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The best plan in life is to not have a plan. If you like planning though, make sure it doesn’t involve a family of impersonators, an unknown underground basement, a morse code knowing freakish refugee, and/or knives casually laying around in your house.

Ocean Vuong. I am incapable of embellishing him with any dumb metaphors I can clumsily conjure up, so I’ll just quote him. I mean, just check the beginning of this one poem he titled ‘Deto(nation)’:

There’s a joke that ends with — huh?

It’s the bomb saying here is your father.

Now here is your father inside


Red, dirtily velveted carpet. An uninteresting beige all around. I bust into the surprisingly well-lit room with clanking footwear to find two computer screens silently accompanying each other.

“What is it, Saumya?”, both of the black-haired similar-built boys say at the exact same time. Both unfamiliar faces. Albeit one an insignificant stranger from the past, another a gratified lover for the future.

I turn around in embarrassing haste and quickly make a dignified run for the door.

“My bad, I’ll come back later.”

-x-x-x-

I dread, the intense bright numbers in red.

Have you ever considered the possibility that I…


He was 13 years old then. A middle schooler.

An extremely vivid, traumatic memory that peeked out ever so often from the deep recesses of his mind.

So vivid, he remembered the crying, pleading way his mother tried to shield her son from the outburst. Trying to take his place in the reprimanding.

So vivid, he remembered the way his elder brother stood there, defiant, unresistant, brazen; maybe scared, but not enough to give in and fight back.

He remembered the trophy chosen as the weapon. It was golden, long, shaped like a star. A brown, wooden pedestal that said…


So the exam is on 27. Preparation is, I’d say, a solid 65%, I could reach 85–90 after just some intense revision which, don’t worry, I totally will.

Had my classic breakfast smoothie whose recipe you’ll NEVER get cause I plan on taking it with me to the grave (but just for a hint: have you ever wondered how your morning coffee and breakfast cereal, COMBINED, would taste like? Among other things? heck yeah, son, there’s other things too.) along with this delimcious chocolate tart I made yesterday. Booyah! …


Hi! So I’m losing my mind! Yay.

So I very funnily decided (insert goof face, silly me!) to give up any form of communication to the external world (Really the only two sites I used were Whatsapp to contact my close friends or basically just anyone I’ve met till now — cause let’s be honest, I don’t go outside anymore for any reason whatsoever so texting was my sole “shout in the void”, if you will — and Discord for the online communities I grew way too fond of) for an indefinite time, radically shift to an almost-6-hours-earlier sleep schedule…


Nothing more satiating than opening up a previously bitter journal to whisper some sweet nothings in its ear.

In a supposed-to-be “tough spot” in my life, I’m at my peak. I’ve glided outwards and further forward, to find accurately designated meaning in “now”. I’m meandering in the lanes of the enchanting future, through this beautiful present, and I feel like floating. I already was floating. On the terrace just now, Taylor Swift songs blasting in my ear, nature reciprocating my ecstasy by airing an actively energetic wind, rumbling in the clouds (which is just the angels playing bowl-pin, if anyone…


#

My mind sounds different today.

Amidst the regular numbness of incomplete to-do lists and song snippets, it still sounds different today.

Juggling between yearning for warmth and pushing for solitude, it beats different today.

Condemning the idiots, it melts me a little today.

The mass grey, the negligent normal, the heightened misery, it looks different today.

The usual emptiness, it gradually deepens to pave for a larger cause today.

Browsing through past memories, it finds something a little different today.

It finds apathy, an illogical sense of importance. It finds gratitude in the most meagre conversations. It finds security in what used to be, dearth. It finds a need to give, ironically, especially when the loss is paramount.

It finds love slowly knocking the door, holding its arms out, asking for more.


.

A still infant, now growing to a slightly experienced life, is tainted with poisonous relationships with dripping venom all throughout. No wonder there’s more done in the head, less said.


(wrote this piece, don’t-kow-when. Found this pretty intriguing. The fact that it’s incomplete does tickle my brow though.)

Days of ceased motivation and lack of routine, desperately searching for whether I’m the only one aware of the acute reason why life fails to engage me any longer, have not done me good. I it-doesn’t-even-matter through so many points in my life, and admittedly too, in situations where one shouldn’t have. But instead of moralising the purpose of a human being and satisfying myself with stupid reasons like: “purpose? Why I ought to be a good citizen!” Or “why, I must…

Shola

From obligation to oblivion, I tread on.

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