A tale of the five senses.

A tale of the five senses.

Sight:
She was walking down one of the oldest and most crowded streets of the town. Men in turbans, or vests, or filthy t-shirts sat on stalls. Women sat on the ground beside the stalls and spoke sweet nothings to their sons in shorts or daughters in t-shirts too big for them. The men tried desperately to sell things to the people who walked past the stalls with indifference. The kids giggled and ran along the sides of the roads, and she saw all of this right before he blindfolded her.

Sound:
The bustle of the town slowly faded and became a distant buzz. Every step she was made to take now made a sound against something hard, probably wood. The man who had blind-folded her yelled directions now and then groaned as he walked behind her. He sounded like he dreaded his job, and he most probably did because he whined with every step. She could hear twigs breaking beneath her legs and birds chirping around her. The crows cawed loudly because they could sense her danger.

Taste:
For a long time, her mouth tasted like strawberries because that was the last thing she had eaten before the man had forcefully taken her into his car. After driving for an hour since then, they had parked somewhere near the outskirts of the city, on a very crowded road. When he blind-folded her, everything went dark and she could taste the strawberries again as her mouth dried up. Now as she was walked with the man, her tongue was dried up and she could barely speak. But she kept trying and started screaming after a long time. The man used a piece of cloth to gag her, and she could taste the cloth in her mouth.

Smell:
The first time she entered into what probably was a house (as she had heard the door shut), her nose tried to block the awful smell in the air. The man nudged her forward as she tripped with every step she took on the stairs. The smell seemed to be a mixture of dead rats and rotten wood. There was also a nauseating smell of paint that, she guessed, had been used for hiding the wood. The smell of the paint on the wood reminded her of how humans wear masks and play pretend even when they’re old.

Touch:
The man pushed her onto a bed and she hit her head onto the edge. She lost consciousness for a while, and when she came back to her senses, there were two distinct voices in the room. One was coming from very close, so she guessed he was sitting by her side. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her inner thigh and she tried to scream but the cloth just hurt her skin as the man removed her blindfold. Both of the men have evil smiles on their faces and the one sitting closest to her moved his hand higher up her thigh. Every time his fingers touched a new part of her body, she cried and died a little inside.


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An overused cliché.

“Important things are inevitably cliché but nobody wants to accept that.” – Chuck Klosterman

Be it a ring in the cake, a stereotypical place in the house or an overused phrase, clichés are inevitable. Why do we detest them as much as we do?

  • I was broke and broken. My house was as big a mess as my life, and you couldn’t walk one step into my house without stepping on a shattered and scattered piece of my heart. The morning birds sang a chirpy song of flight and life, a flutter on their faces that seemed to be a smile. I felt a pull, a small whisper in my ears asking me to walk beside the ocean and I did. The sand was wet against my feet, the sun bright against my eyes and I sat down. And it felt nice, because I heard the same voice whisper a cliché in my ears, and I believed him : You’ll be okay.
  • She was looking at the computer screen, the keyboard a little wet as her tears flowing down her flushed cheeks. Her pupils moved frantically as she replayed the incident over and over in her head. A few hours ago, her husband had asked her to stop working, leave her career and stay at home all day from now on. Women are never stay-at-home, cook and smile kind of people, no one is. We are all “I am human and I’ll do what I want”. She had asked why a thousand times and the only reply she got was a cliché : that is where women belong.
  • They were a cliché and they were fine with it. He cooked for her, she bought roses for him and he proposed in a fancy restaurant with the ring in the cake. They had two kids, grew old together and got to say when they were eighty and together that they made it. They were happy.
    They were happy being a cliché because if you miss your chance, clichés won’t be cliché anymore. Forever would become a fake promise and you would run out of time.

Make sure you don’t run out of time. Fight against the bad clichés and smile for the right ones. This might be a cliché, but be happy. Smile.


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Kafka, Chekhov and guns.

Kafka, Chekhov and guns

He kept the book on a dusty table, and looked up. The sun was on top of his head now, almost blinding his sight but he looked up anyway. He had stayed up all night to finish reading a Murakami book ‘Kafka On The Shore’.

In the book, Murakami brought up the Chekhov’s gun principle which basically meant that once a gun appears in a story, it has to be fired. Chekhov must’ve said it with the perspective of a writer, and Murakami might have brought it up to explain the importance of a certain element of his story. But he, who stayed up all night just to read the book, had not stopped thinking about this theory.

A week ago, his friend had broken up with her boyfriend and she was devastated. So, he spent a long time with her as she cried and cursed and let all of her pain out. He spent a lot of this time consoling her and telling her about how she has to stand up straight and walk again someday. “There is no use in grieving about what has been lost. Grief is important and should never be kept in, but once it has been let out, you have to let go.” He went on to explain how she had to smile and continue writing her story, her life.

