Category Archives: scribbles

You meant the world to me. It seemed impossible to let go… until I realised its me who must leave.

And I wait like the abandoned wooden house that was once a home centuries ago, now isolated from the world by the thicket around. Every weary plank praying for the warmth of footsteps, every wall praying to listen to voices and laughter before all of it breaks down.

I love to see you happy, I love to see you dance… overcoming the sadness inside. Helps me forget my pain for a while. So stay so!

I rediscover your perfection every time you leave – spotless rooms, enough food stored for a few days, everything in its place! If you forget something, you never fail to apologise over the phone for not attending to that. I feel belittled. And as dust settles on everything and the food reduces day by day I realise how incomplete I am without you. Sometimes I wonder if all of it is a sweet ploy to make me feel your absence every lonely moment.

Life is neither complete, nor perfect. You either build it or imagine it. And there are a crazy few who excel in both.

The problem lies not in how imperfect people are, it’s in how they crawl ahead of others to grab it all, how they ignore the significance of other lives. People need habits like reading to continue thinking, introspecting and observing. Why a habit? Because life teaches you the worst survival techniques and a few years of this ‘development’ kills your conscience and soul. Your mind is occupied by your errands even when you step out of your home, any contradiction agitates you. The truth is – life is a cheap but effective addiction, it consumes you quickly. People broadcasting personal moments in FB reels continuously prove that.

The odour of overflowing garbage has a remarkable effect – it never fails to outsmell the best of perfumes. That goes for malculture too!

My heart has sunk so deep I’m afraid I’ll never find it again. No matter how much I try to gasp life into it, it keeps sinking. It’s the wrong world to exist in, it’s the wrong identity to live for. I reached out for you to lift it, but I guess you don’t understand the language I speak. And I don’t have the courage to start all over again. Maybe it’s time to let go of myself.

I return you the same indifference you gifted me. I am stuck in my teens, my eyes seek beauty in everything, my mind wanders off in dreams. However, colouring a pheasant doesn’t turn it into a peacock.

You can call me the king who knows that none of it belongs to him and one day he will belong to none of it.