Relationship /noun/ :
Losing yourself a little in their world, while walking the tight rope of holding on to your individuality.

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Patience, dear one;
I'm breaking down my walls,
And It's taking all that I have.
I'm coming over. I promise-
Inching closer, day by day,
Even if it doesn't look that way today.
I promise. I'm on my way.
Stay...

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They found love through a phone screen.

She could think and type carefully , without worrying about fumbling and stumbling over too many words, from so many emotions flooding her brain all at once.

And he, he could simply send a heart-eye emoji when he was falling more in love with her, or tell her that he loved her, randomly, without worrying about looking like an idiot - because you see,she always made him blush.

Just when it was uncool to use your phones so much, they thanked all the gods for the invention. Now two awkward people could actually break the ice.

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disappearing into a world where space does not exist.

I sit on the couch and you, though miles away, sit right there, next to me.

You text me, and I leave my physical form.
Our minds do the talking.

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A forbidden thought under the veil of silence ,when you are falling in love with somebody.
A feeling so profound, so real- its almost wrong to say it out loud-
What if under the societal norms, thoughts like these are not allowed.
Because sometimes, its safe to keep them hidden- the world may not understand;
what if they weigh your thoughts in their fists by holding on so tight, that they slip away, unfelt, like little grains of sand..

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I hear people talking in my living room about how abrupt death can be.
One second you are breathing, and the other, you vanish into thin air.

Just beyond their chatter and silhouette, is the bookshelf-
Pages and pages of ideas painstakingly written,
edited and published with great care.

They whisper into my ears , from beyond their graves,
every night, just before I surrender to bed.

If death is a final disappearing act , by simply writing at their desks,
these men and women have, against this end, a mutiny led.

For defying death by choosing the right words,
For structuring their sentences to hold my dwindling attention,

I can only thank them for sitting with their pen and paper,
For becoming a part of me,
for giving me a renewed sense of perception.

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Years later, she opened her diary from back then. A consolation then, a trigger today. Painful sentences popped out at her- 'he touched me again today.' , 'my parents were happy , I didn't feel like telling them' and then, the most painful of all- 'they didn't believe me..'
She had almost forgotten what it was like to be a child and not be believed. The familiar pain hit her like a wave. She questioned her motives behind keeping that diary again- now just an annoying reminder of things she had learnt to forget.
She tore the pages, and let them burn.

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Tucked into a corner of the field of my vision,
Is this huge pile labelled 'Difficult pills to swallow'-
Just regular things that contradict some preconceived notion,
Pushed into that end, growing, with the fear of feeling empty , hollow.

Like a layer of plastic on the face of earth,
It doesn't let anything get in, it doesn't let life spring forth.
A mistaken glance, a lump in my throat- and I look away.
Like a compass, constantly pointing due north.

A escapist's version of leaving things for later-
It's like I traded with numbness, my sorrow.
With the heap grows the hope that maybe someday,
I will find the courage to look that way again,
Maybe, I will try again tomorrow.

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I have been invisible most of my life-
I could actually blend into the
walls around me.
It bothered me at first- like I was talking
in some inaudible frequency,
Or when they looked at me,
I wondered if I should duck- to let them see
what they were looking for, behind me.

It was scary at first- to be invisible;
But once you've been there, it's easy to get used to.
It's all about taking very little space, making very little noise,
And getting by each day, doing the things you love to do.

It's the freedom of not having to put on any airs,
To be honest to the core, to figure out your own way.
It's also about letting in only the chosen few,
who see you in your element,
And voluntarily, choose to stay.

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A story of two nations ,
written in blood,
Kept apart by the power hungry -
Sons of the same mud.
A match where spectators come to witness war,
Spirit of the sport forgotten, forgotten what they are fighting for,
On a land responsible for the very rift,
Hosted by the country who gave us scars and bleeding wounds as a goodbye gift.
On competition for defence budgets every year,
While the health care suffers on either ends, and somebody, in hiding, feeds on our fear.
Maybe it's time to give a thought to something as simple as this-
If we aren't the ones benefitting from this hatred, who really is?

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