A twist of fate.

A twist of fate.

Keyla lived in a world where mythologies were the real deal. It was common to be in the presence of the god of the sea or hear stories from witnesses of age-old wars like the Mahabharata. Her day looked something like this: waking up when the sun sang songs loud enough for the world to hear, working all day on things that were routine but barely mattered and sleeping when the stars thought it was time. The Trojan war had just recently ended and things were slowly starting to get back to normal. Normal for Keyla’s world meant her neighbors had finally stopped making weapons and hiding food. Keyla always felt like a misfit.

While the war was going on and the cities were busy fighting, Keyla had plenty of time to do whatever she wanted. She loved writing fictitious short stories. That is how her myth started.

Fifteen years after the Trojan war had finished, a paper – so old that words had started fading and the paper had started turning yellow – surfaced. It was camouflaged in Autumn leaves and a kid found it when he was frantically searching for his mother’s lost golden earrings. His priorities changed immediately. There was a story written on it that the world slowly started idealizing. The protagonist of the story, named Titus, lived in a crazy world with magical boxes called electronics. The reason why people idealized him was that he was capable of becoming anything he wanted. He could be a writer or a singer or a lover or even a farmer – and it would still make him happy because it would be his choice and not a forced routine. His powers – not supernatural at all, only human – drove this mythological world insane.

Keyla’s name was written at the very bottom but had faded enough to not be obvious to those who paid no attention to detail. The only ones who did were all misfits – and they kept quiet about it. More than three thousand years later, in a world where the tables have turned, I’m sitting here reading Keyla’s backstory and I have just one question scribbled on the backside of the print-out of her story.

“If they dreamt of the powers we have, why can’t we use them?”


Previous posts: For all of us.
Instagram: @myspirals

Give me prompts in the comment section. Oh, and share this a lot, please?

For all of us.

For all of us.

Creativity stems from happiness
and happiness from us.
You’ll also find it stuffed inside a Thanksgiving turkey
or playing hide-and-seek with you.
I believe happiness is like a new puppy
Young,
crazy,
comforting,
yours.
(also, happiness is a new puppy
or any puppy.)
Creativity often seeps through
a pain-soaked pillow, too.
A pain-soaked pillow is a story-teller
that emphasizes the right words
whispers its way to the tragic ending
and in my case,
bows down when done.
Memories are the best muse
because they’re the 18-hour-long
exact scene to scene replica
of our book
and that’s something we’ve all always wanted.
Why is this for all of us?
Because we are all artists.
Here’s a short story in a poem
or as I like to call it
‘a beautiful distraction’
(I hope you thought of the person
who broke your heart
because I did)
When Rao made sandals
from unused or old car wheels
and smiled when his daughter
didn’t complain about rocks the next day
you should’ve seen the smile on his face.
Happiness. Pain. Memories.
So hi, artist.
You’ve got so much to learn.


Previous posts: Maybe – A shadow dance.
Instagram: @myspirals

Give me prompts in the comment section. Oh, and share this a lot, please?

Maybe – A shadow dance.

Maybe – A shadow dance.

If this piece leaves you a tad bit confused, I want you to know it was intentional. Enjoy!


Twelve nights ago, I was sitting by the window with my head pressed against the pane. The moon and I were in an intense staring contest when something caught my attention. My house sat idly two kilometers away from the sea but there was only one window that faced the sea in my entire two-storied house. Continue reading Maybe – A shadow dance.

Can poets run out of words?

Can poets run out of words?

Do share with your friends if you liked it. Just one click to share on Facebook. Also, shoutout to Onahdave for nominating me for an award. Check him out!


As a poet,
I can easily associate metaphors
with my previous boyfriends.
In eighth grade,
my first crush was a butterfly in my stomach. Continue reading Can poets run out of words?

Pendants and tattoos.

Pendants and tattoos.

Elisabeth’s routine that day was very similar to all the other days. She woke up looking like what she would call “a tornado mess”, wore a t-shirt with a baby elephant’s picture on it and ate rainbow cereal. Of course, every choice has a backstory to it. Her sister had died because of a tornado and Elisabeth found humor and realization in calling herself a tornado mess. She used to live in a village when she was only eight Continue reading Pendants and tattoos.