Instances of letting go

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Breakups are least to say difficult. But what’s worse are encountering them in unexpected places. This is a little instance where time ended up playing tricks on me and let me collide literally with my past.

Instances 2/50

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Instances of dread

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A lot has happened in the last year after I stopped writing. I was a melting pot for some victories, a Lil’ of chronic depression and a lot of yo-yo-ing in life where nothing seemed right. While there is a deep pain in suffering, there are words in this too. These next 50 days I’ll write to you all that small instances which were chinks in my armour, the holes in the fortress that seemed so strong. I don’t know if they would always be my vulnerabilities, but I know that saying them out loud might after all help me.

Heres the first one, the instance of dread I feel, more so when I am forced to interact with people unknown for prospective relationships that I can actually forgo.

Unburden

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Life begins before you’re born,
A steady rise of hopes,
A castle of dreams,
A body form to live upto these.

“You’re a gem” he says,
making him the artisan,
Taming the rough edges,
Polishing the surface of your flaws.

“You’re my pride” he says,
and the gem glows
like slow embers inside a dark hollow.
“You’re my joy” he says,
Fuelling those flames, inside a shell.

“You’re my treasure” he says,
I can’t let you go,
For falling into the wrong hands,
My end may follow.

“You’re my glory” he says,
Putting you on a pedestal,
But why are you so precious,
He would not know.

“Free me of these binds” you ask once,
To the shock of most,
“Perhaps soon” he says,
Binding you with hope.

“Let me shine” you ask,
For love knows no binds,
“You’re a treasure, my love and your value is infinite”.

“Unshackle me, for these gold binds are no freedom”
“You’re my crown, my darling” he says
“A responsibility -”
“I can’t let you be”
“I can only unburden you off me.”

Destruction in Four parts.

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Unsteady, this life,
Falling into the pages,
Between others stories,
Encouraged by mere words,
Finding neither the end or the beginning.

Unsteady, these dreams,
Built from dusk to dawn,
Unraveled thread by thread,
Forced into the misery of now.

Unsteady, Blaming none,
These dark inked fingers,
Washing the evidence of blood,
These bruises of defeat,
paying an ode to the carcass of memories.

Unsteady, Moving ahead,
Breathing, smiling,
Tripping into the furnace
of naive hopes and mad dreams
once again.

I haven’t written in a while now, the words wouldn’t come to me. When words become your friends, their alienation hurts. You can’t complain to anyone about them, just that  the loss is a ghost pain. So when they do come back, I celebrate!Gregariously and morbidly even. As always, the mending of a broken person is a treasure trove of inspiration.

Confessions : Of Mistakes

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This is my last confession. Not because I’ve been absolved, but because I think it is time to move on with exciting new things to write about. However, this series definitely wasn’t one of the mistakes. I’ve run out of old sketchbooks to extract writings from my past and I might as well begin conjuring up some words for my future self to ponder upon.

 

 

This is a part of confession series. Written in old sketchbooks,  brought to life here.

 

Confessions : Of Nostalgia

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I don’t forget the birthdays of people who actually do matter to me and I am slightly proud of it, but I almost did today owing to the million parallel thoughts in my head. In my search for some funny material for a birthday card I went through all my email conversations with him from a time when emailing about the happenings of your life was a cool thing to do. Long story short, I found this  piece of advice I gave him  for whatever life crisis he was going through during that phase. I guess my 19 year old self was truly 19 going on 60 ! 😀

 

 

This is a part of confession series, written in old sketchbooks/emails brought to life here.

Confessions Of : Inadequacy

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It is funny how  I’ve conveniently forgotten how it feels to be inadequate.  I move around in loops in my life evidently  and it’s that phase again where I stumble into life with wobbly legs and butter hands unable to hold on to my sense of confidence and questioning my existence.

 

 

This is a part of confession series, written in old sketch books bought to life here.