What I Think of When I Think

A reply, if you will.

The Road Much Travelled.

I want to



I want to write

about the color


how it is


double hued

velvet on plastic

I want to write about

the roughness

of the sky.

how the stars

shine four pointed


enough to poke

a hole through your skin.

I want to write

about pink


in the sunset

how stars

burn to life

and the sun dies


in the ocean.

I want to write

to your ears

your eyes loving

the chocolate

of the words

rolling it around

in your mouth

till the flavour

hits your palate




I want to write

my heart sore

from singing its blood






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Thought 28. About every damn poet ever.

I dont want to write.
I dont want to write
About love
and the things it does.
About heartbreak
and what never was.
About pain and hurt,
hearts covered in dirt.
About the ‘color of your eyes’,
and your ‘lips on my skin’
About how ‘instead of looking outside,
you must look within.’

About romanticizing and eulogizing,
faces, events and places.
About even and odd spaces
between two people or
pretension of insanity.

About women,
About souls,
About how they feel used
for looking like dolls.

About sex
and intimacy,
the throes of passion,
and how even that,
is another form of

About anxiety
and depression,
About painkillers
and obsession.
About things that kill
me from the inside,
about how most of the things
are really those that affect me
on the outside.

I don’t want to write.

About ego,
and psychoanalysis.
About how only you end up
so messed up,
on the verge of one of those fatal trips.

About god,
and creation.
About things we can’t let go,
About things we really hold,
and sudden revelation.

About what I see in my mirror,
About how that isn’t very clear,
or clearer,
than it should be.
Cause you see,
‘I should see me’.

About someone being vain,
someone being self-absorbed.
About someone,not me,
but really is me,
for unto her/him,
I am projected.

About how for some reason
my verbal skills make me superior
because I can express better than others,
and use rhyme scheme to my advantage .
or not.



Thought 27. Metamorphosis (of a year)

This was an idea suggested by someone very important to me. (Jellybro,this one’s for you!). However, it took me an actual year to write about it simply because the nature of topic lends itself to such variations in meaning. Whatever I write lends itself to your, the reader’s subjective imaginations as well as mine. Allow me to attempt.

Metamorphosis. A keyword I come across when I think of its meaning is usually ‘transformation’ – mostly in appearance and/or function. I don’t mean to make this purely intellectual or scientific or even that serious. But as a writer, or someone who writes as much as she can, ‘metamorphosis’ is extremely important.

Metamorphosis occurs on so many different levels to a writer. For example, there can be extreme transformation in the way one writes. Although I would like to believe in a gradual change in the way someone writes, it has often turned out to be wrong. Every writer tends to have this itch at the back of their neck , the want to change what they  write, how they write, to experiment. And most times, there is complete transformation, a blooming into something greater than themselves and their past work. Even if it’s just one shot in the dark. And that act of bloom changes them completely. Experiencing and being a catalyst in that transformation themselves, changes their continued writing thereafter.

It also occurs with the way a writer approaches their work. Whichever emotional base they depended their work on may get questioned or may completely shatter. Post which, the eyes with which they see their work change. The complete view. They may be able to step back or step closer to see the details. They transform the way they view their own work. And more often than not, analyse it for themselves, allow themselves to sink in the moment that they wrote the piece in. Many writers also find their previous work completely unreadable and are utterly disgusted by it, including me. The emotional turmoil they were in or the waning of the stimulus that was the reason of the piece itself seems like a distant dream. It seems muddled, and the writer wonders in which state of mind they would have written that in.

And just like how metamorphosis suggests a magical process , an alchemy caused change in the make-up of something, it is indeed so for the writer as well as readers. As one goes through another writer’s works, we travel through the range of experiences, emotions, thoughts the writer had. We see the writer’s attempt to drown themselves in their work. They become their work. And in essence, a metamorphosis in their writing and the way they view their work becomes a metamorphosis in them.

This concept is such a dense one to talk about, for a 20 something common writer like mine. To write of personal transformations makes it preachy and requires a strength, a courage that I cannot muster as of now, either to talk of it or to experience it. To urge for a public transformation, even more so. So I wrote of it the only way I know how – as a writer. A shift, a breaking out of consciousness and appreciation for such has occurred to me only once I got writing. So let me allow this to be a homage to it, if I may.

Metamorphosis. Transformation. Bloom. Break out. Change.

Thought 26. Observations for Breakfast.

I sit in a lively French place for breakfast. With their cane furniture and duplicate Renaissance paintings and monochrome tiling with croissants in glass display racks and smell of bread permeating the air, I frequent this joint quite a bit. Yes, a French place with Filipino waiters, Arab customers and Maghribian head chef. I look up from my breakfast (which was lovely by the way) to see a prime example of society here.

Family enters. WITH DRIVER. (That’s a first). Women sit on a table. The patriarch and the driver on another. A generous, loving patriarch. He orders for himself and The One That Shares His Table.

The patriarch with a bulging stomach and appetite, with a happy round face and a handlebar moustache adjusting his red thatched head gear and cajoling His Friend to eat more. The women speaking to each other, huddled around their food.

The Other One , tanned with a gaunt face, eyes welled with gratitude. (Or is it desperation?). Faded shirt, pants with grease stains and hunched shoulders. His hands alternate from the cup of tea to the edge of his seat. Speaking only when spoken to.

Both faces smiling at each other in their mutual loneliness. The patriarch plays his role alone. He has no place in the conversation of his women. He talks quietly and politely to His Friend. Of trivial things, I’m sure. (If he asked him genuinely and His Friend answered genuinely, I highly doubt the existence of smiles plastered on those faces.)

