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Notebook tale

A hoarder of notebooks, I buy any that catches my fancy. I take them home, and like Christmas ornaments, adorn my table with them. And that's where it ends, my fixation with them. Once a while I stare longingly at the blank pages, wishing I had the garnishing they need to make it my own. But fear sets in, that I will somehow let this notebook down by writing things not worthy of it, and so back it goes, to a soon to be forgotten nook of the house. Sometimes, like a pseudo-intellectual, I doodle quotes on to the pages, all the while feeling like a fraud. Surely I can conjure up a readable piece instead of copying someone else's lines- I think, with disgust and shame and wistfulness. And yet, the moment I see a notebook that catches my fancy, I take it home.

Like water

And those who barely know me mistake my indifference for calmness,
They marvel at the stillness of the waters,
Not knowing the waves that lurk beneath the surface,
The whirlpool that swallows you whole when the balance is upset.
Like rain, I will pelt you with my wrath,
Wipe away your clumsy scribblings on the sand.
No half hearted sand castles will do,
If you must, I will only settle for concrete structures of affection,
That can withstand the storms of mine.



P.S Not angry at anything at the moment, but with the rains and all, decided to write a water-themed piece. 


Bleh

Forgive me for being sceptical,
About the mush that floods social media every single day,
The #Foreverandalways posts.

Where I come from,
Happily ever afters are rarer,
Than glass slippers, and pumpkin carriages,
And Wishing wells, and Talking cutlery.



roller-coaster

Vulnerability scares me, the feeling of being exposed to the elements, the thought of my wounds being infected by the poison of harshness and judgement. Even so, like a sunflower to the sun, I get sucked into it. Although aware of the crashing pain and numbness that ensues from the infection, I am foolish enough to let people in. It is this insanity on the part of us mortal beings that leads to our doom I guess. We could all revel in our isolation, where each day is not a roller coaster of emotions threatening to crash and bring us doom. But nope, we say, "bring it on', raise our arms and scream in exaltation and flourish in the thrill of it all, till it's time for the next victims to hop on this Roller-coaster of doom.

Imperfection

People tire me with their imperfections, I can never love people in their entirety, That is my biggest flaw, Something which has only worsened with time.
It is not their flaws that tire me, It is their attempt to hide them. The way they stand, with their tails between their legs, Their sheepish smiles as they distract me, or atleast try to.
'Don't!', I want to yell at them, Screw the world and its addiction to happiness and rainbows, Show me your cracks, your darkness, And I will show you mine, And together we will revel in the intimacy that comes, From knowing the human side of each other. 
But I keep quiet,  I am getting good at that, the silence, I am starting to find it the right response to most questions these days. I bury the frustration, the yearning, I accept whatever little they have to give, And return with even lesser of me.
They don't seem to notice though, Fools, satisfied with so little.

Irony

Mortal beings that we are,
Soon we will turn into ash and dust,
And all that will remain of us will be memories.
We featured in so many of people's lives.
Some in a good way, and in some, bad.
Sometimes unintentionally, and sometimes a misunderstanding.

We nimbly scoot past souls,
Hoping to not topple over the fragile,
And yet some rush past,
Leaving our hearts in debris.

Ah human existence,
The epitome of irony.

tran·scend

tran·scend tran(t)ˈsend/ verb past tense: transcended; past participle: transcended be or go beyond the range or limits of (something abstract, typically a conceptual field or division).
As time tick tocks, and the dusk of my time to pick and choose a career slowly appears on the horizon, 'well wishers (who knows if they are really well wishers..) come, ringing bells of alarm; 'make her give the UPSC, make her give the MPSC' they say, in concerned voices.. And then my mother, BemWeary, replies with a sigh, and then attaches a verb to me, that seems to explain it all- Oh I don't know, she is really transcended.. After having heard it for half a decade or so, it is one of those verbs I would use to describe myself if anybody asked me to do so.. 
It's hard to really understand how I got to this state of transcendence.. Was it after years and years of living in denial; does it stem from my immune system trying to quell the simmering panic deep down; was it a result of we…