Questionable Sanity

On certain days,

It is easier to be,

To exist, burning hopes

To the scintillating life.

But their exists a vacancy,

Or maybe a forever lingering presence,

Of fleeting moments,

Of questionable sanity,

When it is the equivalent

Of swallowing sharp stones.

The days when looking at your own reflection

In the mirror, becomes evident

Of staring in the eyes of a stranger.

Those days,

They are just too much for some,

And for some,

It is the chaos in which they exist,

The questionable sanity

In which their fluttering heart

Stays still.


Self Preservations, That’s All

It’s difficult to change routine.

I am not feeling the same thrill I used to a few months back.

It isn’t writer’s block. No, I won’t call it that. Writer’s block is when you can’t put your words on to paper. I do not struggle with that.

I struggle with the desire to do it. Before I even start, I end up imagining how the write-up will end up looking like. And I make myself believe I have written a hundred things like that.

There isn’t anything wrong with that. Not to my knowledge. The difficult part is making peace with the fact I put it on a blog.

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What To Write When You Don’t Know What To Write

Tailor-made fiction or writing what you know? That’s one debate I had been having with myself for last ten months.

And I’m sorry to say but there is still no consensus view on which my mind agrees.

Maybe the critic in me is just a dick with very high standards, you never know. I write well when I don’t think, the moment I think I become too critical to write.

I Know, I know, it sounds strange.

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Now from what I’ve read, it seems like I might have been wrong. Analysis by paralysis is just too common.

Continue reading “What To Write When You Don’t Know What To Write”

The Great Massacre

For the last three years, that’s the farthest back I remember, I’ve tried my best to ignore this feeling, you know, this guy wrenching anger. But everytime I realize it’s going to be eighth of January, it is there. Taunting me.

I’ve a horrible memory associated with my birthday. I know, I know, what sort of idiot talks about horrible memories about their birthday. Well, this one.

And it’s a significant one, you know. The kind of memory on which your identity is based. At least, a significant part of it.

Like ninety-nine percent of population out there, I’m angry and pissed. Pissed at life, with life. I can’t say anything about women though. I do not know how they feel. Definitely angrier though.

But rather than any other fart out there, I do not drown my sorrow, or misery, in God’s drink, I do not hurl abuse at little kids, or beat my wife to death. I write about it. And I know I keep repeating myself, I keep writing about misery, about the evil that men do.

I know I’m cliched, but it’s fine with me. I write the same old shit, on a constant loop, over and over again, because I see the same shit happen everyday. No matter what the fuck I write.

I still witness drunken fathers abusing their ten year old boys, I still see arrogant bastards hurling abuses, threating those below food chain then them. I witness the same hell, on a constant repeat. I can’t stop. Believe me, I’ve fucking tried.

Why do you have to follow anyone? Can’t you be your own men, or women?

Who says all the good comes from reading books? Sometimes, actually most of the times, life teaches us lessons that are far more valuable.

I do not wish to write a hundred and fifty books in my life. Heck, I don’t even want to write twenty. I’ll most probably write five or six. OK, definitely under ten. But all of them, they’ll be the stories I’ll be proud of. I’ll be proud that I had the courage to tell them.

I do not want to write about rich bratty kids, or an obnoxious detective, or a drug lord. I’ll write about the misery, I’ll write about failed parents. I’ll write about child abuse. I’ll write about the things that I want to be talked about. I will write the things, the words, that will heal me.

It is my quest to be whole again, even if it’s a doomed to be quest.

I’ll write the same cliched story, even if it’s been written hundreds of times, or even thousands of times. I’ll write about it because it hasn’t been written by me. At least not yet.

The Price You Pay Everytime You Listen To A Horrible Tale

One quality I pride myself on is I’m a good listener. At least I believe myself to be.

Strangely, people love to talk. I don’t know why I always struggle but everyone wants their story to be heard. So, for me, it’s favorable. People love to talk and I love to listen.

The art of effective speaking isn’t in what you say but what you don’t.

It seems all happy and cute, right?

After all, cute is the cutest word available in the dictionary. A little side note, there isn’t any other word in the English dictionary I despise more than cute. I hate when people say cute.

Let’s come back to the matter at hand, did you know listening comes at a price? Did you know you have to pay a part of you everytime you listen to someone’s sad little tale?

You feel bad for the teller, and then it numbs. After all, you’ve heard countless stories like that. 

At least I have.

You think, “Hey! I’ve heard worse than that, hell, I’ve experienced worse than that. I’m not whining like you.”

But you can’t say any of that. Because if you do, you’ll feel horrible. So, you listen some more. You try to understand. And then you sympathize, even if you don’t want to.

It takes a while, but that is the price you pay for being a listener. There is a reason why people are horrible listener.

But there are stories which are downright degrading to humanity. Stories in which you wish to kill the inflictor, or the villian of the story. Every story has one, don’t give me the look.

You hear a painful story and it starts to eat you alive. You reason that you shouldn’t feel like that. After all, the person who just told you their life story had it worse. 

You just listened to it. Right?

But you start losing your mind. It seems strange, doesn’t it? Somehow listening instigates pain? That it fuels agony?

I know seven stories. I know they don’t sound much. But I live within me the agony of seven horrible tales. Seven occasion when I wished to rip apart my heart because I couldn’t bear the suffocation anymore.

But guess what, it took a while and I listened to every single one of them. I tried my best to understand. 

Maybe I failed, maybe I didn’t. But every single one of the tellers became a good friend, so I guess I wasn’t horrible. In me, they found an outlet.

And that’s all I could have asked for.

In each of us lies the basic need to influence the world around us. Maybe my ability to listen isn’t anything more than that. A need to influence.

Our philosophies evolve. They change according to the need of the hour.

There is so much to being a good listener, other than the fact that you’re a horrible at sharing your own burden.

Either way, that’s the cost of being a listener. Good or bad, I don’t know, you decide.