Some Nights.

Some nights you try to convince yourself that you never loved her, but that it was only the familiarity of her laughter in a room full of strangers which drew you in, that the twinkle in her eyes was only so endearing because it reminded you of the night sky, but then you get up to look out the window and all is dark. The moon has hidden behind a curtain of grey clouds and the stars seem to have dimmed. You laugh as you realize that even the universe doesn’t know what to do without her- how can you expect to be able to put yourself together ever again? And as the moon peeks out guiltily from behind its veil at that moment, you start to miss her with a ferocity you never knew your tired bones held.

I Should’ve Known Better.

I swore on the grave of all the dreams I had abandoned, I wouldn’t let you get to me. I swore on the sun and I swore on the moon, and I swore on the love that made them chase each other across the heavens- the sadness would never find a home in my ribs again. I promised myself that I would wait for you, I’d wait for as long as I had to because I knew, I knew you were coming and I promised myself I wouldn’t doubt you.

But the sadness is here again now, breaking down my door, and you are not. And I’m left sitting here in resignation, wondering if you ever even really existed, if you weren’t just a figment of my desperation, I’m left sitting here counting down the ticks and tocks of this old dusty clock until the sadness floods in to smother me; I am left sitting here, craving my own end, and thinking ‘God, I should’ve known better than to let a dream wreck me like this. I should’ve known better.’

Grey Tiredness.

A tiredness hard to imagine

Dwells in the sunsets of your eyes,

A tiredness hard to imagine

In an eighteen year old,

As if you still carry

All the burdens of your past lives.

There dwells

A resignation to fate,

A resignation to whatever life throws at you,

A never-ending monotony

That seems impossible to get rid of,

No matter how hard I try

And it gets to me,

It pulls at the strings of my heart,

Makes me want to rip

All my skin off;

I want to scream,

Hit you hard,


To save you from drowning

In this grey,

But nothing seems to work

And I just watch helplessly

As you sink deeper

And deeper

Into the quicksand

While I stand

On cracking ice


Image taken from here.



The buzz wears off too soon,
That’s the worst part,
And then
You’re on earth again,
With reality kicking you
In the face,
And no motivation
Or energy
To get up and face life,
After you’ve seen
How peaceful
Oblivion feels
So you just close your eyes
And pray you feel
That peace again
You pray,
You beg,
You plead,
To whom, with who,
No one knows,
And nothing makes sense,
And everything’s riddled
With the remains of euphoria
Taunting you,
Teasing you
Over the edge
Of insanity
And you’re left
To rot,
In the cold darkness,
Of reality.

Image taken from here.


Tragic Beliefs.

For the longest time, coming across the words “nostalgic for a place you’ve never been to” was a joke that I’d laugh my heart out at. The whole notion was ridiculous to me, how could one pine for a place they’ve never been to, yearn for something they’ve never experienced?
But as they say, with time comes wisdom and now, I know.
I know that it is possible and that this itching in my soul, this discomfort, these incessant, erratic fights that my heart puts up, these are all nothing but a calling, a remembrance of a place I don’t even know, of arms I am not sure exist, but on long cold nights like this, I am reminded of desperately, and my sadness finds a way to condense and drip from my lashes as I sit on the roof, drowning in my agony, unable to decide what to make of this, the tragic belief that somewhere out there exists a person, the antidote to my misery, only I am unaware of when we shall ever cross paths, if we ever do, if we ever have.

Image taken from here.

Hell And Heaven.

Jean-Paul Sartre once said

In a play

That hell

Is other people,

But then,

My dear

Isn’t heaven too?

In the questioning looks,

In the coy smiles,

In the inside jokes,

And the twinkling eyes?


A bliss exists,

Seldom found anywhere else,

But in those simple moments

Where nothing exists,

But for you

And him.

Makes you wonder

Doesn’t it, darling,

Are hell and heaven

Really as different

As they are made out to be

If both exist

In the grays of his eyes?


Image taken from here.


Daytime Ponderings.

