Nobody's shit

As I peep out of the window sill on a Saturday afternoon sipping coffee the last thing I wanna do is write. I would rather watch a movie or read a book or go out with friends or do anything but fucking writing. It sucks to write, its never good enough, it isolates you from the rest of the world, leaves you stranded, makes you find patterns and overthink stuff you should not. Its a pain. The words stab your mind with all these ideas, so fucked up they can shake your soul. Thank god I am not a writer. I just cannot.  The problem is, its way too draining, I don't think I am ready for that investment.  So I left my house, far far away from a pen and paper, dived right into the real world. It was so much fun. Everything felt like a game and I kept playing. One day I got sick and I could not play. I could not do anything. I took turns on my bed cursing everything that lead me to that bed. I had to do something to get rid of this devil in my head screaming day and night. I asked him ...

In the past two decades there has been some key transformation in gender roles and the focus of parents towards empowering their girls has grown rapidly. Girls who are born during the past decade are less likely to face the prejudices common in the older generations. Technology has helped more people find solutions to bridge gap between sexes. Today's woman regardless of her age is aware of her freedom and can fight for her rights. She is modern, independent, driven and confused.  Why confused? She is confused because the world around her is a paradox.  On one hand is this woman who is full of hope, acceptance and radical ideas that she idolizes, and on the other is this woman who is left behind by our tech-savvy generation.  This woman is her mother, grandmother, aunt, house help or maybe the wife of her colleague. She was brought up in a patriarchal society where she was judged on the basis of her skin colour, body shape and everything other than her mind. She was taugh...

Evenings at the sidewalk are rarely this pleasant. She admires men dressed in yellow and pink in pursuit of the most delicate and aromatic flowers. Sinatra's one for my baby is playing near the pond by some young college boys to charm irises. The marigolds are trying to lose some petals and grow thorns in their stems like roses. Orchids and lilies mock marigolds for lacking dignity. The sidewalk is full of colours and men, courtesies to the much awaited rain. It's said that once when it didn't rain for a long time men had to resort to seeking flowers from even cacti. However she personally finds it ironical for during her encounters with men they mostly seem jeopardised by her. She finds lilies crass for they talk about feminism all day long but are always seeking validation. She senses a new cultural transformation these days wherein flowers no longer want to grow thorns.  Once upon a time, even lilies were desperate to be called roses but it was only after orchids came th...

When I was 5, I used to spend hours focusing at the window pane talking to myself, calling myself special, my mother used to tell me that mad people do that. I was always a notorious kid and knew no limits, not much has changed since childhood for I grew up thinking of this as my superpower. I was brought up in a middle class family by very ambitious parents. From childhood taking care of myself felt very foreign to me, and I always chose to challenge myself instead. Everything was going fine apart from the anxiety attacks, which became frequent during my teenage years. By then, I went through a series of inhumane events and I learnt that not everyone needs a reason to hurt someone. Day by day, I turned myself more and more into a recluse. I never had a lot of friends because I feared getting rejected by them for not being good enough. My mental disorder gained its gravity by my late teenage. I was always a sharp student, but having brought up in an environment of insane competition...

Its so sad that even after running so fast and covering all the distance to reach somewhere, you feel trapped in the middle of nowhere. Everything seems so hazy, you don't know where to look, what to aim, how to live. You suck every inch of the pain for the sake of a dream, however in the back of your mind you know you are cursed and that dream is just an illusion but you keep on swallowing. You pray for hope, hope to win, win to feel freedom, feel free to lose yourself, lose to drown, drown to question, question to fight, then pray for another hope to win. Its the same loop that keeps on reiterating and you call it life. Its miserable, its painful, its blinding, its insane but, you smile, because otherwise you will be left, all by yourself, with nothing. The point is, this sadness, it is our only source of pleasure too. Without it, there is no life. I am not sure why I am typing all this, but then I am even not sure why I am existing too. Its all for the illusion which we might r...

Lately, I have been hating. As simple and weird as it sounds I have been hating too much something. I hate and if it makes me wicked then suggest me another way to live, a way to feel the blood rush in my veins reflecting enough immaturity, as the world refers to belief. I am dull and heavy and it will kill me so I seek rescue in apathy. I hate that what I once was for I could not retain it and I see it shining everywhere to prick my disabilities. I wish to smile but the maximum I can do to escape this pain is fade away in it denying my very existence. I am striving to hide in the damages I chose for myself so that all that is left is a rotten body with nothing to lose. I know I do not deserve to curse so I am already apologetic for having born a surreal human being. 

There is something magical about this flower. It smells so precious that it tempts everyone to steal it. It’s not soft, pink, and pure, it’s sinful, rough and very lonesome but, when it blooms, the beholder feels elated. This little flower stares at the endless sky wondering if she could ever know a life beyond her house. She dreams to be free, to touch the sky, to fly high through the darkness and the dawn recklessly, to spread her colors everywhere, to reflect more sunlight and to see the mountains. Her profound desires make her distinct and teach her how to fight with restrictions, for they were never meant for her. She could never say goodbye to her dwelling though she knew she won’t return. She does not even know how to survive alone, but all that she knows are her wishes and that nobody knows where she will end.  Everyone used to call them her tragic flaw but she never gave up on them, unlike everyone. She got torn at places, broken into pieces, but in the sunshine she felt...