 21w

    It poured like rain.

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    Let me write,
    Before I forget how love felt,
    Before I vow, to walk slow,
    And walk past.
    You packed me a diary,
    Of sweet truthful lies,
    You looked over them,
    And had me smiling inside,
    You held me,
    Through the winds of night,
    Waiting for our senses,
    Fading into the dark.
    Oh, we laughed,
    And danced,
    With curtains open,
    And the world a little tipsy.
    Let me write,
    Before I forget,
    How you came back
    To kiss me,
    On the chilly morning,
    And I made you laugh.
    We looked pretty together,
    In the rays of sun,
    A little late, a little better.
    And through the musical dreams,
    And the stars on my terrace,
    Long back, when we sang along.
    And today,
    The same stars, sing back in the days.
    We didn't walk on the road,
    To find answers,
    We knew them,
    Long before we kissed.
    I knew, I'd watch you leave,
    And still I spun around,
    Some tipsy steps,
    In love.
    Let me write imperfectly,
    How I'll remember,
    What it felt like, in love.

  • wisteria_ 24w

    Untimely.

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    In this small chamber of the world, and in the whole world created inside this stunted space, I sit and trade delusions like a yearning too close to reality. I build walls of words to hide behind, and peek sometimes, being seen remorsefully. It's the same over-expressed thought, and my pitiable mind rarely grows something new and beautiful now. What could I have expected from a mind kept, about a thousands miles from where a tree lives and some space to wander around is gifted.

    I would write a poetry, but the bedsheets are pulled off from corners, and the dishes in my sink barely sing. And I curse the writer who wrote of pretty imaginations as I learn what people think his words meant, to please the examiner. Maybe I can write of curtains, but I want them changed, my new liking is aesthetically pleasing objects, so that I don't have enough time to own my thoughts. And maybe putting a mirror in front of myself, through writing is just self-condemnation.

    When I was young, I read of a helpless woman, who called herself a bitch for a young undercooked love of hers. The man had kids with another woman, the man had lived many years further, as she lived the same day over and over. She meets him, and bitch inside of herself lurks slowly, wishing to hold him as soon as a word of affection is heralded. And she holds the bitch by scruff, pulling her back and putting her in place, a reeking chair of pining. He walks away, she walks away hating herself, for losing happiness, for losing any chance at love.

    I was young and I related once. Though I learnt soon, obsession isn't love, it's distortions of thoughts and fantasies manifesting in unhealthy ways. It's a calling from within about bigger things that need attention, rather than the object of obsession. And the point of the above story was asking myself a question today. Am I still the bitch for yearning? I'm not unwise enough to obsess or claim to bloat myself in melancholy, for a love unreturned, a letter unanswered, a clean slate of feelings or a decision to leave behind the good, believing it's the right time.

    So who am I, when I miss something that was present once, and gave me a breath of relief? Who am I, when I just yearn for the simpler times, that happened to fall in my lap, when words felt like the song of hearts sung equally well? Who am I, when I want something to sprout again, or a frail sapling to never die? Who am I, when I wish behind these empty doors, for something to walk inside, and ease a restless irk I don't understand yet? Something, not even a person, maybe even a book that would walk in, and see me as the person I am while writing this, as this person I seldom jut out as.

    I wouldn't want to proceed with any condemnation and belittlement, even in my thought, for the sole acknowledgement of every warm embrace I laid upon my scars when they burned red from abuse. I am unable to hate myself anymore, thus calling upon a long hard earned sense of relief. But my question is unanswered, and just branches out further. If whoever I am to feel this, does this only make me humane, or does this make me someone in dire need of improvement?

    Do you remember a delicacy you had, maybe all clattered in rawness, or beautifully placed in expertise, and when it hit your taste buds, in an accidental or anticipated manner, you registered it as something you'll cherish all your life? Knowing full well, being utterly aware of the good you had, while you had it. It had to end with every bite you took. And somehow you fail to find the same dish again, and it has been years, you have had too many foods, so many meals, some ever better. But how do you forget that one taste, which felt perfect when you felt it? How do you forget it?

