Scooped out (v): empty, hollowed (syn)

The feeling of being empty, hollowed out without any apparent cause, often accompanied by intense sadness, bouts of crying, and a sense of purposelessness. The realization of being scooped out may appear randomly, as if someone dug up the life out of you within a blink, or when you weren’t looking; How do you function when you know you’re just an empty, scooped out shell?


Things I Want to Say

there are many things I want to say to you
but my mouth utters conversation starters
like the blinker on the screen of a writer who’s been suffering from a block;
silent, blinking blankly.

there are many things I want to say to you
but you pass me by like the wind ruffling leaves-
so subtle, I never see you,
but you almost always leave me shaken, rattled to the foundations.

there are many things I want to say to you
but I’d rather engage myself here
conjuring up metaphors for my inability to speak :
to you, about me, about us.

there are many things I want to say to you but do you ever notice how small talk is the vast sky overarching our barren world?

The Perils of Movement

If you will have them,
I could give you my words.
You see, we’re poets
and we’re a little too adroit
at splurging ink over the ones
who surprise us-
shake us awake,
light fireworks in our hearts
or move something within us;
like relocating furniture
to places suited better.

It felt like you were the one for me.
You pulled the curtains aside,
dragged my bureau next to the mirror
and hanged all my favorite photo frames on the wall;
you sorted my files by priority,
and organised my books according to color.
It felt great.
Things around me were different.
New, almost to the extent that I forgot having lived there before.

You’d moved things inside me.
Like tectonic plates shifting right beneath my skin.
But movement can only be so good.
I was here, but lost.
Every part was there, but invisible to me.
It felt like I no longer knew who I was.
Like wearing a blindfold in bright sunlight.
Like having been through a tornado and being unable to distinguish myself from the wreckage it left behind.

So if you will have them,
I could give you my words.
For you shifted something inside me so hard,
That it broke.
If you will have them
I could give you my words.
They don’t define me anymore.

Learned Languages

Words are powerful. Words are important. But in some confusing, happy moments, words become a person for me. They materialise into a tight-fisted punch across my throat, fracturing my boneless tongue. They impair me in inexplicable ways. In these moments, whether sad or happy, I am motionless. I am speechless. Lost for words because they aren’t inside me, anymore. In a way, my words are my impairment. No matter how much I may try to harness their power, in some situations, they desert me, an empty vessel.

So to the people who have shared silences with me;

I hope the absence of words does not make you uncomfortable. I hope you know that sometimes, silences speak volumes too. I want you to know that at times, I am so full with words that I spit them out of my mouth in silence. I hope you could see how I sew my words into the fabric of silence. it is my favorite language, and one that I’m too familiar with. i have grown up threading the reels of my non-existent vocabulary around this language. i speak it too well, too easily. it comes to me sometimes, sadness. I write my silence in well scripted sadness. And it stays sometimes. In it’s persisting permanency, it stays: it sets up camp in my heart, and makes me bleed out poems in it’s script. I feel like a blank now and then. My sadness, my silence- weaknesses. Both, a chink in the armour. I either feel too much, or nothing at all.

It’s a seesaw, to be honest. the balance tips very often, and I roll over, changing between the two sides. I don’t know who I’m going to be one moment from the next. It’s not very pleasant, to be honest. The insides arrange and rearrange, once, twice, multiple times. Is this how the Earth feels when tectonic plates shift?

Story #20: Words I’ll Never Speak To Anyone (The Anonymous Anecdotes Project)

It maim so bad I just want either to talon out of my brain or pick and peel at my skin until I can uncover some emotion within.

It’s 5 am. There’s no sleep in my future, no release after consuming 80 mg of vyvanse and a few gallons of caffeine to study for exams. When your brain is this hyper-focused, it doesn’t take much to start thinking about the pile of bullshit that you are. It won’t shut off, it won’t ever.

Being this self-reliant and self-serving takes a toll on relationships. For a while, people think you’re just a free spirit. Eventually, they understand you’re just an emotionless block of ice. I can’t open up to anyone. It’s like I won’t let myself care for someone too deeply because I want to save myself from being hurt or scared or abandoned or used, treated right, appreciated, loved, counted on.

My fingernails are bitten to the quick.
All I want is for it to shut off.
All I want is to shut off.

Is being alone worth being unbroken? Or is being alone more detrimental? Any damage done is all self-infliction, the most shameful brand of injury.

It’s great at first. Being on your own. You are your own best friend, your own protector. For a few years, you’re confident in yourself and people like you. You laugh more; why not when you are the creator of your own happiness? She doesn’t care what people think. But then, she’s unreachable; she’s like a star that’s burning just a little too far away. Still dazzling, yet just out of reach. Just when you think you’re getting close, when you think you have her in your viewfinder, the clouds roll in. The thing about stars… The brighter they shine, the hotter they burn.

You can pretend all you want; you can put on a show for yourself and the rest of the world that everything is smooth sailing. Eventually, you either are going to drown in the facade or you let yourself be rescued.

