I was never a good writer. I never really got an A in my years as a student. At least, never English. I yearned for it, but it never appeared; the highest I ever got was a B+. Somewhere along someone encouraged me to read up. It started with Readers’ Digest, then Teenage magazine, eventually The Philosopher’s Stone, His Dark Materials and so on.

I thought I’d improve. But I never really did. At fourteen, I didn’t know what a synonym was. At seventeen, I couldn’t differentiate a verb with an adjective. At nineteen, I couldn’t understand what ‘irony’ meant, much less ‘paradox’. At twenty, I was still making simple grammar mistakes.

But I am no longer my fourteen-year-old self, nor am I in my seventeen or nineteen. While, quite unfortunately, certain grammar mistakes still persist, I have come to a realisation of my little accomplishments – like knowing the local literature scene, having one of my poems published and grabbing myself a writing internship.

Things are changing. I’m sure of it. I’m sure six months down things would change even more. Maybe I will write a book. Maybe I’ll be somewhere. And I am going to hold those hopeful thoughts. I will need them.

But one thing stands in way and I am greatly sleep-deprived and immensely moody because of it. Writing is easy. Knowing what to write is easy. The challenge is getting down to business.

I’ve had strands of thoughts coming and leaving at weird, irregular timings. I’ve had ideas that fleets pass too quickly. I’ve had moments when I wanted to write, but nothing would appear.

There’s only one statement, I’m willing to make – Writer’s Block is real, and Procrastination ain’t helping.
















Cycle v2.0

You are tucked underneath the layers of sheets in your bed, a sanctuary away from the chilly rain. Your eyes wandered from the whites of the ceiling, inspecting its purity, and you questioned yourself, in the back of your mind, if you were ever as pure.

It’s the kind of evening where remorse hits, like the forthcoming rain, in waves and you shuddered amid the layers of sheets, hoping that it will pass. But you know, the sensation will stay and not dissipate even if the rain stopped.

You decided to distract yourself, but not with sleep because you’ll probably wake up from a recurrent nightmare.

So you reached for your phone and the Facebook surveys popped up amongst your social feeds. You clicked on them one at a time, enjoying its content and laughed at its ridiculousness. And time flutters by as you counter checked your personalities, quizzed your pathetic lexicon and reaffirmed your personalities again.

Before you know it, you had dozed off and a familiar scene of you, burrowed under the sheets on your bed, staring into the ceiling replays.

carpe diem

we are struggling souls,
trying to salvage what we can and
cannot, meeting deadlines and
exceeding expectations.
and it is only in the silent of the night,
the wee hours of the morning,
can we, truly,
be alive.


Life is peculiar.

Nothing is left unturned. The tides flow as they please, the wind howls as they desire, the menstrual cycle. Nothing is ever alone. Not you, not me, not the organelles on the skin that wraps us.

Everything is always in motion. By laws of nature, like the Earth’s rotation, the Moon’s revolution, the Planets’ orbit. And by laws defying nature, like the dew that trickles down the leaf’s blade, the coffee that drips through the filter.

Everything is always happening so quickly, like the death of the dragonflies. The lashing of a tongue, the flutter a little too late, a valiant struggle, the decapitated wings, the surrender, the retrieval, the stomach unemptied.

Nothing quite makes sense. Not the language we wear on our tongues, not the herbs in the broth, not the way currency evolves. Not you.

Not me.

days numbered 

​your days are numbered from
the day you were born,
and each breathe you take may
well be your last.
your only salvation,

is to cherish
those who existed and inked
their shadows onto
your pathetic, minuscule life

dangerous activity

i think it is dangerous to partake in late night ramblings but this situation calls for one, so i am going to heed my urges and you are going to read it. it’s been a few days since i began my internship. and already, i feel the inadequacy of my existence in the company. the praises that i used to get are merely vapours of the past, and adapting to a new life is yet again a big hurdle to overcome.

truth is, i wish i am less of a pessimist and more of an optimist. i wish i would think of this opportunity as a way to hone my craft. and i wish i am smarter and more resourceful. i wouldn’t deny that i once wished i was birthed with a golden spoon and that life would have been vastly different – maybe better. being a perfectionist hurts.

being a perfectionist hurts. and no right words, or phrases, or sentences can aptly describe this feeling. if i am forced to put these to words, i’d say something inside me is, slowly but surely, eating me alive. and while it may seem i am breathing and eating and sleeping fine, my soul may have already been shattered into a million shards.

that said, there is no beauty without pain.