Sometimes I stand at the brink of the shore,
My heels going deeper into the sand than my toes.
Sometimes I run my hand through the fire,
But not closer than what’s really required.
Sometimes I try to sleep in the dark,
But I still leave the door a little bit ajar.
Sometimes I try to fall in love.
I exchange some parts of me but not all.
I am tired of waiting.
Tired of opening myself up,
Faster than the wine bottle on a weekend.
Tired of waiting for everyone I think I can fall in love with,
waiting for them to peel the layers of insecurity.
I don’t feel weird to talk about that embarrassing disease that I had,
or about those secrets that I am not supposed to spill.
Tell me about the words that remain unspoken after you almost ask a question and then say “nevermind”.
Tell me about the things you think as you stare at the ceiling at 2AM in the morning,
one leg placed deliberately outside the covers to maintain a perfect hot to cold ratio as he slept beside you;snoring.
Tell me about your fears and your peers.
About how you like a little dull shade of white.
Tell me about how you cry over stealing a cookie,
because the society won’t stop shaming you.
And I will do the same.
I will tell you about how I always think of scenarios when everyone close to me dies.
I will tell you how numb I feel.
I will tell you about how I don’t dream and how I am a pathological liar.
If you look closely, you will see the chaos behind the screens.
The shadows of fear and insecurity lurking and sometimes peeping from the gaps between the curtain.
But no, you love the play.
Somehow, emotional baggage scares you more than STDs.
There you all are,
Trying to stay away from me as if I am a hot chunk of coal.
Afraid that I will burn you and leave a scar.
Well, Maybe I will.
But you will have a story to tell.
I don’t know if I am a romantic or not.
But I want to skip the awkward chats,
consisting of half meant “What’s up?” and “Nothing Much”,
and self-loathing followed by “brb”.
Where you live, can wait.
I need the fucking why.
I feed on it.
You want to take things slow?
Roller-coasters don’t move slow.
They fall that way.
And us; if it is ever meant to be, will always be a roller-coaster.
Don’t you worry about the spark.
If we are ever meant to be, I know that you will have a fire inside your belly.
Let us skip to the part where you and I are opinionated,
Let’s talk about our fears and tragedies.
Tell me how you want to kill someone who stares at you longer than 2 seconds.
And I will tell you how I hate not splitting the bill.
We don’t have a lot of time.
When love arrives, we have to be on the station.
Or we will miss it.
And see it go on the rails of fortune.
But if we do board,
We will know,
whether we are to be together or not.
I promise to pull the chain,
And I hope you’ll do the same.
We are humans, looking for love.
Not fortresses surrounded by tunnels and barbed wires.
Don’t put on such a thick cloak of self-love that it is impossible to reach out to you.
Don’t make it too hard.
Not many will make an effort to crawl in the mud of patience.
I get it,
Those who don’t make an effort don’t deserve you.
you are not a trophy.
n. the desire to be struck by disaster—to survive a plane crash, to lose everything in a fire, to plunge over a waterfall—which would put a kink in the smooth arc of your life, and forge it into something hardened and flexible and sharp, not just a stiff prefabricated beam that barely covers the gap between one end of your life and the other.
How would it look like?
When I turn into what I became from.
Will it all be white?
with benches of white marbles,
and snow clad trees.
That’s how I think it’d be.
But I want to know it for sure.
You see, I don’t have a lot of confidence in my imagination.
Let’s just say, things don’t turn out to be the way I think they will.
Like when I was in class 9,
I imagined to spend my life with this girl.
And now she’s dead.
I bet she knows how it looks like on the other side.
But she will do what she used to do,
Smile and give mixed signals.
Like when I was in college,
waging a war with puberty.
I imagined I would have those marks on my face forever.
But I turned out fairly okay.
Usually I don’t bother about it.
It is inevitable people say.
That’s a relief.
But on days like these,
and nights followed by,
days like these;
I quietly wish it to end.
Because everything is so perfect.
Like a round baked cake,
or a spotless white shirt,
Like a set of sharpened pencils laid equidistant to each other,
All I want is someone to shake the bucket,
or nudge it a little,
so that the water spills.
So, listen to me you seeds of misfortune,
come, my life is ready with the warmth,
the water and love,
Eh. Love? You there?
come, let’s hang out.
Then I will just do what I do best.
That should do the trick.
But if all these doesn’t work out,
I am afraid I am ready.
Because the events of my life,
are like spaces between the sentences of a book.
so close to something interesting or beautiful,
So close, but still unaffected by all the adventure it carries.
All I want is the ink to just spill and it is okay if it leaves a mark.
This arc is terrifying.
Not that I don’t love living,
But the wait,
The wait is killing me.
When you are not looking,
Fear will tip-toe in your dreams,
And make them nightmares.
It will bring the cold sweats with it.
Fear will knock on the glass of the car,
come closer and fog it with warm breath.
And then with the pointed ugly fingers that you think Fear has,
It will write, “You’re going to die”.
Fear will cover the pillars of the stage,
And shake them hard,
which will make your knees wobble,
And it will suck the saliva out of your mouth.
It will have a one night stand with your memories,
And leave behind a baby.
A baby which will scream,
“You will suck, People will hate you”
On heights and in depths,
It will pull you down,
And hold you,
like a lover.
And it will whisper in your ears,
“You’re going down”.
But the worst thing that fear can do,
Is make you hate the people you love.
It will leave trails of salt on your cheeks,
After a big fight or a small misunderstanding,
And it will burn right through your skin,
and those scars would read,
“It will hurt, It will pain”.
But my friend,
Fear and Pain.
They are not related.
All they can be are step-brothers.
Because they are from different mothers.
And you might think they are related,
But they are not
Now, Love and Pain,
They are twins.
So tread carefully.