March 24, 2014 § Leave a comment
My grandmother slit her wrists today.
To assure the inquisitive, prying world it had nothing to do with the inner politics of the family, I was asked to stick to the discussed story that she found out she had an incurable injury. The truth is she couldn’t handle the apparent shame my actions in the past two months had brought our prestigious family name.
Everyone in India barks about tradition. They say our country stands tall on an intellectual platform because we’ve been following a social structure that’s been untouched for centuries. One of the core ideas behind this structure is absolute obedience towards elders. The logic is easy enough to understand. They have more experience. The possibility of them making the right decision in a dilemma is higher. Tradition, I have been told is the platform for a good family life.
Except that I flouted this rule.
View original post 1,184 more words
March 17, 2014 § 1 Comment
How could she possibly grieve Ambrose more than she had already grieved him? Yet she did.
There is grief below grief, she soon learned, just as there are strata below strata in the ocean floor- and even more strata below that, if one keeps digging. Ambrose had been gone from her from so long, and she must have known he would be gone forever, but she had never considered that he might die before she did. The simple magic of arithmetic should have precluded that: he was so much younger than she. How could he die first? He was the picture of youth. He was the compilation of all the innocence youth had ever known. Yet he was dead, and she was alive. She had sent him away to die.
There is a level of grief so deep that it stops resembling grief at all. The pain becomes so severe that the body can no longer feel it. The grief cauterizes itself, scars over, prevents inflated feelings. Such numbness is a kind of mercy. This is the level of grief that alma Alma reached, once she lifted her face from her father’s desk, once she stopped sobbing.
-The signature of all things, Elizabeth Gilbert.
March 12, 2014 § 4 Comments
So i decided to not wear my
heart on my sleeve again.
You taught me that lesson,
the hard way. I tried to
pull it out of the pink
colored stitches I’d made
It did come out.
And it’s left a hole in me:
something that can’t be
filled with blood, sweat,
love or music.
March 8, 2014 § Leave a comment
1. If you’re still checking their Twitter TL, Facebook or Instagram, you’re not over them.
2. Letting yourself be vulnerable with someone is incredibly frightening.
And most times, completely worth it.
3. If someone treats you badly and you let them, you’re the abuser.
4. I am learning that shallowness, like depth and intensity has its own place and there is no good reason to be entirely dismissive of it.
5. Despite all you’ve heard, anger is the way of the weak and has no good outcome. Anger is a reaction. Not a response.
6. Boundaries are essential, non-negotiable, and will sometimes be the fine line between your sanity and self-destruction.
7. Nothing will kill your soul quicker and more brutally than loneliness.
Save yourself while you can.
8. People can try to change. That’s the best they can do and the best you may get out…
View original post 260 more words
March 5, 2014 § 8 Comments
I never wanted you to be
Just another heartache
Another broken promise
While i am constantly trying to get to you
When others have said i ask too much
You see i just want to be heard
But tears sting my eyes
Seeing how we connect,
Yet we’re so distant
And i wonder
Will you turn into an automation
Smiling and carrying on
While your heart yearns to reach out
Or is it just me over thinking, again
While you’re living your happy-go-lucky life
How would i know what the real-side is
Now that you’re faraway and unreachable.