Nonexistence.

(Forgive the language, I'm writing this at a moment when I can't handle my emotions, sentiments or my tear ducts.)

I am baffled while I battle this crisis.
It is more of a breakdown of a life situation into a crisis. 
I am running away from this conclusion that I have come to.

Life is nothing but blocks of moments which are nothingness once the moment has passed.
Think of it, once a moment has passed, it is nonexistent. It only lives on if you think of it. The anticipation that surrounds an event in the future becomes nothing once the event has passed, that event, becomes nothing. It is all, nothing.

Memories are such an abstract entity and at this moment, it is making me cry that memories are all we have and how do I keep my memories, how do I feel they were real? How do I hold them with my feeble hands, how do I stop them from slipping and falling out. Please stop memories, please don't go, please stay, please become more real than just a cloud of thought in my head.

I'm in pain right now. Miserable amounts of pain thinking about how desperately I want my mind to stop pick up each memory and sink into it all over again. And I can't, the helplessness that has covered me all over because I can not go back, is mind numbing right now.

Our lives are nothing but a collection of memories.
Should I be happy that they've passed and there might be better memories in the future or should I be sad that they're in the past and they're never coming back again?

She undid her bun. She undid her bun.

It was an unusual obsession,
Something you wouldn't realise till it was pointed out.
Her bun.
Her locks were evasive, while they stayed in that bun.
Black, brown or orange.
No one ever found out.
It seemed fairly normal,
like a sweater made of yarn,
That her hair was never open,
but always in that bun.
"Damned bun!" He thought,
Dreamed each night of black molten lava pouring and gracing her shoulders, if she ever undid her bun.
Her reasons were misleading,
The sweltering heat, she said
But only she knew the bun was,
Where she hid her hurt instead.
The bun held all the stories, she hadn't spoken about.
The bun held all the fury, she had never let out.
The bun held all the pain, that peirced through her pores.
The bun held all the sorrows, that on her heart had left sores. 
The bun held all the failed dreams, like pollen in a dandelion.
The fear of being found out, the fear of being discovered
And her hair never left the bun.
And then one day she thought, she could undo the bun for him,
Facing him she stood, gathering all her courage,
Closed her eyes because this,
Would feel like pulling a molar out with callipers without any anaesthesia.
She felt something loosen, a wall break down,
The dam had been broken & the water came swirling out.
But her hands hadn't moved, hadn't even touched the bun;
Aghast,
She opened her eyes and saw the satisfaction written on his visage.

He had only tugged at the stick holding her bun.

A distant heartache. Letters from nobody.

"There is a lot going on in my mind, even though there is barely anything going on in my life.

I love the idea of falling in love. Maybe that's why such shifting affections. Most of the time, my feelings don't get reciprocated because I read too much into someone's friendliness.
And the number of times this has happened is a little too high.

I can't understand what is with this plaguing demand for attention.
It is awfully shallow how someone's attention should determine my existence. On one hand, I'm all for wanting to be on my own, and all that independent woman jargon but give me attention and I turn into putty. My heart, my soul, everything belongs to you.

This giving in, is followed by a burn out phase, where I start fearing the oncoming onslaught of affection from said person and I run. Run in the opposite direction.
This is becoming a pattern and a pattern for this, isn't really a healthy thing.

I don't know is this a passing phase or is this who I am. Sometimes I attribute it to growing up, or being a lost soul or being mentally stuck to being a teenager.

But whatever it is, I hope to recover soon."

Manure

Today I realized why holding manure in your hand, can be the best life lesson there exists.

To experience how inconsequential you are, dig a compost pit and create manure. Every time you regard yourself as someone more than significant to the working of the universe, find some manure and hold it.

Manure is, what we are. Manure is, what we will eventually become.

I am not driving questions at the lessons of self worth which most of us have been taught really well, but a rather subtle reminder, of how the significance of each individual is the same. At the end, each one of us shall decompose to become the same manure. Maybe some of us will yield better manure than others but we will all become the same.

Each one of us, so involved in our lives, with egos the size of mountains, forgets this fact.

Being someone who suffered from this disease of misbelieving that the world rests on her shoulders, I can safely be considered to be one of the best persons to sermonize over this.

