Slump.

Poetry. It hasn’t happened to me in… Four months? I say it hasn’t “happened to me” because usually it’s like this: emotions take over me, and it gets narrated to me as if some divine sermon. In true episodes of being consumed by emotion, I’ve never had to force myself to write or rhyme. In those moments, I feel the most as a medium who has words flowing through her. A dervish spinning in zikr. There is flow.

But now it’s the fifth month and I am without words. I am without rhyme. This should point to the fact that I am probably not feeling any emotions. Sometimes it feels like that; other times it doesn’t. It is perhaps more likely that the expression of my emotions has succumbed to the ardous nature of my schedule these days. Sigh.

If this is anything, it has to be a wakeup call. For me to not only start being aware of what I’m feeling, but also finding a proper medium for letting those feelings flow. I’ve to find time, medium and the awareness to address what I’m feeling.

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an amusing instance.

yesterday I read a post on Pinterest that read something like: “you wake up in the middle of the night, calm, knowing full well you still have some hours to sleep. outside the soft patter of rain starts to fall, and you slip back to sleep comfortably.”

and this morning at five a.m. my eyes opened into the glow of my nightlight, and the cold of my room’s a.c at 18 degrees. i still had many hours to sleep, courtesy a national holiday. i turned off the night light and adjusted the temperature. as i began to drift into sleep again, a soft rain began to fall right outside my window.

i slipped back into sleep with the comfort of knowing that a random post from the internet had just became a reality for me.

life amuses me sometimes.

What are we? :Tradition & history

We carry tradition on our backs. Somedays I feel as of there’s too much history behind me; years of stories and folklore that travelled down into time and ended up from the past into the present. We are carriers of this responsibility, and it’s on us to translate tradition into the present and eventually the future. I did not understand this for very long.

As a species that sits on piles of evolution, we sure have developed our ways of being who we are; a means that provides us identity. Religion, race, and region are just a part of this means. So when it comes to culture, nothing holds it up like the arms of a five year old being told the story behind why Hindus celebrate Raksha Bandhan. Or why women have always needed protection, because that is our culture, and for centuries we’ve seen and preached the same things. The same things. Sita was kidnapped, Draupadi’s respect was looted, and Surpanakha was mutilated. All circumstancial torments that were preventable, yet set in motion the greatest, largest epics to ever be narrated and written.

However as our heavy past gets tossed into our hands, we should know how to make sense of it’s relevance and how it’s important now. Be cognizant of why it matters, and why it’s important to continue to pass it onto the future.

Notes.

These people have already floated far on their boats when I’m still scampering at the edge of the water. It is so far for me to even try. Hozier drowns out the constant chitter chatter of gossip that surrounds me, and the fan is too intense and it feels hard to breathe and a little too much to take in. The illusion that moving away to a better spot blinds me sometimes. Something keeps digging at the pit in my stomach. I convince myself it’s growth.

The Drill

Starting conversations is like firing a dual headed arrow laced with alcohol into a fire. It will accomplish things, but you’re never sure if those things are worth investing in. There is a girl wearing a t-shirt that says, “everything happens for a reason,” and it immediately makes me think of probability. Schrödinger’s cat may be alive or dead, but you are always the one who can’t tell because the box is closed. The universe continues to function beyond your closed eyes and narrow vision. I want to know the people and the stories they carry. Shapeshift into a siesmograph and skip the awkward questions. Register it when they shiver and at the sound of whose name. No true zeroes exist when it comes to hurt. Everyone is a little bruised, everyone is poetry. Chaos in motion.

Change is the only constant.

She was at a houseparty, sizzling with conversations laced with human beings sprinkling their stories: brimmed glasses tipping over.

and then;

She’s here at the beach. The friends now turned into grains of sand that slip away like silk tapestry, ebbing smoothly past their kidnapper: time. The water at her feet tides back and forth, teasing at first, approaching soon, bidding it’s time, ready to swallow.