18

I came from hating myself
To falling in love with me
From stone cold razors
And avoiding mirrors
To dancing in the rain
and smiling myself to sleep
If that's a way to tell
How I changed when I was 18.

Going to anybody
Who gives pays heed
To my sad lullabies
And pretty lies
Was the tragic story
of the girl that lived
in the body of my host.

"Where did you go?"
"I left for better"

It's true, She is gone
And I am better
More Beautiful
Inside

Sunday night

The way we see things
Oh we see things
We see things and truth and wisdom and happiness
And
The truth, again
The sad sad truth
The truth that has us throwing our guts out
Snatching at the skin
The truth that has binded us
Also made us hate yourselves
For not being better
Even after giving the best of ourselves
I hate this
My love please be ok
But i understand
I can offer you solace in the very fact that i get you
And that im here for you
All here

I wish
Everything
Wasn't so complicated
Why is everything and everyone's messed up
And why are people not reacting
We know they see it too
And we feel their pain
And they don't say anything
So everyone collectively just builds up pain
After pain
After pain
And it never goes away, really
Whatever happened is in the past yes
But to move one
You should acknowledge it
Acknowledge the pain
Feel it instead of letting it build up
But we all just put a face and move it
Snuffing it
Snuffing it deep inside like we've done it a thousand times
My god
So painful
Please
Please dont do that yourself
I dont know man
I dont know anything
I like to preach
But I'm no saint
Im exactly what my parents would hate
And they don't even know that
And I'm tired of finding new ways to rebel
Escape
Hide
The pain is catching up to me
Im tired
I feel so old
I shouldn't feel so old at this point of time
But I get
This get sense of nostalgia for things that aren't there anymore
Pointless fucking nostalgia
Okay
Baselessness
Ah baselessness my old friend
He's the worst of them you know
Nothing fucks you up more than sense of lack of purpose
Oh my god
Don't even get me started
But you know what im talking about
It's a very privilege thing you know
We have  the luxury
It's okay
It cant be helped
Or can it
I dont know, i told you
I just find ways to keep myself busy
With the ideas of projects
Projects that always stay half finished
Until i find something better
Or running away
Whoknows
Extremes
Extremes
Extremes
I live in extremes
I think I'll kill myself in monotony
Train of thoughts, huh
Weird thing no?
Thoughts of death always linger by
But I don't want to kill myself
But I wasn't really joking
But okay
I hope you know what I mean
I hope you know what I'm talking about
It's just that kind of day
And the high has probably got to me
Again
And

does therapy work and some shit

Hello,
I'm here again.
Bare, or trying to be.


I dont know what I'm about to write, I'm just..
See I've been in multiple dilemmas since so long, my biggest dilemma is how to acknowledge them.
Where the fuck
should I start?

I started therapy since a few months and I kinda started dumping stuff there. Honestly before everything I thought I was fine but ever since going there I feel attacked. I mean, is it supposed to be like this?
What do I even tell this guy?
I mean I feel too privileged to even be there, sitting in front of him, paying him per hour if not less.
He's obligated to tell me stuff. I don't know, I dont know man. There's an ache in my chest, my chest feels too heavy, I cant breathe,

I cant breathe
I cant.


Ever since, you know...stuff, I developed this defence mechanism that I wont even acknowledge my feelings. Like, I try to be "self aware" and try to act cool to talk about stuff but at the same time I talk about it, I dismiss it in my head. Like a check list, like my problem or dilemma has been solved just acknowledging its existence.. but I never actual allow myself to feel it or bow down. In my head, I'm always okay, because I kinda am?, but at the same time not but kinda am but ...
you see my problem?

I cant acknowledge my feelings, my problems because I feel too privelaged to even feel them.
I am, I've done nothing wrong but
ugh
extremes
I'm always at extremes.
It's like I stuck at two different places, poles, opposites and I'm being pulled,
no, ripped apart by the irony.

God.
Pride.
Pride is a funny thing. No? You have it, you always have it, but if you're decent enough, you shame yourself for having it. But you pride yourself on that shame.