    I tell myself, I gotta live every next day for what new it brings to me. I gotta live everyday with same excitement and accept everything that falls my way. Yet, in the nights, as I mirror my thoughts in these words, I guess I just become a shabby old woman, who remembers vivid, her share of tastes she'll never taste again. Do I not glorify? How does one not glorify their puny existence? How can one live telling oneself, nothing important ever happened to them. Of course I romanticise what little I had, I gotta live. And somehow the little feels enough too. But how do I not miss it?

    And for every answer that I, or you give yourself, letting go would be one of them. But letting go is something I'm still trying to analyse, I'll write about it when I have enough observations to make a point. But you can't shed off something from memory by choice, you can repress it, bury it, but you can cut a piece off. And those who demand letting go as the ultimate pay in kind, I can only ask how can one find the required courage to effectively execute the above mentioned 'let go', when what is to let go, is among the very very few things that made one feel alive in the first place?

    If you say, in a hope of better future, or to ease a life wasted in yearning, I'd choose the latter. But for now, I feel emptied and will sign off.

  • wisteria_ 24w

    It had been long.

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    Seeing words on the other side of the road, I'm only confronted by my sheer inability to cross it. Maybe there wasn't any such thing as having words walk beside me, or any such thing as parting with them and watching them from a lonely corner as they sprout with other friends. Maybe it's just the unsettling discomfort of knowing I avoided my emotions for too long, that now if I try to write, I wouldn't know whether to start crying or run away again.

    Though the tears didn't fall down easy this monsoon. I cried for a meagre argument and an old letter written by my sister, telling me she doesn't want to see me dead. I yearned for tears because maybe once if I'd cried a river, I could walk past it. Maybe, I don't cry, because I don't believe the hurt resting beside my pillow, maybe because I just sleep to the thought, that the words I say, will always be heard by the person I'm saying them to. And mind you, that's just denial.

    You told me, "frustrations will take over our love, the way a cake rots when kept uneaten for too long." It's hard to imagine your face, it's blurring out inside my mind. But I hear your words, I feel our mishaps, I feel your smiles, I feel the ache of not being able to touch you, to pull down your mask and kiss you. I feel our words drying out this soon. I feel myself at the verge of not being able to see you the same. And any kind of transition from here seems too painful.

    And freedom is fairly lonely in a new city, although with a sky that makes me want to smile loud. Strangers I met are pretty, and calming too, but they are strangers, they might not remember my name after the first meet. And maybe nobody says this, in early years of life that finding people is easy, waiting for a very few of them to turn into friends is slow and somewhat painful, and then leaving them with ambiguous fate of the so called friendship is a choking silent pain that pricks rare but strong.

    Not trusting people has become my second nature, yet I stand far from a cynicism that would prevent me from even trying to find slightest comfort in an accidental conversation. I trust so smoothly that sometimes I think I don't trust at all. And amidst all this, being a human in oneself is such a complex condition. Evaluating myself on scales of productivity and measuring my efforts to secure a future, all these in a chaotic mind, that forgets to eat and exercise, that's who I become most days.

    I wish, I wasn't sitting alone right now, but maybe I'm learning something. I just don't know what it is. I still carry the same fears with different names. I still sleep them into my nightmares. And waking up is a fairly funny thing. I don't enjoy the things I want to enjoy, and telling myself I have too little time feels unreal, till I have no time left. And once that happens, I don't know who I'll live as.

    Some nights, I only ask myself, with a hint of optimism and a blot of uncertainty, how long before I tire myself, and surrender as a madwoman or a loser who couldn't learn the ways of living or equity markets or taxes. I tell myself I'll earn my retirement early, and hopefully by that time I'll be strong enough to leave behind everything worldly, and live for something that would count as a living without a doubt. But sometimes I ask myself, when that time comes, will I not be tired enough to live another day?