this is not written for you, this is written for me.

I feel numb and breathless and quite confused. The skies are breaking and my hand and heart, they’re all bleeding.

We went down to that place by the river. We were going slow and steady, by each other’s side humming the same tune under our breath. It was a golden moment.
Looking back to that day, there’s nothing much I remember than being with you, not feeling so low after all.

However, soon came the faint signs of distance. And all I could feel was going down and down and down under. All my feelings and all my thoughts, I’ve shoved under my carpet; yet there lingers a flicker of an old lovelorn, infatuation dazed heart.

Again returning to that lovely moment we shared between us; we were talking and you were simply angelic. I went over in my head everything that may or may not happened but the actual reality was better than anything I’ve had imagined.

Yet all we were going was down and, down under.

The next few days, weeks, months- they’re all quite a bit foggy in my head. It felt like we were heading towards the right direction. At last, I though to myself, second chances given to falling in love aren’t all that bad. Ah, I felt on top of the world. I felt like screaming to the world: Someone hold me, we were moving faster than heaven.

As you played with my heart like we were playing with water, I forgave you. I still think, to this very point, that I probably had not cared all that much as to pose you questions asking about what happened. Its just, I don’t really care.
Not anymore, that is.

I’ve never really bothered much about feelings, to be blatantly honest that is. More often than not, I just play along; so was I the one stringing you along, or was it the other way around? I’m a mess and an idiot too. We were going round and round but I reckon somewhere along our very own fool’s parade, I really started liking you. Doesn’t matter now, does it?

Now we stand at the opposite ends of a burned bridge. Detrimental to my soul, adventure to my mind; what exactly were you to me? I am not mad at you, not one bit; it’s just sometimes memories take a toll on the present and it seems like I’m back to that day when everything started, and you asked me take some time to breathe. I breathe too fast and think too fast and fall too fast, well you wouldn’t really know that now, would you?

Now the times are forgotten, waves of new found feelings all are given up to change. All that lies between us are fake conversations and memories lost in the space. I suppose I’ll be better off without you. I don’t expect any calls or messages, fact is, you’re just not there anymore. You’ve been on your game, and what looks like it, quite excelling at it too.
Good for you. There’s nothing much more left for me to say now, is it?

Funnily enough, all of this sounds like it’s an excerpt from a heartbreak series. To be perfectly honest, this lies more on the side of a half baked love story met with sudden coldness. The remnants are still lying around, stinky and messy and quite depressing. One of them is losing the other, already has lost them, the other one- well, clichéd enough, doesn’t play much part in it.

Here I am, staring back to that place by the river. I don’t even know what more I could’ve done; looking back, I tried do my best to carry on. Whatever my best is, that is.

I’ve always believed that words play a major part in any relationship, and you always ran short of words around me. Shy? Thoughtful? Only those I could think of. I still think that. In my mind I still stand where you left me at; only the weather’s changed. Dark stormy clouds took over breezy spring days. Time after time I tried persuading you into staying. You know I did; yet you walked away.

It makes me wonder, why was I not much surprised when you went your own way. I guess, I’m just too used to things falling apart right after they become perfect. And everytime I convince myself to be wary of these emotions. Love makes a person weak. But love is what binds us all, doesn’t it? Now to clarify, I did not fall in love with you. Never had, never will. But I just, was, almost ready to do that.

I need to wake up from half baked dreams of happiness. It’s hard now that I know exactly where I stand. This sting I’ll always remember, this sting will always stay in me.

I should’ve known this was never right for me. I say to myself, I did this to myself; I know it all, but I can still recall, I gave it all. Gave everything I had and I could, to you. I tried so hard to numb these incessant pain you caused me to feel, but I can’t bring myself too. An artist, I am. How can I supress pain into a void and let it all out?

-this is not written for you. this is written for me.

The Roles of Art

The Politics of Writing

I find it interesting in the way art almost entirely reflects the artist. Of course this seems obvious, but there’s also unintentional ways it reflects the artist. This is noticeable when you take a writer who doesn’t make an outline for their writing. If they begin to just write and see what comes out, it almost always expresses subtle traits of the writer. The tone they use, the events they portray, the characters they establish, it all reveals their subconscious feelings. This is why when you’re done reading a good book you feel as if you personally know a writer because of how much of their personality you’ve picked up.

