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,
Tripping into the furnace
of naive hopes and mad dreams
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.
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.
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.
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.
I like the fact that I’m alone, sometimes disturbingly so. I like the fact that I seek the ambiguous, don’t ask me what it is. I like the fact that I can loath myself to a point that nothing effects me anymore. I adore the fact that I’m dramatic , especially during the most innocuous moments.I like the idea of beauty, it feels like it is my right to question it when I travel
I adore the fact that I stop myself from complaining even though only I actually can define the venting from cribbing .I adore jazz of old world, makes me feel like i was born in a wrong place and the wrong decade. I love the fact that I’m helpless in some situations, it feels like those knockouts in the boxing ring and just proves the fact that I have to train harder. I Love the fact that I’m ugly, It made me want to burrow myself to find out something about myself that isn’t superficial. I love the fact that I’m a liar, it introduces me to people who can see the fake from real. I love the fact that I pretend to be myself ,all the while second guessing myself.
Mostly I like to adore the things that make me want to redefine the idea of love.