Things I won’t forget

I could go on and on and on and I know I’ll never forget them.

But I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way I felt when you pinned that badge on me or the way I felt when I heard your voice on the phone for the first time. I’ll never forget how your hair shined in the sun when you ran across the ground, a bleeding wrist and a batten in your hand. I don’t think I’ll allow myself to forget how my stomach churned everytime I saw you, or how I felt when you walked by my side. I’ll remember that tingling feeling on my skin from the time you tried to paint me black because you said I coloured your world too bright. Every day when it rains outside and I hide myself under a blanket, I’ll draw the symbol across my palm with my finger to remember the way I felt when you did so. I don’t want to forget the way I felt when I came home from school to find that envelope with my acceptance letter on my table. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sinking feeling in my stomach when you said you were ashamed of me, or the time when your brother looked at me and said “secret”. I can’t forget that feeling of betrayal you gave me. I’ll never forget the day I found out. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how I felt when you said I was nosy. I don’t want to forget the way the snowflakes felt cold and light against my cheeks. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way I felt when I heard you out of breath. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way I felt when you returned the letter I wrote for you, or the only time I beat you, or the time you stood up for me. I’ll never forget the confidence you gave me in teaching me things you didn’t know yourself. I don’t think I want to forget them. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way you made me question myself and you made them doubt my sanity, or the way I felt when I realised how much of myself I had forgotten. And I don’t think I’ll ever forget you, but if I do, remind me please of how your very thought was enough to drive me insane.


The Olive Grove

To Zee, who’s read every post I’ve ever posted. I know I’m a day late, sorry… I don’t have an explanation good enough to say why I was. But I’m posting this on 1th, so I guess it’s fair enough 😀


We met amongst an olive grove… at the idea of one. And we knew it existed because you said so. We believed you. And you asked me to speak against you, and I did. Today you write facing an olive grove that faces the sea, creating a world of your own in which we all get engulfed in. I wonder if we’d ever see a real olive grove, if we’d pull out a few chairs, sit there and talk all day like we did every single day after school. Maybe when we reach this olive grove we’ll count the olives and when we’re done counting 111, we’ll celebrate. We’ll talk of metal and raspberries and all the shapes of the clouds. The stars. We’ll make a story that the stars can relate to the world when we forget our words. Maybe we never will. Maybe we’ll hold on to the words for longer than we thought we will. And when we’re old and grey and we lack the strength to see each other like we used to, I would write things in which your name would be disguised. I’ll leave you a trail of notes like I once did before. I’ll remember you as the boy who reminded me of strawberries and infinite things. The one with who I ran across a building under construction chasing death eaters. If by then I still haven’t come to face an olive grove, I’ll find myself constantly on your blog, thinking of the times when we wrote in code, when you ran your finger across Roger Frederer’s signature, of the time when your eyes burnt bright with pride and your laughter echoed through my mind. When the air grows dim and the stars come out we’ll connect the dots in the stars and make our own constellations. We’ll draw our stories and names… Taylor Swift and The Goo Goo Dolls. We’ll watch the fireworks burst with pride. We’ll find our way back from the olive grove like you found your way home and every flower left unpicked on the gravel path would remind me of the little milestones I had on wordpress and tumblr, every promise, every Haiku you ever wrote. I’ll think of every question you asked, the day we make the TAPFS symbol, the penguin. When the birds stop singing for the day I’ll think of the day I deleted my twitter account overnight… the hash tag you used for me long before hash tags were so cool. I’ll remember the ice-cream parlor and the number plates and the sentences you never completed. I won’t stop looking for an olive grove, and the moment I see one I’ll find every pretty little confessor and tell them I found it. And on that day, when The Pretty Little Confessors sit in a circle and laugh about the confessions we once made, we’ll look at the sky above us and see the 11 stars shining back at us creating our space in the universe of our infinity. Happy 20th Zee!

LSGMH, #[ “]>

The Answer

Here’s the answer to the question. No bones were broken, but bones aren’t the only things that break.

