I just got notified that today is my One Year Anniversary on WordPress!
It’s enthralling to realize that I’ve been here since a year!
It was May 3rd last year, 2014, that I typed my first ever blog post. That day I could not have imagined that I would continue writing this for so long. This blog has given so much to me. So I believe today is the right day to show some gratitude.
I want to thank all the people I follow and rather all the people on the WordPress community who continue to write and inspire me with every post. I want to thank all my fabulous followers who read through my rants, long discourses about how I hate everything, and of course my amateur poetry.
I’m glad that within the span of this one year I have understood myself better and got to know so many different people through the medium of this blog. I’ve found that people have bigger problems, and all the things that I feel are mostly not unique to me. It’s been wonderful sharing my experiences with people and reading about theirs too.
I hope the following year brings the same kind of positivity in me and all of you alike.
Loads of love x
P.S- To round it up, here’s a link to my first post ever. I’m still unsure about my opinions on it. Tell me? https://theextrainextraordinary.wordpress.com/2014/05/03/definitely-not-sweet-sixteen-2/?preview=true&preview_id=50&preview_nonce=e5e360363a
I’m too tired of routine- waking up and doing all the same things everyday. It bores me. I’m not really an outgoing type of a person, but I know for a fact I can’t do routine. I love having everything planned out before I step into it, and I like to have a mind map of everything I do. But for once I want to be spontaneous. It confuses me why I’m subjected to so many expectations and that i have to live in their periphery. Why can’t I go out walking on roads, climbing mountains and swimming in the seas? Why don’t I get to meet new people everyday? Why don’t I get to try out new cuisines?
These questions and their answers are too far fetched for a soon to be seventeen year old like me. I can’t step out of my house to do all that! I have to study, get into a good college and make something worthwhile out of my life. It’s justified. But the other thought is too attractive and hence manages to pull my attention.
I can’t stop thinking of all the beautiful places on this earth that haven’t been visited yet, all the sunrises and sunsets, the wonderful starry skies, those boundless seas, black sand beaches, palm trees and long roads; amazing people out there who each have their own unique stories, something so different from us; I wonder what all I could find if only I was capable of knocking my monotonous routine off.
It’s such a beautiful world out there- Paris London New York Mexico Rome Greece Italy for godsake it feels like I haven’t seen nothing. But it’s true. I haven’t.
One day however, I will walk and see every inch of this Earth and marvel at what my eyes would be witnessing- for that day, I know I would have lived my life to the fullest.
Writing has had a huge part to play in my life. It has helped me to understand myself better and sort my problems out. My world is a world of words!
Words can inspire, words can destroy. Choose yours well.
– Robin Sharma
Writing is such a beautiful thing.
To gather all the experiences one comes across and soak them into the deep crevices of ones heart so that they can pour out all about it again and make that very experience immortal.
To have a respite from speech, but still express oneself in one of the most exquisite of ways.
To conceive, conjure and collaborate past experiences and knowledge: all for the creation of one immaculate piece of literature.
To convey all that you feel, but with so much precision that you strike the chords of the readers heart.
To not only share your experiences, but to have other people live and relive them with you; to help them feel and touch all that you had felt and touched.
Yes. I believe that is what writing is all about. To be yourself not through what you say or how you look, but merely through your words. To have the power to manipulate minds and ignite hearts.
To let your thoughts move people and connect with them on a mental level without actually meeting them.
This is what I love about writing. This is why, I believe I started writing in the first place. Initially it was all for myself; but eventually I realized how powerful it can be if used in the right manner. I was in fifth grade when Anne Frank inspired me to keep a personal diary, and this is what it has lead me onto. I still have a personal diary and I still pen down my thoughts on it every night.
For me, writing is the ultimate vent and healer of all my problems. Putting my thoughts and dilemmas into words on paper has always given me a solution to my questions. it has helped me understand myself better.
Perhaps, when faced with problems, we don’t streamline what its all about and thus we fail to sort it out. Perhaps once we see what its really like, we would know what to do.
Perhaps, we could write ourselves our own destinies.
What does writing mean to you? Do tell me what you think!
Do you know what I feel like at times? Messed up, completely. More importantly, scared. Like bits of me were cracking, getting detached from my bones and shattering away. Breaking apart every proof of my being. In some time I’ll fall into oblivion. Completely forgotten. Having left nothing behind worth remembering. Just disappearing, perishing away; my dreams unfulfilled, incomplete. Leaving behind unsaid words, scarcely loved people, and hateful intentions. Someday I shall rot into nothingness; having lived and died as nothing. An ending like that scares me.