She’s fine now. He, however is driving himself crazy on how the Chekhov’s gun theory and the fact that our lives are our stories become one. Everyone has a role. Nothing at all is placed without importance, and there is no bigger mistake than to think you have no place in this world.

He had run away a day ago. His father had hit him, he had seen tears in his mother’s eyes and he didn’t want to be with either of them anymore. He didn’t feel like he fit in, anywhere. So he picked up Kafka, a pair of pajamas and a chocolate bar and left. He had wandered around the block for a while, then went to the park to read the book.

You’re like a gun in Chekhov’s dramatic principle. At one point or another, you will be held, someone’s arms will wrap themselves around you as they pull the trigger. Make sure that someone is you. Everything is like a gun in Chekhov’s dramatic principle. We are all loaded guns waiting for our trigger to be pulled and we have to be very careful.

His eyes watered a bit because of looking at the sun for too long. He got up, took the book and went home.


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A pack of color pencils.

A pack of color pencils.

“Humans are fragile creatures made up of broken hearts and broken promises.” – Unknown

The water at the end of the desert. That is what a promise is made of. It’s not real.

  1. Young Rue thought that Santa would send a present this year too. She had been a good girl. She had been nice to every one, and had done all her work. Every year she waited for a box wrapped in red paper with a small paper that read “As promised.” She had a deal with Santa. She had promised to be a good girl, and in return he had promised to bring her some of her favorite chocolates and new toys. She ran out of her room as soon as she woke up, but found no presents. Had she not been a good girl, or was Santa biased against orphans?
  2. Rue learned about how words could be carved into promises as she grew older. But she believed in people anyway. She smiled when he promised to be there for her every time she shattered into pieces. She knew he would. But when everything around her crumbled, her life was a mess like the mascara flowing down her cheek, and she was drowning log in the high tide, he vanished like the sun on a winter day. Another empty promise, another broken heart, another normal day.
And then,
  1. With time, her words lost their meaning. She stopped believing. She also forgot to keep her promises., and handed out assurances and promises like a pack of color pencils that would make your life colorful. But only while it lasted. And then she failed to do what she said, show what she meant, and be what she wanted. The colors ran out, and the pack was empty. A hole in her heart was yearning for someone to remind her what promises really are. Yearning for someone to make her believe.
  2. On a summer morning, she found the person looking at her through a dirty mirror. Brown eyes and dark hair with a new pack of color pencils in her hand.

Empty promises will break you, but you’ll always have at least one person who can love you. Be your own pack of color pencils. Look for the sword.

“She wasn’t waiting for a knight. She was waiting for a sword.” – Atticus


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A villain who fell in love.

Is this a love story? I don’t know.

I was fourteen when I fell in love. The girl was beautiful. Not ‘eyelashes on point, pink lips and tiny waist’ beautiful, she was ‘fuck you if you think of me as a villain waiting for your opinion’ beautiful.

She barely liked me. Yes, we spoke till four thirty in the morning because she was blabbering on and on about her bucket-list and I liked every dream she had etched onto her paper skin with a pen-edged knife. She liked it, because who doesn’t love talking about themselves? (I know a lot of you don’t, but smile anyway.)

We met every day at school, and I would see her laugh. And no, I wouldn’t think about how pretty she looks as she giggles. Instead, I would laugh with her, cause the joke she had said really was funny.

I was fifteen when she said she liked me. I couldn’t believe it, but I didn’t ask her to say it again because there was a small doubt inside of me. A doubt that went ‘what if she changes her mind?’. And so I shushed about it, and we dated.

A little back story: A week before she said any of this, I had texted a girl (her best-friend) who liked me and things did not end pretty. My bad.

We dated for about a week, so it wasn’t really a relationship but I liked her and I wrote poetry for her and that is why I, at least, say that we dated. I wrote her poetry that had crazy rhyme schemes, and terrible grammar because two people who like each other don’t really care about that, do they?

She broke up with me and called it revenge, a very pretty name for a game that is no fun. I had hurt her friend and oh god, how could I? I apologized to her friend, cause in all honesty, I knew that was my bad and she deserved it.

I’ve lied many times after all of this, to the girl I fell in love with when I was fourteen. I’ve called her my muse and I’ve said I still like her.

It’s been two years and I’ve been with other people but something went wrong inside this futile human body or heart of mine. I look at people and I see them wearing masks, tip-toeing their way across the lives of others, throwing grenades and being friendly at the same time. It’s crazy.

I try to like someone, and I feel like I do sometimes, but I end up breaking their heart and making them what I am. A monster. A villain not waiting for your opinion.

I’ve been called a lot of things. Am I all of these things?

Am I a fuckboy? Maybe.


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