They say everything we do,
Everything we say,
Is but,
An echo
Into the void,
The universe
(maybe they’re both
the same thing?)
And that it will
Come back to us one day,
But has any of us
Ever given a thought
To what if
We don’t want it back
By then?

I realize this is kind of ambiguous, so I thought I’d elaborate a bit. I mean to allude to the phenomenon (for lack of a better word) which most of us experience at least once in our lives (if I’m not wrong) that something we spent a long time chasing after comes to us of its own accord when we no longer desire it, no longer run after it.

Image taken from Tumblr.


Human Forgetfulness.

We are humans, terribly forgetful creatures with a touch of sadism.
We rarely remember.
We mostly forget.
We remember bitterly, how vulnerable love made us feel.
We forget how it was vulnerability that fueled our passion, passion that could have caused us to burn cities and drown continents in our desperation, passion that destroyed us, ate away at our insides.
We remember how shattered love made us feel after it abandoned us.
We forget how it gave us the courage to do what we’d never done before, the strength to endure till our very last breath.
We remember tears, fights, wilted roses and heartbreak.
We forget coy smiles and unstoppable laughter, sleepless nights and the thrill of having inside secrets that only made sense to us.
What we forget, we cease to understand.
And what we cannot understand, we berate mercilessly, we ridicule ruthlessly.
So, we laugh. We laugh at the Romeos and Juliets of the world, the star crossed lovers, the tragic couples, we laugh at their passion.
We call them rash, we call them impulsive.
Stupid,sentimental, desperate.
But we’ve forgotten what it was to be one of them; young and rash, impulsive and desperate.
We’ve forgotten what it meant, to throw away all caution to the wind, to not give a rat’s piss about what the world thought of us.
We’ve forgotten what it meant to be in love.

Painting by a very talented young artist and great friend, Waleed Ahmad.



They say 13 is
An unlucky number,
But if I could be one age forever,
I’d choose to be 13,
Because I was 13,
When the world spun on my fingers,
I was 13,
When my biggest trouble was an annoying brother,
I was 13,
When I couldn’t spend enough time laughing,
I was 13,
When everything was fine.

But then I was 14,
And saw the world topple,
I was 14,
When I learnt how it felt ,
To be uprooted,
I was 14,
When I started quietening down,
I was 14,
When I met him.

And then I was 15
And I was scared
Unable to make
Sense of the world
I was 15
When I first felt betrayal
I was 15
When I learnt to forgive.

And then I was 16,
And I was lost,
I was 16,
And a hopeless case,
I was 16,
And in denial,
I was 16,
When I laughed as I cried,
I was 16,
And in love.

And today I’m 17
And I’m still lost,
But I’m still laughing,
And I’m still crying,
And I’m still unable
To make  sense of the world,
But I know not everything
Can be made sense of,
And now I’m 17
And I’m insane,
But my madness, the fiend
Is now my friend.


Image from: Handmade Philly

Inspired by:

“I’m seventeen and I’m crazy. My uncle says the two always go together. When people ask your age, he said, always say seventeen and insane.” — Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

And yes, I do turn 17 today. Yay! :3

An Ongoing Roller-coaster.

Little do you know
How I adore you
Until you turn cold
And all my affections,
Drowned in melancholy
Until you talk to me again,
And I’m a pathetic babbling fool;
Love struck,
With my awful jokes
And unbearable puns,
Unable to gain control
Over these pesky emotions.

And little do you know
How absolutely I despise you,
Until you talk to me again,
And all the loathing,
Washed away with euphoria
Until the next time you’re cold,
And I’m a pathetic babbling fool,
Crying my eyes out;
Hating myself,
For not being stronger,
Despising you,
For being your cold self.

And then I am
All run out of steam,
All at once,
All you are
Is but, a muse
And I, a writer,
On a mission;
To show the world
What I see.

An ongoing roller coaster,
A never-ending ride,
Of high and lows
And repeating loops.
I, for one,
Never had much patience
With either,
So I wonder how long
Before I decide
To end this ride
Before I can
Take no more.