He butts his head into the other table to ask about something. After a few minutes, the women leave to shop and the men relapse into quiet and small talk. The patriarch has seen a friend and they begin to talk. Loud. Brash. The Now Invisible is tense, focuses on his tea and stirs it without interruption. He gets a call on his phone that he immediately cancels.

The patriarch returns, explain himself a bit. Again, quiet and small talk. They both look lonely in their own worlds. Their sad smiles are followed by sympathy for the other person.

After a while the Women return. Suddenly, lines appear. Quiet intimacy fades. The difference between Italian made leather and plastic sandals are more pronounced. The final touch between them being a smile and a reassuring pat on the back. The Driver now leads them. Opens the door for them.

He brings the car around to the gate. The women walk to the car. He opens the trunk. They drop their shopping bags to the floor abruptly and enter the car, tenderly, gingerly, holding up their trailing dresses , with rightful air and impunity. He closes the door for them and for His Employer. He carefully places the bags in the trunk, runs around.

The Car speeds away.

Suddenly my petit dejeuner doesn’t look so appetizing.

Thought 25. Strings.


Tie, sew, play,knit. With the actions that strings do, a bond is formed isn’t it? It hold things together, things in place, things right where it should be. It’s a beautiful, wonderful thing. The simplest of objects are extremely easy to reflect meaning. Meanings can be found where there are none. Yet the meaning found would be so intense, with so much depth, so many layers. As opposed to ‘an elephant in the room’ scenario. The use of an object gives it meaning. The purpose give it meaning. The meaning give it meaning. Do I make any sense? Ah well. Back to strings.

Strings. Lace your shoes. Knit a sweater. Tie up massive luggage. Play your guitar. Tie your hair. Lace up pearls. Rope it up. Bind a book. Sew on a button. Stitch wounds. To fish. Fly a kite. Hold a balance. Hang pictures. Hang clothes.


Those shoes that you’ve seen things and walked through life with. That sweater your grandma gifted your mother for you on your birth. That luggage when you traveled back home with souvenirs, gifts and memories. That guitar that helped you impress that sweet thing. That hair that has seen better days. Those pearls your sister wore to her wedding. That rope that helped you climb that dangerous cliff. That book you created as a birthday gift. That button that popped off your once well-fitting jeans. Those wounds that came after a hormone-driven fistfight. Those fishes you caught with your father on every camping trip. That kite your friends envied you for. That balance that weighed groceries every two weeks. Those pictures that decorated your dorm room.

Strings signify bonds and their memories. No strings attached. Pulling certain strings to get ahead. Strings that play people like puppets. Strings that are too complicated and knotted with some people. Strings that get pulled too far they break. Strings you love having. Strings that want to wrap yourself with. Strings that can wring your neck. Strings that can handcuff you. Strings that tie you to certain situations. Strings you form as you go. Strings that unravel. Strings that you try to tie together.

I told you.

Strings give meaning. Strings can hold you down to a life you do not want. Without strings, you float through life, without purposeful strings, without meaningful strings. You can’t try to ignore any string. Not even one.   Their purpose has a meaning and gives meaning. The question we arrive at here – does there always have to be a question? Oh yes there does. Without questions, answers will be hidden in plain sight. Dangerous is when you do not want to find , to know. For me, observing the nature and manner of a string allows me to learn. It teaches me through observation.

What teaches you through observation? What do you think defines the life you lead? What teaches you how to lead it?

Thought 22. People are not medicine.

People are not your medicine.
People cannot help you.
They are not
sleeping pills,




No.They are not.
You are your doctor.

Thought 21. Un-living.

(My, how depressing a post is before you! )

I was walking with a soul-brother recently and I let it all out in a span of 3-4 minutes. It happens to all of us, doesn’t it? In these unexpected moments, you find yourself having a mind that is most precise, sharp and full of clarity. You, who a day ago wasn’t sure of any opinion you had and possess a fluid-like perception, can now suddenly put together the pieces and in an almost flow-chart like manner explain everything.

To give you a gist of it, I told him about me. And I wasn’t happy.  The state of my room showed it – not even basic dis-organisation, but messy. I felt like I was living a day-to-day existence. It was a struggle to get out of bed, yet the bed had nails that I couldn’t stay in any longer.

And I felt fear. Pure fear of going back to how I felt a few years ago. I was in a quicksand of fear. This fear was dragging me down even further to that very state that I did not want to reach. That fear still pervades me every day. I.do.not.want.to.be.depressed. AS SIMPLE AS THAT. It is a scary place to be. And the worst is, you’re alone in it. There are only distractions. No cures. You feel  ‘stagnant’. Till today, I am afraid of that word. I am afraid of being that word.

So, I told him. I feel this. “I feel like I have nothing to move forward to, nothing to push me on.” I never thought I would say those words again or even think them. Of course, I considered those very emotions. The only thoughts that led me out of bed every day were those of other people. “But, then what?”. It wasn’t a selfish thought. At least I would like to think so.

The question is this : When you lose your purpose, you lose your way, your eyesight is foggy, you aren’t really sure how or why you walk.. what do you do?


This post had been typed until that dotted line almost 23 days ago. I couldn’t write after that. Whatever I wrote sounded juvenile, naive and to be harsh, it sounded massively stupid. The feelings within still haven’t left though. It isn’t good. This feeling of worthlessness. It comes from years of being far too hard on yourself and pulling the reigns at moments where you should have let go. It comes from dependence on others approval. It comes from not being able to exercise your free will. “After all, If I have not achieved, what am I good for?”.

That exact feeling is what drags every individual down to the rock bottom of self-pity. And my god, that is not a good place to be at. The feeling, the theory, the perception that if you have not achieved, you are not worth it. Your achievements are your footprint in the world.And you know what, maybe they bloody are. But I’m done fighting that. My will has become far too weak to continue that struggle against those people, circumstances and events.  (call them what you may).