This is the loudest my personality has ever been or going to be. Cuz' what came before this were days where I'd forgotten how to speak. An imbalance again. There's so much that has to be expressed, so much. For instance, I still dance to Rasputin but I don't take crap from anyone anymore. And I'm quite unapologetic about it. It's so difficult to write about transition when you've romanticised grief for such a long time. This exact zone, as a friend once put, is that part of the novel where anything can happen. Unlearning isn't easy yet it sure is serene in its own ways. It may occur often that people will question your impromptu lifestyle; their discomfort in your instability is nothing but their lack of courage to choose themselves over everything, like you did. And I don't think anyone can ever take that from you. Period!
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It is easier for people to intellectualize and not own their actions than to accept the fact that they are a shitty human being. Period.
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I have this weird habit of buying things for short-term. I didn't say I hate hoarders. But I perpetually feel everything is temporary and I might have to carry a 500 ml bottle of unused body wash to a different city soon. And I hate baggage. I only got him a toothbrush at my place for I didn't ponder how things could end abruptly. That I might have to carry it into a different cupboard. That I might have to carry the baggage of a house because I didn't reflect upon a toothbrush.
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It's important to separate the art form from the artist's personal life. Cancel culture has ingrained in us that a person's art form is valued based on their conventional character sketch. What we fail to see is their truth can vary from their art's truth. Combining the two can put such artists on a pedestal they don't deserve to be. And if only we know how to separate the two, we can learn to appreciate them or their craft. The same holds true for parenting. They could be good human beings but not necessarily good at parenting.
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Sometimes it just happens that you want to cut short your sentences. Not this short. But fairly this much short. And oftentimes you wish to rub thesaurus in the reader's face. But most days you just want to get out of bed. Like this one, where the sunlight sneaks in your bed through those curtains you haven't opened in days. Majorly because you don't have smoke in the house to pass through windows anymore. Although something is burning, a rage inside of you. Hot enough to melt all the damage into sweat. People tell you choosing to live is a good alternative. You tell them opting to not persecute is better. And sometimes it just happens that your writing will not make sense. But on all the other days it will.
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'Later' is the most uncertain word in the dictionary. It is incredibly promising yet refutes the whole purpose of waiting. Is there a timeline for it? If yes, who decides? Is there a threshold that till this point you'll stay hopeful, and later you feel betrayed. Common instances like: I'll text you later, I'll call you later, or I'll see you later. But will they? Should you wait? Should you go about your life normally? Does my later differ from yours? Are we considering the external factors too? I may have gotten stuck in a landslide. You might be stuck with somebody. Another landslide for me. Doesn't matter I guess, despite the numerous warnings we choose these natural calamities.
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Grief, I beleive, is subjective. A bunch of hair dancing on your floor to the music of the fan. Fairy lights flickering because of a loose wire connection. A blanket wanting to feel your skin. Stale chicken curry in your fridge. Choked drainage in your washroom. A pile of clothes on your partner's spot. Packed Yoga mat in one of the corners. A bookmark on 27th page of a book you were recently gifted with. A noiseless house with the sound of nothing but flush. Washed cutlery on the kitchen platform organized one after the other complimenting your OCD. A dimly lit screen with thousands of words being written by you only to be posted just a few.
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"Depression, is a good lover", said Kait Rokowski. I didn't deny. Its heart is filled with you. On days when it visits, I lie bare on earth wanting it to consume me. Like Sita did. It crawls in your bed, looks you in the eye, and you die. A million deaths. On such instances, I want to call my mother and tell her that I cease to exist. That something inside me has snapped. But I stop at the fear of seeing her sobbing childlike face. I wonder who will raise her. I wonder if she'd be childless or parentless.
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Whenever life feels distorted, I compose on YourQuote.
Trying to write a Ghazal, I end up with a prose on YourQuote.
People who care to read my thoughts,
I'm looking for those on YourQuote.
Secretly conversing on private posts,
some have become close on YourQuote.
Why would you type a Ghazal at this hour, Ayushi?
For this one, I'm looking for a rose on YourQuote.-
You appear at my door step
when there's rain in Bengaluru.
We constantly feel distant,
there's also pain in Bengaluru.
Freeing each other often, we feel liberated.
Occasionally we have to abstain in Bengaluru.
Craving each other's comfort,
you run to my lane in Bengaluru.
I think in matters of heart,
one shouldn't put a lot of brain in Bengaluru.
Why do you love this terrain, Ayushi?
Because you keep me sane in Bengaluru.-