I’m Sorry

I wrote this for “someone” who’d know who I’m talking about once read, or knows already.

I’m sorry I was nosy. I’m sorry that I tried to save a friend for you, I didn’t mean to steal anything or anyone from you. You might have thought otherwise and I swear I wasn’t. I’m sorry that I tried to understand you, I thought that might make us better friends… I’m sorry I asked you not to be my friend. It turns out you never wanted me to be your friend anyway. “Guilty till proven innocent,” isn’t that what you said? I’m sorry I listened to you speak when the world ‘inside’ was laughing aloud, I’m sorry I stood up for you, I just thought you were worth it. I still do. I’m sorry I was an idiot.

I’m sorry that I argued about the things I didn’t even agree with. I just like arguing because that makes you believe more in your view of the world. I didn’t agree with everything I argued about, but I hoped that would make you agree with yourself. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I stayed up almost the entire night typing to a screen that didn’t respond about why you were an amazing person. I’m sorry I hurt you, and I’m sorry I hurt myself as well. I’m sorry that I killed your precious time with my text messages and calls asking if you were alright.

I’m sorry I bored you with my stories, I thought you liked listening to them as much as you told them. What I didn’t know is that you hated relating the stories. I’m sorry I told and listened. I didn’t know you considered it being ‘nosy’. I’m sorry I wrote a story basing a character on you, I thought it’d make you smile. I’m sorry I called you a mad scientist – I thought being a scientist is cool. I’m sorry that in your mind every compliment I made was an insult to you. I’m sorry I complimented you at all. I’m sorry I was an idiot to you, and I’m sorry for myself for not realising I was one.

I’m sorry that I considered you one of the most interesting people I’ve met. I’m sorry that I even shared some interests with you. I didn’t think it would be shameful on your part. I’m sorry I read the beautiful stuff you posted and asked you to read some of the things I wrote as well. I’m sorry that you found the meaning behind most of it. I’m sorry I called you the best writer in the world, I truly meant it. I’m sorry that I was that easy to hurt. Thank you for your beautiful comments, and thank you for giving me the impression that you’ll always be my friend and I’m sorry that I was harder to fool that you thought at times. I’m sorry for the punch lines I threw at you that left you wondering. I’m sorry that I genuinely tried to be a good friend. I’m sorry I asked you to put a bottle into a shoe and hit it against the wall. It worked though and you were happy, or at least I thought you were. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I asked you questions when the answers weren’t all that clear. I’m sorry that my answers weren’t satisfying to your questions either. I’m sorry I tried to hide some things from you, I’m sorry you tried to find out some of those as well. I’m sorry that your “friend’s friend” was disturbed by my “debate” about Freud with you. I’m sorry you had to write a painfully beautiful letter because of me. The words, they mean a lot to me and I’ll hold them close to me but I’m sorry you had to write them. I’m sorry for all the times your phone beeped with a facebook notification for a status I tagged you in. I’m sorry for when your words hurt because you were thinking things as you spoke. I’m sorry for the three knocks on your door, for the boring card games and badminton. I’m sorry for joking about you going to a person’s house, for confusing you with the code names we had come up with. I’m sorry for it all.

You told me about once that a particular person said “I’m sorry” till you said it was alright. I could do the same but I don’t want you to say it’s alright. Instead, let me thank you for your honesty and the memories and words you’ve given me and are yet to give.

I’m Sorry
I’m Sorry
I’m Sorry

I’m sorry to someone who doesn’t know I died when I was called ‘nosy’.

When your soul bleeds and you’ve run out of band-aid and your hands are trembling, you’ve lost. You’ve lost the fight and death won’t come any faster because you’ve lost. You’ve stopped fighting back but it’s going to hurt you just the same, or worse. The demons, they’re taking over you. The memories, they’re haunting you. And the fear in your fright makes you fear the frights a little more. They come back to you and they will remain with you – the sickest of thoughts, the dirtiest of memories, the pain of not being hurt. And when you die, they’ll come with you… they’ll lead you to your death and laugh when you can’t stand back up. The solution to all is nothing but the problem, and the problem is the solution. They’re one and the same and they always will be. Trying to change your mind will not change the simple fact that sometimes the question is the answer. It’ll take you down, sooner or later and you’ve got nothing to do because there’s just no chance against it. It’ll wear us all down, break us with time and we’ll watch our friends and siblings and role models die, watch as their last breath escapes them as they ask us never to give in. And what we do? Just that. We give in, we give up, we fall before we ever learn to walk, we lose ourselves before we know how to find the way back home. We’re wandering the world, trying to figure out people when we haven’t figured out ourselves. Idiots we are, but we won’t accept it. Yet, in the darkest hours in the night we’ll write words on our journals and diaries that no one else will ever read, cry to the pillows and draw faces in the darkness. We’re all dying, yet we hold on. We’ve lost faith, yet we survive. I’ve lost my friends but they’re still not strangers. Words, they’ve ceased to make sense yet I write them down.



Every sandcastle built falls to pieces.
For Sudaraka and for Zee.

We’ve all built sandcastles, watched others do it and sometimes have had to watch the painfully as the castles wash away. When a friend of mine compared my writing to building a sandcastle I imagined myself neatly and carefully stacking together my words to make a structure that would eventually be washed away with the water, get blown away with the wind, or trampled by someone who walks over it by mistake or tries to jump over it but falls on it instead.
My words are weak, they are fragile just like the grains of sand but when placed one on top of the other they are strong enough to build a castle, the structure… weak, but a castle by appearance. And no one knows that the moment you give it a little push, it’ll shatter because the castle is only just an imposter, an attraction. The hard surface on which it was built, or the sour meaning behind the sweet words is a contrast too much for the castle to remain standing. All it takes is a gush of warm summer air, or a tight squeeze of love to break down the word castle. It protects the meaning from the world outside but it does a very poor job of it. Every person and every eye can awe at the beauty of the masterpiece but the moment that one person gives it a look and innocently turns away, the castle comes down. It turns to ruins, becomes a mound of sand or words. It needs work to fix the edges again, fingers to put the broken hearts to place, a strong hand worn down with scars to lift the girl buried under the weight of the sandcastle that crashed onto her.
She breathes again, smiles for those who look at the fingers working tirelessly, cutting out the wrong words and replacing them with others instead. She weaves together a piece of art. A sandcastle, and puts it up for the world to see. Then she watches the passers by have their go at it… some admire the work, others they criticize, some stop by to poke a stick through or take a look through the tiny door, kindle the meaning behind the words and then leave the castle to wash away like all other castles do.

Your Story (ii)

I have posted something with the same title previously, but I don’t want to title this anything else 😀 Enjoy and tell me what you think 🙂
This is your story. And mine. ❤

The rest of the world has given up and they have long gone,
 Yet you smile for them all, hold your head up and carry on.
They don’t see the pain in the laughs you simply seem to fake,
You give your love to the world but you never stop to take.
They say you’re brave and clever and ready for the world,
Yet you need something to cling to, that one person to hold.
They pat your back, give you a smile and say you’ll be fine,
But the truth behind your words is only your story and mine.
A story covered in dust, forgotten, a book too old to be read,
So they close the cover to us and open up another instead.
They’ll forget our faces and words but it’ll live in me and you,
And when that fades I hope the reader has a story to tell too.