Here’s the thing — I have been afraid to write here lately. I gave away a chunk of myself when I did my 366-day project last year and I was suddenly confronted by the reality that I had said more than I had expected to. In the time since then, I have written pages and pages in my diary and cried into it, not knowing where the words would end. It is a well inside me that seems to have no end. It’s going to be a while before I can empty the well to make coherent thoughts. Till then, I have words I hope no one has to face. It’s one fear at a time. 

Terrible Weeks Call For Terrible Writing

I have had a terrible week.

It was a shitstorm of injuries, adult responsibilities and realising how much distance is just not something I will ever be ready for.

I woke up this morning, my eyes swollen from lack of sleep and excessive crying and looked at myself in the mirror. There is a slight vanity I attach to sadness and don’t ask me why I do that. Every time I am crying, I look in the mirror to see myself. It is still unclear if I am looking for the mirror to tell me I am okay or if I am just literally looking to see what I look like when I cry, quite like toddlers do.

As I looked at myself in the mirror, I remembered the last year and how every time I woke up crying and anxious, I just needed to be told I could go on. I just needed to be told that there is a world out there that I can be a part of, a world that may not fully understand me but will probably still want to accept me.

I looked at myself and said, “You have tried way too hard for you to go back to that now.” I thought of every day in the past week and how it disappointed me in every way possible. I couldn’t go back to being the person who gave up on her life before it even began.

I have been told in the past week that I am not good enough, that I am not someone that a certain person would like to be seen with, that people I love don’t have time for me. But, I still want to love myself.

We’re in a world where it is a crime to be happy and love yourself despite the odds. The odds need not look like intense distress. But, I would really like to love myself right now especially considering I have no one to pass on the torch to.


I fear the things my heart chases because they might not be good for me.
I fear the things my body chases because they might kill me.
I fear the things my mind chases because I might lose my will to feel.
I might be afraid of the fear that surrounds me suddenly like an ocean.
Or even like a prisoner in a tightly wound rope in a dingy cell.

I fear the words I write right now
for they might define me.
What if I was the wind?
What if I changed?
How dare my words become my only identity?
I am more. I am more.

Yet, I am so little. So small. So insignificant. A speck, a drop, a freckle, an atom, a cog in the wheel.

I am alone. But, I am not the only one.

शीशे का घर

शीशे के घरों में रहने वालों को
पत्थर फेकने का कोई शौक़ नहीं है।
घूर घूर के पर्दों के अंदर से जब
बहार देखने का मन्न किया
तो देखा तुम्हे घूरते हुए।
जब बारिश की बूँदें शीशे पर सजी
तब देखा तुम्हे बेफ़िक्र उछलते हुए।
सूरज की किरणे जब पड़ी रस्ते पर
तो उसका भी मन्न किया बाहर खेलने का।
पर जब तुम दहलीज़ पर आए
तो लगा, “कही महमान-नवाज़ी में घर टूट न जाए?”
अकेले रहने को जी तो नहीं करता
पर बेघर होना कौन चाहेगा?

New words

I saw this word first. wpid-wp-1414645271172.jpeg

I was just going to leave this here and say something about how I am starting to get really tired of having to defend my feelings and guard them as if they are stepchildren in a Bollywood movie. But, then I saw an update on the same page.

Picture 3


That’s what I have to say. I am tired