The most compelling of stories aren’t those which are written with flowery flourishes and bold words or captured on the big screen with scenic locales and theme music.
No story is good or bad, beautiful or ugly.
What makes it memorable is that it demands to be told.
Dear Diary,
Last night was a restless night. There was a hailstorm outside and a different kind of storm raging inside my room. As I tossed and turned to find enough comfort to drift into sleep, I remember myself thinking ‘if tomorrow never came, it‘d be okay’.
However, like most of my wishes, I woke up today into a new morning. Groggy at first and then suddenly wide awake, as if a switch had been flicked on. In that moment I recalled a line I’d re-read a hundred times while devouring John Green’s The Fault In Our Stars. It went something like this – I fell in love the way you fall asleep : slowly, and then all at once.
No sooner had this line crossed my mind than I was hit with a pang of regret. So sharp that I found it difficult to breathe. For you see, all my life I’ve known a sad fact. I’m easy to love but equally easy to fall out of love with as well. I’m instantly likeable but probably insufferable in the long run. Or so I’ve been made to think. By people. People whom I cared for, possibly more than myself. People whom I admired and adored. People whom I could never love. Never love the way I deserve to love. You know, the unconditional kind? The kind which makes even hearbreaks feel worthwhile? The kind that brings you joy and sorrow in equal amount? The kind that makes you feel alive?
Yes, I think I’d like to feel that love once. Not someone else’s for myself. But my own. And then, if tomorrow never came, I think it’d really be okay.
Dear Diary,
Today was an eventful day. Not in a way where a lot of things happened. But each one was more and more overwhelming.
A few hours in, and I couldn’t breathe. I was tired of running around in circles, trying to get everything done in time but getting nowhere. I forgot to take a breath! Or a break. I skipped lunch, as usual.
Then just when I had all but given up, staring blankly outside the window, the skies opened up and smiled. Have I ever told you about the magic of out-of-season rains?
They’re like little bursts of happiness, unexpected yet plenty. They are instant mood uplifters. You cannot help but smile as the first drop makes its way to the tip of your nose with a splat. They wash off all the grime, outside and within, and make you look at things anew.
The trees, the birds, the dogs and cats, all rejoice. And so, did I. I turned off my laptop, set aside my notebook, put my phone on silent and took a deep breath. I sat in silence with closed eyes, listening to the pitter patter and the thundering and rumbling outside.
And finally, I smiled. Because I decided to forgive myself today. I decided to apologize to myself today. I decided to love myself a little more today. So that I never forget to breathe again. So that I never forget it’ll all be okay in the end. So that I never forget to not always push myself too hard. So that I, can be just I..at times. So that the next time the magic of out-of-season rains find me, I’d be ready to welcome it with open arms.
Tonight I just need someone to hold and to have. To share not just countless, endless conversations but also comfortable silences. Just your presence would have been enough. Your smiles, your expressions, your denial of how much you adored me.
Tonight, I’d give anything to sleep in your arms again. To turn back time to before I made that horrible mistake. To hear you say my name one more time. Not my real name. The goofy one that you came up with.
Tonight I’m left all alone. With an aching heart and eyes far from dry. All I have left of you are old chats. My finger hovers over your number. Itching to make that call which will never go through. My eyes fixate at the empty image icon on WhatsApp. Knowing that a hey will only ever get a single tick.
Tonight I’m reliving the past. Through our pictures together. Through your words. Through our fingers entwined. Through our smiles, free from beguile. I have never seen myself look happier than in those moments spent with you.
Tonight I am hurting. All over again.
Tonight I’m willing. For you to come back.
Mommy,
I don’t understand
That man hurt me
Mum, why is my belly growing?
Mummy, there’s something inside of me!
But moooom, I can’t be a mother
I’m your baby
I’m still a child
What do you mean, Mumma, that they don’t care?
Why do you say it’s not my life?
How was it never my choice?
He chose to do this Mama
But I didn’t ask for this?
Oh, I did?