After consuming all forms of art, paintings, writing, music, ect, you begin to notice a trend in topics. The universal themes artists are usually to make a point or to get the audience to feel a certain way. Themes like…

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Rose

Rosalind woke up with her shampoo’s scent filling her senses. Her pillow was half hanging from the end of the bed and her covers already on the floor. The winter morning had her skin feeling icy, much like the wind flowing outside. She thought that it was Monday, but no, much to her liking it was Friday. Her favourite day.

While walking from her room to the kitchen, she pondered about her list things she had to complete today; buy more Cornflakes, submit cheques to bank and meet Claudio. Doing things, like she does- she decided bank was the least important of all things to do so she can put it off for tomorrow.

The milk was too cold by the time she took her nose out of the newspaper. She cared about it the least because she was too much occupied thinking about the ‘news’ that she read. Murders. Theft. Death. Shooting. It was like reading a horror book but much to her dismay- a real one, at that.

The youthfulness by which she started her day was much transformed into gloominess after reading that. She shed a tear or two, and hoped to her fullest that maybe days like these are never seen by her family or her friends’. With this, she rang up her mum,

“Bonjour! Comment allez-vous, maman?”

Rosalind heard a yawn, “Je vais bien, et vous?”

“I’m fine too, maman. How are things at home?”

“As good as it was, do you need something?”

“No, not really. Just called like that. Are you busy?”

“Oh, actually I am. May I ring you up later?”

“It’s fine, maman. You don’t really have to. Have a good day ahead, au revoir.”

“Au revoir!”

Rosalind put her head down on the table and started crying. She shed her tears like it was what she was supposed to do. She couldn’t stop it and so she cried and cried. She never even understood why she was doing that. Maybe because her mother could care less, or maybe because there was so much cruelty in the world. But why will she of all people cry? Other people have it worse but they don’t shed any tears- but she does. Caring is such a complicated, yet an easy thing to do.

She stopped and took a deep breath. She found her breath stale from all that crying, and her throat parched. She went to the bathroom and brushed again, with cold water she washed her face and returned to her room with even colder feet. She stacked up on her socks and coats, and went outside to meet Claudio. Maybe only her friend can make her feel better from her insipid morning.

The walk to Claudio’s home was fruitful. She saw many poignant features of life passing by. Few feet away from where she was walking, she spotted a pretty child talking to her mother with all her heart. Pointing at various things and making such actions by her hands to make her mother understand that story better. Her voice was loud and her French broken, but her mother was listening to her intently and was making the appropriate reactions to let the child continue. It was such a normal thing, but it left a mark in her mind. The love one shares between their parents was very much known to her till her father died. It was quite a shock to see such a young man dying from a motorbike accident. It had hurt a lot and it still hurts now, when she thinks about it but somehow the pain of losing father has lessened over the years. He mother was always like that with her, and still is but during times like these- when she is over thinking things and got nobody to talk, she missed her father more. Time may take away the pain but it cannot take away the memories.

Memories of March when Rosalind with her father used to travel nearby places, have short trips of two-three days. Mother has been always absent from those, though. She had her bakery to manage and she was least interested in travelling because she did never like her hair getting messed up by the wind. Rosalind did, though. She loved the way wind entered her hair and left it all tangled. She also loved the way trees seemed to be dancing when dad used to hit the pedal on their car hard. Times like those are lost forever, and it may never be replaced again, but losing the person she loved the most made her heart incapable of letting herself be loved again. She did give her heart to  everybody, but she accepted none.

Claudio’s house was in sight now, just above the quaint coffee shop where they sold the best macaroons in entire France, according to Claudio. They were really good, but not that good as Claudio made it sound like, Rosalind thought.

“Ah, Rose, ma chère!”

“How are you, Claudio? You’re not too busy I suppose?” Rosalind was sure that Claudio would never mind her presence, but she never intended to intrude.

“Never for you. Come inside, why stand in the cold?” Claudio was all smiles receiving her. He didn’t mind the least instead his face showed he was glad Rosalind was here. Rosalind felt happy too.

Claudio brought her tea, and made himself some tea as well. Rosalind asked him that if she ever feels down will he give her false hope to make her happy again?

“It is a matter of opinion. And if I think, my friend is very much sad and heart broken, I will give her what she wants and even more. But if that is what false hope is, let it be.”

