Existential crisis

Existential crisis

A big thank you to Heena for nominating me for the Blogger Recognition Award. Go check her blog out. I nominate Benefits with brain because of her lovely work. Click here for the rules : rules. Also, comment below if you’ve ever gone through an existential crisis. Enjoy!


Existential crisis.
One winter night,
Inside the folded pages of darkness and the moon,
On a terrace made of stone and expectations,
I lay under the stars,
As they looked down on me.
I gazed and felt
The cold wind’s hand on my speedbag face,
The curves of darkness and its nakedness,
The bare existence of my soul
that lay hidden inside the crumpled bed-sheets of this beautiful night.
I wondered and worried,
About things bigger than my eye-lashes and 11:11 wishes,
About things more important than betrayal and revenge,
About my mere existence.
Am I Chekhov’s gun?
(If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall,
then in the following one it should be fired.
If I exist,
I matter.)
Or am I a gun people keep hidden in drawers,
To mark their authority and ensure their security?
Are guns needed at all?
Am I even a gun?
What am I?
I looked for answers
Inside the folded pages of darkness and the moon.


Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post : Butterflies and crushes.
Related post : Languages, medicines and magicians.

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Butterflies and crushes.

I wrote this as a guestpost for  Cultural Inspector . Go over to his blog and show him some love!


“He left me with love. He left me with Christmas toes, petty wishes and eye-lashes on the back of my hand. There are a lot of things I remember about him, and a lot of him I barely know. The first time I saw him, he was a mess. His hair was an adjective I’d use for the first time I had sex – Wild, and strangely nice. His nose was red, and he was sneezing every two minutes. In his hands though, was a cone with two scoops of Belgian Chocolate ice cream. His eyes were dreamy and reminded me of this beach I’ve always wanted to go to. His smile was like watching two drunk people falling in love. His voice reminded me a lot of a voice in my head that I hear only when I go crazy.

I liked how his cute smile was a WiFi network and everyone around him simply connected. I loved how his palms reminded me of a blanket I had when I was ten, but his knuckles were rough like the concrete I fell on when I tried riding a bike for the first time. Everything about him felt like a distant memory, and I was infatuated. It was as if I had stumbled upon a new part of my town and I just had to see the graffiti on the walls, the children on the sidewalks and the gossiping men. He reminded me a lot of a puzzle I tried solving when I was eight.

So, the next time I saw him was the first time I met him. I had a firm handshake planned but he gave me the warmest hug and I was glad cause my palms were sweaty anyway. He knew my name, and the butterflies in my stomach had a few toasts of Vodka for just that. I asked him out, and he said sure. He smiled right after, and I felt a Prusik knot in my throat. I mentally cursed whoever was responsible for handling human emotions, and because I could not speak, I smiled. I remember walking away from him, and as I did, I pulled on my fingers to try to not bounce as I walk. I spent the next few days preparing myself, but he never showed up. Turns out, he was in an accident.

I did not speak for a long time since. How could I with the knot in my throat? When I heard about his death, it was like my heart had been slingshot to my stomach and it had successfully slammed the butterflies against a wall.”


Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post : Blind hearts.
Related post : Home and him.

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Often, not always.

Often, not always.

What problems of your life are you willing to tackle? Tell me in the comments section below. Also, I added a donate button in the footer of my page, so any one who’d like to use it, is appreciated. Love to all of you, fam ∞


The existence of one,
Often justifies another.

I sometimes face a writer’s block,
But it validates my existence as a writer.

An eighteen year old woman,
Carries sanitary napkins in transparent bags,
Because things are changing.
The twenty-four year old however,
Covers every inch of her thighs and cleavage,
Because things aren’t changing,
As fast as they should.

A boy aged fourteen is in the gym,
And every one is shocked and downhearted.
A seventeen year old boy has love handles,
He is fat-shamed.

You are facing a financial crisis,
Your money is now around your neck,
Instead of growing on a metaphorical tree,
But it validates your financial existence.

The existence of one,
Often, not always, justifies another.

A fifteen year old is cutting her wrists,
But not her veins,
So that she dies only a little.
Because this pain will help her forget,
A part of her life.
Bullshit.

A thirty year old is watching a television show,
And is late for work,
Because he doesn’t like his job,
And it isn’t working out anyway.
Bullshit.

I don’t tell her I love her,
She’ll see my chapped lips and hear my slurred speech,
Laugh like a devil disguised as an angel,
And say no.
She definitely won’t say yes, will she?
I am scared and so, reluctant.
Bullshit.

Often, not always.


Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post : You believe me.
Related post : Hearts

Give me prompts in the comment section below and share if you liked this!

You believe me.

What is the worst lie you’ve told someone? Did they believe you? Tell me in the comments section below. Also, I added a donate button in the footer of my page, so any one who’d like to use it, is appreciated. Love to all of you, fam ∞


When I tell you her eyes were whisky brown,
And that her husband never hit her,
inside walls of fear,
When I say that her eyes wrinkled,
Her teeth were crooked,
Her trust was a flower in spring,
And that she was submissive,
When I point out that her wrists are not cut,
And that her blood is just like mine,
Her words don’t shiver in the winter society,
And that she smiles a lot,
You believe me.

When I say he is a fighter,
And that he has never broken a heart,
Because he does not have a broken heart,
When I tell you his favorite color is purple,
And that he bleeds ink,
He pulls on his finger and locks the door twenty four times,
And is afraid to say he is in love.
When I point out that he does not know how to flirt,
But he is really charming,
When I say he watches Games of thrones,
And enjoys the nudity,
You believe me.

You believe that I am a writer,
And so my words don’t lie,
And that my heart definitely aches.
You believe I write love poems,
For a specific someone I lost to love or death,
For a specific something I cannot find anymore,
And you believe my lies.
That is why I lie.
Why I say
“I am okay.”


Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post : Seduced with love.
Related post : Writer’s block

Give me prompts in the comment section below and share if you liked this!

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.


Instagram handle: myspirals
Previous post: Obsessions.
Related post: Earth.

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