When she thought it was time to set out in the world and figure out some things on her own, she got hit in the head. Hit so hard that she fell not on the ground but beneath it. She had not seen it coming and the impact of the blow had a resounding effect on her and broke all the bones she was yet to learn… a constant buzzing in her brain, an unanswered question that she innocently thought and believed she’d find the answer to eventually. She crawled all the way, having no energy to duck as the wrecking ball shot at her over and over again, hoping against hope that it would slow down until it eventually came to a stop. She had no courage to stare the enemy in the eyes they way they did to her, and more often than always she argued with herself about the many things that she simply denied when others asked her. Her brain could no longer digest imagination from reality and sometimes she got them both confused. At a time when she had lost every bit of hope she had, she was injected with hope… from people who considered her the normal one. The dose kept her alive, but they weren’t enough to cure her. Friends, they called themselves. And a family that accepted her. Just the way sticks and stones broke her bones, their words and jokes pulled her through… one day at a time. And as she thought she was beginning to heal, she began to walk. Started to glue back together the bones so that she could help herself stand up again. Crooked and hunched, but enough to walk straight. They were happy, but some took it personally; they thought she had not had enough of the blow so they put her up to test if she’d survive a tougher one. Harsher words. Sharper weapons. And she took them all. This time though, she decided to make herself seem stronger… she smiled to be polite, and when she realised that some of her actions weren’t convincing enough for the closest people around her, she made her efforts more genuine. She laughed a little louder than she wanted to and put up an image that she thought was perfect for them to see. She did this for so long that it became part of her… that was the only way she could stop them from saying what they thought she wanted to hear. The moment she took a break and went back to who she actually was, people thought she wasn’t alright. In fact, she wasn’t but she started accepting her life that went back and forth between the image she put up for others and the one she saved for herself alone. And she was desperate for an escape. Her biggest secret was her life itself.. the one she tried to hide from herself and she kept her secrets safe by putting them into words, revealing only as much as she wanted to. Saving the person who had hurt her so bad, painting beautiful memories in words that she was tired of trying to explain to others. No one ever judged her writing, they didn’t interfere her with their opinions and thoughts. They didn’t try to make her feel better, and when she wrote, she didn’t have to pretend like she was happy. She didn’t have to pretend like she didn’t care… because no one ever saw what she wrote. This was between her heart and pen, and it was true love. Often, they asked if they could read but she refused point blank for she knew what she’d hear. She knew they wanted the best for her, but she didn’t herself, because in the eyes of the old and wise this was only just a small adventure in life. But to her, it was more. It was the only thing that had hurt her so bad, it was the only thing that made her cry so hard and had made her forget who she actually was. To a world that laughed at how simple her deepest worry was, she saw no point in explaining… so she quit. Instead, her words started to grow more meaning and with every piece it grew deeper. Eventually she started sharing her work… revealing only as much as she wanted to and disguising all that she had to to save the people and person she cared so much about, keeping her secret still. The one they said she had to forget about. And when they read what she wrote, they were always so confused. “That’s so deep,” they said. “So deep that even Adele couldn’t roll in it,” they asked. “Left with a thousand questions, but I won’t ask any” they said. And so she said nothing. The secret to her ‘style’ of writing remained so… a ‘style’ and nothing more. No one had to know that it was her escape. An addiction because that was the only way out. The Only way out.
The question she waited for finally came one day, in the early hours of the morning. “I want to know why you always write such deep stuff,” this person asked at 01:00am that day.
She had always planned the answer for that question but at that moment she simply covered the sigh with a smile and said, “I don’t know.. I just like to write sad stuff.”
Nothing further was asked. Maybe because more meaning was understood, maybe because the answer was believed.
And then she thought she finally had to answer the question, and properly.

Incompletely in love with Life

This was something I posted on facebook. It relates to some very personal memories – painful and beautiful. Let me know what you think 🙂

I fall in love with the broken hearts, the forgotten souls and the lonely wanderers. I fall in love with the little kids with big dreams; the ones that sit around a fireplace counting the years they’ve lived with their fingers; the ones that call themselves secret detectives. I see painful beauty in the eyes of the selflessly selfish people; the ones who’d rather have no company than to see another life wasted. I remember the men long forgotten; the ones who swore to make a change but forgot with time. I see an impressive self living beneath all the violence and vengeance in the boy who’s labeled a bully. I see just the same in his friend who takes blow after blow, hiding the tears from the world because he’d rather hurt himself that anyone else. I respect the girls who speak in code while everyone laughs at them so that if anyone’s getting into trouble, it’d just be the few of them. The graffiti artist holds in himself all that defines himself as a hero but the moment he pulls off his mask of indistinguishable emotions he’d just be a painter. He paints the world of the dancer in the dark with dreams that didn’t live the life outside his head. The crowd admire her confidence as she walks on stage with a gaze that doesn’t miss any eye and a spring to her steps that make her look taller; none of them know that she’s made herself tall so that she can look for the half of her that she lost in the crowd. I fall in love with the simple things in life like the anonymous written notes from a boy I’ll never know. I fall in love with the misspelled words and tongue slips, the people broken a little too much to be repaired.I fall in love with the calls never answered and the voice messages and the dimples and the silence. I fall in love with the trees and the birds and the boy who couldn’t embrace his fall.The red roses on the floor, the wildflowers on the road, the abandoned apartments and the hat on the old man’s head. The teardrops on the paper, the brush strokes on your face; they define you. I fall in love with the imperfections in life. So, if your heart’s a little broken and your soul feels shattered, if you’re a lonely wanderer letting the stars guide you to your destiny, if your voice silences a deafening scream or your words echo inside your empty framework and choke you,that’s alright. There’s a pair of beautiful eyes staring right back at yours.

Talking my thoughts

It’s been some time, I know. I managed to make a little bit of time for those who’ve been waiting for a post (if there are any :D). This one started off with something someone told me that hurt me and then merged into something someone else told me that hurt as well, but in a different way. I ended it with the thoughts of something someone said that hurt me more than either one of the two before did.

Your holding stare cut through my skin and reached my insides before I even knew it. The heat of my heart dropped and I felt a thick dense smoke rising within me. It reached my eyes and in the core of them, it burnt. My eyes watered… the tears looked for an escape but there was no way I was going to let go of them… I couldn’t afford to show you how much your words meant to me. So I stared back, awkwardly and looking for the words that I could say back to you. I had nothing to say. No words to promise you anything… because I really couldn’t. I knew what you wanted, and I knew you couldn’t see it in me. I always had the choice, but I decided not to. I was stubborn but at some point the stubborn decision I once made became a part of me… not a choice any longer, but something that I couldn’t go back on. And I knew right then that you were trying to make me think, I knew you were trying to erase parts of my memory so that I would forget why I became who I had. I still didn’t say anything because there was simply nothing I could say to explain. All I could do was listen to you and l that’s all I did. Made you wonder why I listened when no one else did, made you wonder what made me understand. I made you question yourself about the person who stood before you… and gave you the wrong impression. Something you believed. an image of a person you expected. All I really was was something darker than the image. A shadow of it, maybe, but not itself on its own. I listened because I heard what they couldn’t, I said nothing because I had too much to, I stopped my tears from revealing because I was afraid of you; because I believed in you… because I understood. Because you were talking my thoughts.