Irony.
Everything is an irony.
I can never seem to stop finding ironies.
Ironies in people, thing, lovers, places.
I'm sinking into the ocean, like an anchor without anything to pull it back. No worries, never liked chains anyways. I'm drowning into the deep ends, softly, slowly, quietly. Nobody knows it, nobody will ever know, that I'm stuck miles underneath the ocean, breathless, pale and quiet.
Somebody else is here. Somebody reckless, somebody helpless, somebody quiet, somebody noisy in the wrong ways. I can't wake her up, she's always sleeping and I'm always drowning.
Help her. I love her, but

Colour ideas

-Mustard, sky bue, white, grey
-brown, pink (shades)
- mustard, white, poppy pink (?)
-golden, brown, red, musrard
-purple, white, pink, red, orange
-maroon, red, white, mustard

care

Scene I “Fucked up”

It starts with the little things

You grow up

You realize this

You realize that

And the mirage of love

The one that does not exist

You realize it’s a fucked up place

Scene II “We’ve all been there”

We all somehow managed to survive

But did we really?

“dead inside”

“dead inside”

It’s a world of zombies

They’ve made a mockery out of it

For everyone who felt too much before

For everyone who’s just afraid to hurt

But it’s okay, it’s fine

We’ll collect trauma like trophies

All just to put up a good show

I guess, misery is the new trend

Scene III Vulnerability and validation

Nobody talks

But nobody stops talking

It’s all noise

But it still wrong to let it out

The emotional build up

That’s eating away at  

(what was previously called)

the human heart

A sign of weakness

Unless it’s in verses or strokes of paints

Then it comes back to trends again

You know,

The need for validation

For the art that my tears create

Nobody cares

Who am I to judge?

I don’t either.

Why I write

I stopped writing diaries a few years ago. People can know me too much that way. My friends thought it was a fun activity, so they exchanged their diaries. I, on the other hand, made a fake one to showcase them the ‘feelings’ they expected me to have. I found it infuriating to let my guards down in front of a bunch of middle school girls who actually didn’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. Ironically, those were my only bunch of friends. I had my other best friend who saw my diary but the fact itself that she was going to read it wouldn’t let me pen down my exact thoughts.

Then why? Why do I have this desperate urge to share things, especially the things I write?

A year later or so, I burned them, my diaries, both of them.

For some reason, it was the most satisfying thing I had ever done.

I don’t want to let anyone know me, anyone. Ironically, internally, I beg for people to know me, then love me. I have learned to love myself because I need to survive, because I have no other choice, because although some parts broken, some parts desperate, I’m still somewhat beautiful inside. Or maybe that’s what I’ve mastered pretending. Who knows? It’s a survival instinct that never goes away.

I realised that penning my feelings down was, in fact, addictive. Sadly, nicotine never had the upper hand, words always did.

Poetry is and always was just doodling for me, mindless playing with words like I do with designs that come to my head. Creative? Yes, but most of it never made me feel anything. Starting with random words that don’t stop until they give way to a piece of establishment that people call literature.

Articles, ah yes, those are my paintings. True to the bone, so real that they’re sometimes hard to share. Ironically, again, I often find myself pressing send. Right now I’m just playing with words, right now I’m being as real as I can possibly be. I don’t know which, well, maybe I do but you won’t ever find out.

Sad part about writing is you learn to hide behind the ink. Nobody will ever find out who I truly am or what I truly feel until and unless they read what I write. But it’s not that simple because, just like the fake diaries, you’ll often find pieces that I’ve kept as illusions or as “showcases” to deceive  people away from my true self. Things people expect me to feel versus the things I actually feel. How to differentiate? You don’t. You won’t.

But, secretly, I want you to.

I am chaotic, aren’t I? You won’t agree because you already know that everyone already is, in their own different ways.

I’m writing this right now because, since recently, I’ve been afraid. Afraid of penning down my real thoughts. All I’ve been doing is writing up illusions to deceive and conquer hearts of the readers who try to understand my lullaby. I’m just messing around with people who actually want to listen, people who actually want to help.

I’m tired of this.

So tired.

I wrote this, because I need to be real.

I haven’t been real to myself in a long time.