As I sat near the battered grave of my childhood!
My soul wept in agony, and I almost choked with the sulk…
The little wishes that were tainted into ashes,
I mourned for the death of that sweet innocent child, I once was!
That was the day my soul died, and has not moved a day since then,
That was the day I had died anyway!
There was so much to grieve for my sustained life,
I wept relentlessly and mourned at my death, yet I very much alive!

The night when I was cudgeled so hard; I couldn’t stride,
I could not breathe in any air even with my mouth open wide.
“How heartless one could be, to beat a little child on resenting the stranger?
‘The same stranger who would drop mother; every night at the door’
She managed to shriek out in the misery of her fate,
But no one was there to listen to her, like always.
I hated him for the way he was, for the way he used to behave with her,
‘It was him who made mother abandon me in the midst of the night’

I saw her crying and surrendering to the cruel intentions of that man,
She allowed him to take control of every moment she had.
Until he agonized her faith and did that sickening deed,
The moment when he betrayed the trust of a woman; the woman who did anything for him
Was the very moment when I learnt a new lesson of grief?
She succumbed to the pain that was strange to me,
It gave her no purpose to cling on to the worthless life, as she lived it no more
And left me behind with the irreparable hurt, which I still abhor!

He dejected me like he did to her, said I’m a psycho like my mother; said I’m weird
I get all mad and angry on his harsh words; the old me just disappeared.
I learnt it the hard way; was stubborn enough to mess up every damn thing
Eventually I did realize that she was a strong woman indeed,
Who breathed her last breath in the place full of loathes and grime.
Now when I look back to gauge the mishap you caused to her life,
I feel disgusting, I wish to run and hide!

Even today I try to runaway, hoping I could race the past, but my destination is still the same,
Every time I reach at the same old deceitful end!
Where my memory lies, buried under the soil of soreness,
Where my soul wept in agony, and I almost choked with the sulk …
As I sat near the battered grave of her wishes, and my childhood!

 And I kiss this wall and that wall

It’s not Love of the houses that has taken my heart

 But of the One who dwells in those houses”

 Arabic poetry -

To vent out all ma thoughts

The reverie I’ve lived for

The delusion I’ve fought!

I see a faint light

I’m scorched by the air

I struggle with those dark thoughts

But I give up in despair!!!

But my Soul is open …..

…..To the thoughts that I live

…..To the guilt within

…..To the endless cries

that wanders around the skies!

The soul mocks at me……

with another alleged excuse…?

Embarrassed, afraid, and scared of myself……

…..to acknowledge its presence…. I solemnly refuse!

I fought with my mom over not saying anything to my sister, I commented that she is biased and she is biased. (Harsh words I know).

I yelled at my best friend for not paying attention to my talks when I was whining over how screwed things are around me

I did not speak with anyone at work today cause I wanted to make it very obvious that something is wrong with me …

I thought I should not write today cause everything seems annoying and its not a good day for me…. But on second thoughts I felt that since nothing is going right today I must try to do what is close to my heart.

So now when I’m writing, I realize that no one was at fault except me.

I was cursing the entire world for my own issues, since morning I was so annoyed that whenever anyone tried to tell me its ok, there’s nothing to be mad at I would get all the more angry. But it was so stupid on my part, only because I was upset or irritated (god knows why?) I was trying to hurt everyone who cares for me (how selfish and typical of me).

I wonder why I act so selfish wherein I hurt people close to me, I guess this is not how one is supposed to behave, but the damage is already done!!!

Anger often makes one lose sense of gratitude; instead of being glad for I have family and friends who care so much for me I try to pass on my emotional cards to them. I simply passed on my anger in a whim of despair.

This is so annoying! Why be so stupid all the time?

“The night was dark, no father was there;

The child was wet with dew;

The mire was deep, & the child did weep,

And away the vapour flew.”  

  – (Poem by William Blake, from songs of innocence, 1791)

The pensive persuasion of my family was not enough for me to leave the worldly affairs so easily. Whilst everyone sat with brooding faces focusing at the one in the centre.

 I closely watched bags being unpacked and some of the most important things removed, what looked like one or two become a series of endless objects that were termed as not required. It is not the first time I will be traveling on my own but somehow this journey was far too important for everyone except me. The excitement of traveling to the unknown, as my cousin mocked at was no longer interesting it was turning out to be a task that had to be accomplished. I was not happy with the fact that I have to do this I was happy as long as I wanted to do it. The difference between what you have to do and what you want to do is annoyingly vast.  When I first told my family that I wish to complete my post graduation studies abroad with the best, they were annoyed first then proud and finally it was described as something that needs to be done…. But now I am not happy with the entire play of going anywhere to study, it was perhaps a fit of inspiration wherein I was completely bewildered by the idea of having an international degree on my resume.

Now when I picture myself amongst a new place, new people, new life, living for a new reason I completely feel being lost amongst the unknown.

A fit of inspiration is not as good as I assumed it to be.

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).