These are words I’ll never speak to anyone. They would never come out. There’s going to be a day where I give up; I’ll throw all my hopes of actually being happy and confident and loving someone right down a wishing well. It will be bad for a while; there will be a lot of booze, strange men, and little self respect. I’ll finally treat myself like the empty shell I made myself.

One day, when it’s time to settle down, I’ll find a nice, successful man but not start a family. I’ll continue to smile always and care for my own, but by then I’ll be nothing. I will be another empty soul suffering through daily life because that’s what strong, respectable people do. My kids will grow up like me, non existential : good neighborhood, the means to be successful, plenty of attention, but with the detached love of a mother who really isn’t a person anymore.

Broken people always live the longest, most cruel lives. People of my kind are too proud to end it all, even when they are the burden.  I’ll live in a nice home somewhere warm, somewhere sunny. I’ll take my breakfast facing the west to watch the sunrise. Dinner, the east for the sunset. Watching the sun paint each and every day, wondering which one might be my last.

I find this piece written out so beautifully, laid out like a rhythm my ears are growing fond of, yet it is impossible to ignore the pain lying latent beneath these words. This isn’t an anecdote: this is an account, a converging point for the authors’ past, present and future. Its again one of those stories, I think, that has too many lessons to teach, and a different meaning every time you read it. You can’t gulp it down in one read, no. 

I, for one, read it several times and couldn’t help but relate. I just realized how I could relate to some or the other element in every story- it’s funny how we all experience almost the same things; the same kind of pain, only  dressed differently.

From the need to be self-reliant, to eventually throwing all our hopes down a wishing well; from sleepless nights to nightmares about the future, we’ve somewhere experienced each one of these things.  We all have things that give us pain, experiences that weaken us; for most people it is a battle with their own selves. What makes the difference is how you fight it, and if you give your weaknesses enough power to win or lose. 


(The Anonymous Anecdotes is a project under which anyone can send me a memory, a story or an experience from their life that had a profound impact on them. It requires people to write their respective experience along with the way it changed them or their perception of life. According to the project, these stories are being published anonymously, with the intent of spreading a positive message and a hope that anyone who reads, relates or learns. If you’re interested, you can send me your story at

Story #16: Woman Of Her Words (The Anonymous Anecdotes Project)

I have always been the type that believes – how hard is it to keep you words? I mean, you said it, so now value your words or who else will? But I think, the other type, supposedly those, who in the heat of the moment do as their heart guides, are the happier ones. Not that I’m saying that it is too difficult to keep your words, always. But these days, I see no wrong in not being able to do what you said, you will. I believe that the first group isn’t as liberated as the second and sometimes, we make ourselves a slave to our self imposed restrictions, even when the intention or emotion behind the words decreases in value.
I have lately stepped into the category of second type of people where my actions are not as well explainable as they were before. However I, as a person I am a lot more happier than what I was before. I have surrendered to the truth that we are all mere puppets in the spell of our emotions.
The realization to how I have been evolving as a person has been here, all this time. But it recently popped up when I read this- “Bitch, if you want to rant about how that asshole of yours betrayed you this time, then grab a diary before we judge you for getting along, again for a 100th time.”
1. How does that make her a bitch ?
2. Why would a person talking about her life bother you, regardless of whether or not she is going to so as she says? Why can’t we ever be a listening ear to people, without judging them in any way?
3. If she chose to get along, again, isn’t it again totally her choice ?
Also, I am still not as liberated of my past to say that she may get along with him, once again because whatever he did is a thing of past. Also, I am also not as headstrong to decide, once and for all that I love him and it is just fine if I keep going back to him.
This whole thing is to say that I need him and this is what my heart guides me to do right now.
I’m trying to keep my principled self at bay and I look forward to change from being a woman of her words, completely, with all intents.

Our words are somewhere our reflections, I feel. But sometimes we all say things that we don’t mean, and mean things we aren’t able to say. Being someone who loves to write, I feel words empower me. But like the instance described here, words can be used negatively too: in judgement, in jealousy, and in hatred. 

It’s a choice, really. Sticking by your words, or living as freely as a stream of thought: without any promises to bind one’s actions, with room to go haywire. Both have their pros and cons, I feel. Some people treat the promise of word as gospel, and it enhances the mutual feeling of trust between people. The other side, however, allows as much freedom as the other one doesn’t. It lets you do whatever you want, without feeling bound to anything or anyone.
So it all boils down to choice, really; choose yours well.
(The Anonymous Anecdotes is a project under which anyone can send me a memory, a story or an experience from their life that had a profound impact on them. It requires people to write their respective experience along with the way it changed them or their perception of life. According to the project, these stories are being published anonymously, with the intent of spreading a positive message and a hope that anyone who reads, relates or learns. If you’re interested, you can send me your story at


To gather all the experiences one comes across, all in a huddle and
Nestle them inside one’s heart,
To soak them up into the deep crevices of one’s being,
Only to pour them out again to be etched into eternity;
To have a respite from speech,
but still express oneself exquisitely;
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 someone’s 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-
To be yourself not through what you say or how you look,
but merely through your words.
To have the power to change minds and ignite hearts.
To be the ignition switch
The one that could set off fireworks and light forest fires in a heart
Just with the strike of a match,
Or rather,

the nib of a pen.