Just missing old timess

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“The Girl Who Bloomed Once”

In the middle of the desert,
where everything burns or breaks,
she grew — quiet, unseen, untouched.
No one looked twice at her sharp edges,
no one noticed how softly she held her strength.

Years went by,
and she just kept surviving —
under cruel suns and lonely moons,
holding on when it would’ve been easier to give up.
Because somewhere deep inside,
she knew her time would come.

And one day, without warning, it did.
From her heart rose a golden tower —
taller than her fears, brighter than her pain.
She bloomed.
Just once.
But it was enough.

She poured every piece of herself into that moment,
every ounce of waiting, hurting, hoping.
And when it was over,
she didn’t fight the ending.
She smiled through the wilt —
because she knew she left beauty behind.

The agave only blooms once.
But she makes that once worth forever.

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Nobody cares until you’re beautiful,
or dead.
That’s the rule, isn’t it?
Smile like glass,
bleed like art,
and suddenly the world remembers your name.
But when you’re just alive—
half-tired eyes,
messy hair,
laughing too loud,
crying in the bathroom stall—
you’re invisible.
You’re skipped over.
You’re “just another.”
Tell me—
do I need to starve myself into a sharp outline
to make you look?
Do I need to post my sadness
wrapped in filters
so it feels poetic enough to touch?
Do I need a coffin
to finally be important?
Why does the world wait until the body is cold
to write paragraphs about warmth?
Why does it wait until beauty is perfected
to admit it was always there?
Why does it love ghosts
more than the living?
I’m breathing now.
I’m trembling now.
I’m begging to be seen
without the mask,
without the marble,
without the grave.
But maybe that’s the curse of being alive—
too human to be beautiful,
too breathing to be missed.
And still I whisper,
to anyone who’s listening:
don’t wait for my silence
to remember my voice.

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I thought I was waiting for you, until I realized it was you who had been waiting for me… on the other side

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Pointing out my flaws won’t erase yours.

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Isn’t it quietly fascinating — how the world so often puts dance into the box of femininity and war into the box of masculinity? As if grace belongs to women and rage to men. And yet, the most divine dancer is Shiva — Nataraja — whose every step holds the rhythm of creation and destruction, masculine yet flowing, fierce yet graceful. On the other side, the most fearsome warrior isn’t a man at all — it’s Kali. With her wild hair, blood-smeared tongue, and eyes full of fire, she doesn’t just fight — she devours ego, illusion, and evil without mercy. It makes you wonder — maybe the divine never really cared for the roles we try so hard to fit into. Maybe real power is in balance — in being everything at once: soft and strong, calm and wild, giver and destroyer. And maybe we, too, are meant to be like that — not neatly labelled, just human. Fully, freely human.

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In this world brave ones die, smart ones go crazy and this world remains with happy foolssss

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they held it in for too long.
every “i’m fine” stacked behind them like broken glass.
they’ve stared at ceilings at 3 a.m.,
trying to blink the pain away before morning.
no one asked. no one stayed.
but they stayed wide open—watching it all fall apart.
tonight, they weren’t brave.
they were honest.
and it burned.

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Not Just a Course, It's a Calling

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Kabhi kabhi aisa lgta hai ...

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