It is necessary, to realize who we really are instead of the inflated versions of ourselves, that our ego makes us think we are.  It is also necessary to realize what an infinitesimal role we play, in the gearbox of space and infinity. Holding manure, seeing the ocean makes me see my insignificance. Makes me see that though I might fret over being ignored by my nemesis at a social gathering, the earth will not stop rotating on its axis, the stars will still twinkle at night. It makes me accept the status, which technically equates me to an ant and a lion, all at once.

Nothing drives home the principle of uniformity in diversity, better than this thought of how trivial, we all are.

“For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” (Genesis 3:19)

Fescapedes: 1

Your eyes, are crystals.
They sparkle every time I look into them.
To be the reason for their sparkle, I haven't been better flattered ever before.
I presume it is me, the reason behind that sparkle.
I close my eyes and lean in to feel the world spiral in my head as we kiss,
With half shut eyes, from beneath the curtain of my lashes, I see them sparkle, for some other miss.

We can see.

This is an open letter to every man, living in this country who fails to realise that he isn't staring in a way that is obscure enough because news flash: we have eyes. We can see. And we do see.

You think that you are molesting us with your eyes and we are not realising it. You think that each time you look at us, we do not realise how with each blink of your eyes, you've removed another piece of clothing off our bodies in your head.
You think just because we look the other way we are oblivious to your lecherous, rascally smile which by the way just conveys the joy your inner sexual pervert and voyeur is experiencing.

Whatever your thoughts, don't think them. They are as much of a lie as the 'respect' you have for us.

The part where you presume that we dress to please you, purge it out of your system because we certainly don't. That girl whose legs made you salivate more than Pavlov's dog, is wearing that pair of shorts because Mumbai is a really humid city. IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH CATERING TO YOUR ENTERTAINMENT.

We do not belong to you. Our bodies do not belong to any of you, so stop looking at us with that sense of ownership.

This non-consensual undressing that you carry out in your head, is nothing short of a rape. It is nothing short of a crime. In case you didn't realise, we do not want it. And we are definitely refusing it.

Imagine living in a world where every move you make, every step you take is not only observed but ends up being next to pornographic material in somebody else's mind. Imagine that feeling of being caparisoned in a world where the thoughts of the opposite sex, about your outfit, determine what you will wear.
Imagine a life where you are nothing but a sexual object, no matter what you wear.

Yes. That's what I thought, sounds frustrating, doesn't it?
That's been our story, for decades.
And it is in your hands, to change how this story ends.
Don't take it to the level where the woman who ignores your stares, is forced to gorge your eyeballs out because trust me, most of us, are right around that alley.

Reconstruct your psyche. It is high time.
And thank you, if you DO end up doing the same.

*On a side note, I do realise men are hormonally hard wired to look at other women and vice-versa but what I'm referring to here, is the uncalled for staring and lewd/obscene looks.

Deep inside.

In some convoluted heart, a miserable emotion reigned in all its glory. It was less of an emotion, more of a sentiment. What is the difference, you might ask.
A sentiment, is just the less passionate version of an emotion. If emotion were a dark haired, dark eyed, bipolar beauty, sentiment would be the more sober version of that woman after attending rehabilitation.

It had started to feel like an emotion again. It was like an ocean wave, rushing towards the shore and becoming a tumulus, powerful emotion and the very next instant, it was retracting from the shore to go back to being a sublime and muted sentiment.

An undying obsession with wanting admiration. Admiration that would lead the admirer to ruin. An admiration which would destroy the admirer and empower her to a whole new level. An admiration which would mark itself by the twists and turns it made the admirer's wrist take while he held a brush, soaked in paint. An admiration which fed on his happiness and fed her with arrogance. An admiration that left him drowning in misery, with her being the only glimmer of hope, an only chance of survival.
An admiration that makes the admirer's blood run dry and fills her blood stream with an intoxicant.

Ah the pleasure, of having ruined someone's life. By not belonging to them because this emotion, admiration, is not love, no ownership exists. Destructing someone's inner temple where deities of self-respect have received adulation all their lives, razing that temple and filling it with turbid, putrid waters of self loathing and feeling an immense pride at having reduced the admirer, a monument, before he met her, to a mere pile of ruble.

The glory of having been admired and having become immortal in the work of the admirer.
The glory of being a muse.
The glory of being a conquerer.