Rosalind smiled at him sadly and started sipping her tea. Unlike her, Claudio lived in the part of the city where it attracts most of the tourists. All trying to find their way through the city and maybe through their lives too. Claudio saw her look and asked why is his flower so sad today; that simple comment only made her heart melt but she regained her spirits and replied, Isn’t it so unfair of me to be so sad? I guess I feel it all the time but I don’t want to and I don’t know how to stop it. When I spoke to my mother today, she sounded the same- a bit saddened maybe, but still the same. Why can’t I be the same too? I remember once you said how I am too kind for the world’s liking but I think you were wrong. I am too kind for my own liking. There’s just so much pain, you know? So much. And it feels like, all of that passes through me; I don’t want that anymore… Claudio, if I keep on feeling like this- I won’t be able to breath anymore!” She stopped with doleful eyes that kept drifting to the grey skies above.

Claudio let his tea sit on the table and tried to ease her mind by singing in his beautiful voice that always demanded attention from Rosalind. He sang her favourite French song, in which the lyrics told the story of a young girl feeling distraught after her friends left her for someone better; and when she found love again it was from someone so unexpected that it did not feel like real but only a dream. Her confusion with life and her way of finding herself back again was impeccably captured through the lyrics and Rosalind liked it so. Claudio’s voice gave the song even more life and made Rosalind’s heart lighter.

Two years from that day, Rosalind’s death”s news came to his door. He cried a lot that day and remembered the time when she came to his house and spoke about her unrealistic sadness. That day, Claudio sang to her, hoping she would just let herself accept the love that was in front of her. Rosalind didn’t, and the days in between that day and this, they had hardly any contact. Claudio later realized that she did open her eyes and saw what was in front of her but never tried to take it. Only because, she was too kind. Such a compassionate soul that felt everybody’s sadness and gave love to everyone without ever realizing what her heart wants.

Elegy of the Northern wind

Manuscript of a madman

summers were bleak

in sweating hopes,

i locked myself in,

locking colors in the wardrobe.

Cloud rained sorrow,

fever doused the life,

monsoon gone, autumn came,

i clutched my spine to survive.

Mirrors crack, something i lack,

imperfect smile, perfect flaws,

nightmares pointing guns at me,

tearing me apart with dark deep claws.

Still warmed my feet, on the fire of heart,

flamed by the beer and cigarettes of kiss,

winter winter, why don’t you come earlier,

don’t you know, how do i miss?

Winter caressed my disheveled hair,

winter whispered me sleep,

my body shivered with snowflake hope,

and with many promises to keep.

Then i woke up, sober with thoughts,

sad spring touching my skin,

winter died in the fireplace,

hopes, in the dustbin.

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Pens & Papers

The greatest epiphany of my writer’s life was that she is alone. Through dreary nights of wine coloured tongue and hazy afternoons of unrest, my writer wrote unceasingly. Almost oblivious to the world and incredulous to love. Each syllable dripping out of my sharp nibs was drenched in thoughts of sadness and despair. And all my dark ink was met with yellowed pages which held tears of reasons unknown. Sadness, was my writer’s, greatest foe and her best friend.

Soon my writer set me free. It was her time to explore herself. Make use of this grand world around her. And she, like anybody else of her age at this time and space, found herself crawling back to this old raggedy pen of hers. Eyes widened with exuberance, mouth filling up unsustainable joy- yet, all through this she was encircled with a feeling of solitude. The ghost of her being got trapped somewhere else she never wanted it to. All her magnolias and daffodils could not bring her back to where she once was.

The ends of my body became chewy and the ink by which I was so celebrated soon started dripping. Dripping like the blood in her throat did- when my writer could not speak what she wanted to. But better days were coming and I felt it. The words became less sloppy, the thoughts gained more clarity and I was used less fervently.

The greatest epiphany of my writer’s life was she is worth it. She is worth all her magnolias and all her fervent writings. All the sadness in her bones should not always make her so helpless, after all. Music is, but for the sad soul. And words are a way of letting go of unhinged emotions. The creased yellowed pages, my broken spine and the tad splotches of ink on the corners- all this made her feel at home. The pen she carried along with her told a different story, but in these pages, which held the musings of my writer- would you find the real tale of lost love and regained happiness.