world – My Spirals

A different time.

A different time.

A few things before you start reading. a) This is not like most of my other posts but I’m hoping you still like it just as much, b) the story is based in a different world (which you can figure out yourself but just in case), c) comment and tell me about your happy times. Enjoy!

Hora was a different twenty-year-old. Of course, she was exactly what no one wanted her to be – the creative kid. She lived in a weird city where everyone had latin names and strict destinies. It was believed that it was important to only do what was expected of you to set examples for other worlds, if there were any. Her name was latin for Time and she was a writer.

The best men can be.

The best men can be.

So, Gillette came up with an advertisement with the intentions of making us better men. It was gender-oriented and asked us, men, to hold other men accountable for their actions. A great move and a beautiful video. But the comments section was flooded with hurt egos of toxic masculinity. Terribly Tiny Tales brought this to my attention, and I’m bringing it to yours. (I’ve never done this before, but I’ll embed the advertisement at the very end of this post. Do watch.)

Can I tell you some stories?

I had a friend named Akbar. We were best friends when I was in fifth grade and he told me about all kinds of things that happened in his life. He was five years older to me. One day, he told me about how his father beat his mother black and blue. Akbar cried as he told me about his mother’s bruised elbows but we didn’t talk for too long about it. I met his mother a week after that and she wore full sleeves all day. Akbar trusted me with his stories and I trusted him when he said he would become a real man. When he told me about his father, he made me promise that I won’t become a coward like his father.

With my skin burned away, I’m still human.

With my skin burned away, I’m still human.

I cannot begin to imagine,
fathom,
what it feels like to face a change due to a disaster.
Be it burned or harassed or impaired,
anything.
I believe there are two important sides
to this ‘change’.

One, the before.
When I was ten and I lied for the very first time,
my father took five of my favorite books
and asked me to tear them to pieces.
I know I didn’t want to do it,
I didn’t want this to happen,
I wasn’t okay with it.
This
is just a mini-metaphor for the pain
that the warriors must’ve felt.
Their pain must be
a million times this?
Two, the after.
My brother was nineteen when he had a kid
and his girlfriend left him.
He decided to make the child happy
all alone.
He wasn’t ready
but he was ready to learn how to be.
Again, a micro-metaphor
for the lessons warriors have to learn.

I cannot begin to imagine,
fathom,
what it feels like to face a change due to a disaster.

I don’t want to
But I have to
Because every time I hear someone making fun
Of the man with burnt arms
I can feel my own skin peeling away
with sadness and anger
My flesh burning
Scars appearing in the same pattern
Inch by inch
Burned stories etching themselves onto my skin
Personal ones charring away
I become more him than myself
and I use that to make things right.

I cannot begin to imagine,
fathom,
what it feels like to face a change due to a disaster.
But I want you to be able
to imagine what human feels like
by showing you a mirror
when you need me to.

Previous posts: Not all dates are the same.
Instagram: @myspirals

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

Roller-coasters and books.

Every share counts. Do share, it will be a great help, and it is pretty easy to do so. And give me prompts in the comments section. Happy reading.

Roller-coasters and books.

What a world this has become,
a damned roller-coaster of sorts.
The high of drugs,
The low of love.
The slow anticipation of the drop,
As we make a ladder out of our expectations.
The wind rushing against your face,
your eyes closing to reality.
The screams and the shouts,
Uninvited and definitely not asked for.
A few tears on the cheek,
A little blood on your wrist.
A damned roller-coaster of sorts.

What a world this has become,
A book that hasn’t been opened, of sorts.
The mundane stories,
The extra-ordinary perspectives.
Dust on our shoulders,
And a price tag at the back.
Paper back touches that we lack.
Hidden in a closet,
While people use Kindles.
Unable to knock, or be heard,
Humans always in the closet,
Poetry muffled through the pages.
A book that hasn’t been opened, of sorts.

Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post : A tale of the five senses.
Related post : Life.

Earth.

I have a few questions.

How terrible
must a world be
for innocents to die
and rogues to live?
How terrible
must a world be
for just two words
to be able to sum it up?
“Me too.”
How terrible
must a world be
for hearts to be broken
and promises alike?
How terrible
must a world be
for girls to be raped
and guys to be demoralized?
How terrible
must a world be
for Aleppo to fall
and have disasters everywhere?

It must be
as terrible as
the world you and I
live in.

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

Previous post : A guide towards self love.
Related post : This damn world.

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