Often, I ruminate on the fate of those that exist with me, sans complaints, sans rants, sans the ephemeral philosophy of purpose.


That walk with me, feel the sweat on my palms and accompany me on the monotony of existence.

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Why is it this dark
Even in the scorching sun?
A hard place to be.

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This Women's Day,

Let me celebrate and stand with
The women who are imperfect.

The women who are tired and fed up,
Explaining basic, fundamental lessons.

The women who don't fit in.

In fact, all of us, 
Who mess up,
Have bad days,
Flare-ups,
Lose hope,
And still clench our teeth and move on,
Looking for the tiny flicker of light ahead.

Not the embodiments of sacrifice,
But indisputable saviours of ourselves.

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Sometimes,
Rarely, very rarely,
Thoughts get tired of roaming around
Cease their fluttering,
And hibernate for a while...

A variant of blankness looms large,
Interspersing itself with fragmented, pixelated vignettes with trivial lifespans,
Appearing, disappearing.

The search commences to the oft-forbidden fundamental questions of existence,
Reaching nowhere, as usual,
Left dangling halfway,
Either merging into the folds of a slumber
Or resurfacing very soon,
Only to be lost sight of,
Within the warmth of the next dawn.

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There are times when you look back on your yesterdays
And they stare at you like a stranger
Refusing to recognise your new thought patterns;
Twisting their eyebrows as if to recollect a faded image.


Even as you knock the doors and throw reams of your skewed trajectory,
It holds you on spot and twists your belief in your own memory,
As you drown in the squabble of indecipherable words and epithets
Trying to hand-pick the fallen pieces from a forgotten past.

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it hangs around like a whining schoolkid, reluctant to slip itself to the last chapter of the year.

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My thoughts float like bits of paper,
Taking little flights with the breeze,
They nudge me and disappear
Only to come back and rest on my palm
Another time, out of nowhere.

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I drink the syrups of irritation
And swallow these uncomfortable waves...
The air around me is thick and grey.
I gulp down half-broken words
And utter incomplete epithets.
I run,
I escape
I withdraw myself to the corner
And shut the doors of my thoughts
With the oblivious lock of slumber.
I close my eyes.
I wish this comfort stays with me.

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Sometimes it's better to do what's good for your inner self.
To take care of yourself,
To please yourself first,
To say No when necessary,
To take life as it comes,
One day at a time.

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This year, ornate words don’t adorn my page,
Nor do figurative wishes flood my vicinity.
All I believe and continue to believe
Is a fullness in existence,
Today and tomorrow.
A little reason to wake up to
And a night to wearily fall asleep.
To quench my thirst and never let my throat dry.
To splash freshness on my face,
Sprinkle smiles and gut-aching laughter.
To express without doubt and squeal without fear
To live and know that I live, this year, and all the new years.

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