Alright, I guess I won’t go out of the house wearing a skirt again.
.
.
Hi baby, shush, this world isn’t meant for you but I’ll do my best to keep you safe. My mother couldn’t, and it broke her. Her own shadow haunts her. But you, my love, shall be safe. I’ll dress you like a boy.
The best stories are the ones told without an audience. No strained ears hanging to every uttered word. No tear filled eyes ready to brim over. No sighs, no smiles, no oohs and no aahs. Just a resounding silence. Those are the tales which are truer than true. For you don’t perform them for accolades, appreciation or thunderous applause. You string words together, purely reflecting your inner mind, for no one’s reaction guides the unraveling of these yarns. You don’t pause to consider what others would think. You don’t choose your words for the reactions they incite.
And that’s when a story comes to life. Like a living, breathing entity, taking a form of its own. And you can sit back and mull over the elusive magic of wondrous creation.
Kuch kahaaniyan aisi bhi hain
Jinka har shabd ek dastaan hota hai
Ek ek panne ke aks se
Zindagi ka har pehlu bayaan hota hai
Aisi hi ek kahaani ki khoj mein hum
Nikle the duniya ki gehraiyo mein
Kya pata tha is nadaan dil ko magar
Kuch kahaaniya sirf pariyo ka khel hoti hai
Uljhan bhari raato ko neend tak pohochane ka mel hoti hai
Aur fir bas
Band aankho ke tale
Jaag uthti hain
Bas band aankho ke tale
Jee ke marr jaati hai
Khuli aankho ki sacchayi
Shabdo mein akhir kahan simat paati hain
Kuch kahaaniya
Bas kahaaniya hi banke reh jaati hai
“You know there’s no such thing as ghosts, right?” He said, when she told him she’s scared of watching horror movies because the scenes come back to her at night.
She nodded in mute assent. Acknowledging what was only logical.
Her mind, however, delved into a separate plane.
She wondered – what of the ghosts of memories that come back to haunt our every waking moment?
Or the phantom shards of broken promises that pierce through our very heart?
The spirit of a future, dead before it could even come alive, like an unborn child, but always a part of our existence?
She thought of the demons of jealousy, ego and pride residing within us, gnawing away at our very cores.
The fear of failure, draining away our life’s source.
But most of all
She thought
Of men and women who enter our lives and then leave a trail of destruction in their wake.
No, he’s right, she thought. There’s no such thing as otherworldly, undead ghosts. For they paled and faded away in the face of the monsters that live in this very world.
Hello my lovelies,
I tried something different with this piece. Still in two minds about it. Not sure if it conveys what it wanted to say. Would love to know if it resonates with you and what you feel about it. So please humour me, maybe, and drop a comment down below?
And as always, thank your for reading!
Love,
Varnika.
Learn the art of converting your prized work into a book from one of the very best bloggers (and also my personal favourite) that we have here!
Thank you, Christine, for taking the time to write this.
When I first contemplated choosing pieces and organizing them for Composition of a Woman, I naively thought it would be fairly quick and straightforward process. I had recently served as the editor for an art show chapbook that included pieces from 12 very diverse girls and women and as the primary editor for Anthology Volume […]
via Anatomy of a Book: Choosing and Organizing Your Writing — Brave & Reckless
Each night as I lie down in bed, my bed gets swamped with myriad thoughts. The most overriding one being – what could I have done differently? Would it have matter? Would the consequences have changed? And in doing so, I end up imprisoning myself in a makeshift cell every night. Worse still is the fact that its akin to solitary confinement. I lie in complete isolation. Very poetic since the fact that “I lie” is why I’m in this position in the first place.
Every morning as I cling on to a few more minutes of sleep after having endured a sleepless, restless night, my mind clears itself of its fugue state. I have complete clarity. I know very well that –
The cause of all my grief
The answer to all my problems
The reason for my happiness
The end to all my efforts
The clincher to all my doubts
is
Me
Myself
and
I.
Moonlighting Scrivener 