people – My Spirals

Stories and poems that we share.

Sometimes, hurricanes and poems
are named after people.
Humans are made of poetry and life.
Eyes are the best story-tellers.

I saw her. Continue reading Stories and poems that we share.

Inside my head.

What do I think about? Is it love or my family?
Or is it a wonder trip and all-nighters?

I think of rainbow unicorns,
with soft wavy hair like my mother used to have,
and a horn that sharpens as a spiral,
much like my thoughts.
It has eyes like me father’s,
and crooked teeth that remind me,
of my sister.
It’s my family unicorn and it gallops in the sky.
I love them.
It’s not perfect, but it’s beautiful.
Also ironically, real.

I think of Christmas trees,
with a line of golden bells and colorful things
that hold within them,
stories of smiles and tears.
It is green and smells like a new day,
and looks exactly like what I drew it to be,
back in second grade.
I am a pirate and it’s my treasure box.
I love my memories.
It’s not perfect, but it has a star.
Also ironically, the star is from the sky.

I think of hearts on the corner of folded pages,
with red sketched inside of it,
a red that reminds me of my girlfriends stubbornness,
and how she blushes.
The paper is creased but the heart is still complete,
and it reminds me of a very old,
romanticized war.
It is my life’s ‘profile picture’ and I’ve liked it myself.
I love sketching.
It’s not artistic, but it is elegant.
Also ironically, three dimensional and inside my body.

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Instagram handle: @myspirals

Previous post : The war has ended.
Related post : Palettes of life.

Friends, if you like reading my work, do share it with your friends (on whatever social media you deem appropriate). It would be amazing to have more people reading my compositions. Please help my infinity grow bigger ∞

The one with women.

The number in the first two statistics are true and have been taken from here and here. This is here to spread awareness, and not to degrade or leave out men. Smile everyone! Also, leave a comment telling about what problems any one of you have faced.

One in every six women has been sexually assaulted,
and accused of “asking for it”,
or facing it because men,
(being the beasts that they can sometimes be),
cannot control their desires and should not be blamed for it.

One in every four women has been denied opportunities,
of climbing the gold-coated staircase.
The staircase of power and creative possibilities,
has been reserved for men,
(and at times women who agree to sleep with them).

One in every two women has a horror story,
to tell that will send shivers up your very existence,
for the story monsters are human beings
with pride horns and intentions like a sharp crooked teeth,
and darkness that doesn’t go away with a switch.

One in every one woman has given her all,
so that mankind can be kind,
and the world can be truly called a beautiful place.

If you want to connect with me on Facebook, click here.
Instagram handle: @myspirals

Previous post: Family.
Related post: Life.

Family.

So every once in a while, I write something about my life in order to tell you what makes me an infinity, and to hear about what makes you an infinity. Tell me about your family!

“Ohana means family. Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten.” – Lilo and Stich

When god made man, or whosoever did, the man asked for someone who’d always be on his side. That’s when god (or whosoever) made more men and women, and called it a family. My family is a little bizarre, as probably all of ours are. Some of my best memories with my father, my mother and my sister are these. Here is a small and brief glimpse into my family.

It was a summer morning, about two months after I had given my Tenth grade finals. My results were up on the internet at about four in the morning, and I was sweating rivers as I checked. My result was pretty good, and so I let out a sigh of relief as I slowly went to my parents room to tell them the result. My dad was still asleep, and so I gently woke him up and told him that the results were here. He was still lying on the bed as he waited for me to tell him my score. When I did, he sat up and gave me one of the tightest and warmest hugs ever as he smiled.
When you’ve lived with your mother was long enough, you’ll actually see everything falling apart if she goes away for a few days. Me, my sister and my father did. My mom had gone for a week to her parents place, and we caused chaos. We had oats and cornflakes for three consecutive meals almost every day. No school, so we made sure the house was a mess. When she did come back, it was the best thing ever. It was as if you’d come out of the water of the swimming pool after a long game of “Let’s see who can hold their breath for the longest.” It was like finding the name of the song that had you worried sick because you couldn’t remember the name.
From hiding test papers, to walking down paths covered in broken twigs, golden leaves and possible dangers, my sister has been my partner-in-crime. I don’t have one favorite memory with her because I’ve been with her for almost eighteen years now and every day with her is still special. Here’s one though. When I was really young and hardly knew how to swim, me and my family went for swimming. Despite being on the shallow side of the pool, I lost my footing and thought I was drowning. My sister, who happened to see this, was laughing at me instead of helping me. That bitch.

You don’t get to choose your family, but I am glad to have the family that I have. Maybe someday I’ll talk about how crazy they are. Until then.

Bless this family. ∞
Adieu.

If you want to connect with me on Facebook, click here.
Instagram handle: @myspirals

Previous post : A list of things about her.
Related post : Home.

Languages, medicines and magicians.

What has music been for you? Let me know in the comment section below! Enjoy reading. Instagram handle: @myspirals

“Music is a safe kind of high.” – Jimi Hendrix

Music is a language, a medicine and a magic trick. Dance to it.

Music was his mother-tongue. His tongue fumbled when he spoke English as if it were a foreign language that he hadn’t heard all his life, but when he was alone, he hummed a tune and did not miss a single note. He stuttered and shied away from conversations with strangers, but sang songs with a broad grin around camp fires. When he wasn’t feeling alright, he would shut out completely and listen to music as he thought and thought about what had gone wrong, but you could find small clues hidden in his playlist to make him feel alright.
Her soul had been crushed into absolute pieces and her heart had cuts all over. There was a constant ache, that seemed to run like blood in her veins and pillows couldn’t drown it out. But earplugs seemed to drive the pain away completely, or at least numb it. As the lyrics stopped her mind from wandering about, and the music brought her a much-needed gift, she could smile without wanting to scream. Music was her band-aid and no one could rip it off her scars. For her, music was like a steady dose of pain-killers and peace. Music was the only pillow that could drown out the screams, and it was the only shoulder she could cry on.
He was broke and broken, but managed to get into the bar right across the street. He needed to feel lost and alive, and so he stepped onto the dance-floor swarmed with broken hearts and night-outs. The music was loud enough to make him disappear as his feet moved about in an unsteady pace. The broken pieces of his heart rattled against each other, but no one could hear it. The pieces slammed against each other and broke into smaller pieces until all that was left was dust. He smiled as he took the dust and blew on it, as if it were fairy-dust and his wishes were going to come true.

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Related post: Mirages and ink bottles.