Who am I? What do I stand for? What do I believe in? Questions like these swarm in my mind every now and then I’m alone and introspective. Being unable to answer myself not only frightens me but also threatens my existence. When I’m no more in this world, what am I going to leave behind so that people remember me? What will people remember me for? Why have I not done anything to make a mark on this world until now? What am I waiting for? Or is it too early for me to think like this?
There is too much inquisition and anticipation on how my life is going to turn out. I feel my being purposeless. I want to be something that isn’t easily forgotten long after its gone. I want to leave behind a legacy, so that I’m still alive years after I’m dead. I want to be the change. I want to change the way people see things and I want that change to be positive. I want to express my feelings. I want to vent all the emotions I’ve ever felt. I want to change how people think; to paint a picture with my words; I want to express all those words that I could never speak. I want to write. I want to write to express myself. I want to write to be me. Without even knowing how I’m going to make this possible, somewhere deep in my heart I know I’m going to make myself do this. I will drive myself to make a difference. A difference as me. I’ll be who I am, find my comfort in my skin and still venture out embracing and appreciating all that has ever existed.
Just when you know what you’re here for, everything is clear. You see a path emerging in front of you; with all its challenges and prizes. Its you who has to take the first step. Do not stand and watch the world change. Move with it, add onto it. Maybe someday soon you find your purpose and carve your name in history.
But until that happens, I’m governed with uncertainty- constantly questioning myself, doubting myself, seeking new beliefs and changing myself for the better because I want to initiate a change reaction.
Do something that defines who I am for years to come.
The tears that I cry for you- they sting my skin like a syringe; like a painful acid, never to wear off. My mind waging wars on whether to still love you or forcibly stop myself.
Letting you go is a sacrifice to make- would I ever be able to bring myself to give you up? You have made me, from a temple of thought into a fortress of pain who does not know what to value anymore. She only knows hurt and jumps at every sensation even remotely close to a touch. She counts all her failures and the things she could not stop. She recollects bad memories from the past and watches herself dwelling on a fearful future. She begins and ends her days with the same thought; and still all day long she continues I think him through- Of how his scent is the worldly description of intimidating and how being in his arms taught her the definition of whole.
If anything can stop time in this universe, it is him. If anything can make it go faster, he can. But of all the forces that have ever existed, none can make her feel loved, or rip her heart into pieces the way he already has.
•Your beginning felt to me like a victory, your ending was next to a loss; but darling wherever you go, either ways, I descend into chaos.•
Sadness engulfed me- it consumed me and ate me over; and it was only with time I understood, that my sadness grows out you. You are the roots to my tree of emotions.
All my emotions grow out of you. They feed on you and you give them light enough to thrive and exist in their niche. You are the seed of thought that’s sown in my heart and is now blooming into both love and pain.
Because of you I feel like this. Sometimes so overwhelmingly in love and the other times as if I want to rip my heart out. To slash my veins and bleed to death. To knock a bullet in my head. To end every inch of my existence. Because I don’t want to be like this anymore. Emptiness is all I contain. I’m just a vessel that holds hollowness inside.
Seeing you come and go I have experienced an excruciating roller coaster of emotions rise In my heart and I have seen them die the worst death too.
My sadness is like wet clay, and often, I find myself molding it into you.
Now I have reached a point where this sadness of mine hurts me and numbs me over simultaneously so I can’t catch any pain except for the one you impinge on me and continue to until I reek of hurt and brokenness; until I finally learn to love myself first; until I stop finding, in every thing I come across, parts of you.
I’m not that special or significant. There’s nothing that I can do which the others can’t. I’m the type of person you would easily overlook if I was standing among attractive people; I’m nothing out of the ordinary. An existence that is more cursed than praised; loathsome; starving for attention. Waiting. Anticipating a wild curiosity, an inquisitive mind and soul that contains in itself the power and audacity to read this capricious secret diary of a heart. For someone to see this vacillating nature, a nerve wrecking contradiction of a girl. For a heart to expel my miseries into, and all of my love alike. Something that can let me drain all my forebodings into it and still grasp me tight with assurance; that which has the most glorious eyes, for I’ll know by those windows that I can plunge relentlessly into the heart. To let someone be the holder of my filthy living and still bear with all I am.
That is what I want.
For right now, I’m a moribund existence; the sad ending of a tragic life story.