Life.

Life is a bright sun, but it is also a tornado. These are not real stories, but the problems are real. Also, these are two different stories. I hope we survive. Instagram handle: @myspirals


She was only eleven when this had happened. It was a sunny afternoon and she wanted to play with her friends in the park. While playing Hide and Seek, her friends hid here and there and she was alone in the park, skipping and hopping excitedly as she looked for her friends. It seemed to be a good day. While running towards a bush where she thought her friends were hiding, she tripped and scraped her knee. Tears wetted her cheeks as a few drops of blood trickled down her knee. A guy in about his thirties, saw her crying and walked up to her. He consoled her and took her to his house to see the injury.

He used a piece of cloth and rubbed her knee with it to remove the blood, and she gasped because of the pain. Slowly, he started rubbing her thighs and when she tried to back away, he held her leg tightly in place “Let me take care of you.”. He touched her inner thighs and smiled as he moved closer to her area and her eyes dilated with fear. This wasn’t right. She screamed but he used the piece of cloth to tie her mouth. His fingers touched her in places that she now refers to as scars.


He was twenty-one. Life seemed to be a frolic in the park, happy and delightful. He had a mother and two sisters, and he loved them to death. They lived in a small part of the city. He went out to buy food for his family, when out of nowhere, something blew a hundred kilometers away. Almost in succession, there was two more blasts a little to the east of it. He had no idea what was happening, but he ran anyway. Not away from the blasts, though. Towards them. That’s where his house was and that’s where his family was. After running for ten minutes at full pace, he opened the door to his house as his heavy breathing slowed a bit. They were safe.

He took hold of their hands and asked them to hurry as they ran away from the monstrous blasts. They hurried towards the sea where a lot of people seemed to be headed. He saw boats and sighed in relief. They got on the boat and saw their home turn to smoke and dust as they moved away from the catastrophe. Refugees. Where were the refugees headed? Towards lonely hearts and no home.


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Related post: This damn world.

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Empty hearts.

So I tried something new in which I had to write the poetry in exactly a hundred words. Do read it and leave anything you’d like to say in the comments. Instagram handle: @myspirals


“So, what does it feel like to be empty?”

“Everyone is made of poetries,
and to have that inside of you
but no voice or walls for it to echo,
it can be hard to describe,
if not impossible.

It feels like a sinking Titanic,
that is too cold to realize,
that its life is etching away.
It feels like a long stretch of silence,
that screams out stories
and unheard rants.
It feels like a mirage
that you’ve somehow reached,
and you live the illusion.

I don’t know, really.
It feels like a nothing in a something.
Numb. Empty.”


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Previous post: Addictions and lies.
Related post: Hope and caution. 

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Addictions and lies.

I’ve made the official Instagram handle for this page (@myspirals). Do follow and stay tuned. (If you’ve written and posted something that you want me to read, use the hashtag #ourspirals)


I’m addicted to coffee. There are more dirty mugs in my sink and empty coffee bottles in my dustbin than the number of people I trust. The first conversation I have in the day is with a steaming mug of coffee that smells of hopes and reality. I wrap my fingers around the warmth and let it wake me up, despite me not having slept at all last night. The bitter taste of coffee burning my tongue is like a pat on the back, and I am all for motivation. I am high on coffee every day.

I’m addicted to music. The melody is my drug and I cannot live without it. I sleep to the voice of Ed Sheeran and wake up to Selena Gomez. Which is why I’d ask you to ‘kiss me’ at night and have anxiety attacks as I run through the jungles of my mind like ‘wolves’ in the morning. I’d relate to the lyrics of a song more than have feelings of déjà vu’s. I’ve been called an introvert, but I am not. I am an extrovert and I socialize a lot with music.

I am addicted to lying. I have this weird habit of telling myself every morning I will sleep that night, even though it is nothing but a white lie. I’ve pretended to be over someone, even though I still look for them in the hallways of my university. I’ve said I am okay way too many times, for even that to be healthy. When you fake a smile often enough, it becomes a habit and your smile is reduced to being just a twitch in your muscles.

I am addicted to her. I am addicted to the way we read poetry to each other like lullabies on a Tuesday night, and the way she giggles at dark humor. I love the way she looks at me in dim lights, and the way she trips over nothing. I love the smell of her hair, honey and coconut. She isn’t sunshine. She is hot chocolate and Christmas.

But most of all, I am addicted to the way the butterflies in my stomach go crazy when she whispers in my ears as we take a sip from the warm mugs of coffee with ‘Skin’ playing somewhere in the house. “I love you too.” Oh, what a beautiful lie.


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Previous post: Wake up call.
Related post: Bare waists and midriffs.

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Wake up call.

I’ve made the official Instagram handle for this page (@myspirals). Do follow and stay tuned. (If you’ve written and posted something that you want me to read, use the hashtag #ourspirals)


More often than not,
I’ve slept my problems away.
My problems have been
Like a beast in the dungeon,
Like a dragon in the caves
of the tall golden mountains
that echoes like my mind.
I’ve used sleep as a defense mechanism,
and defeated such dragons,
over and over in my dreams.
My problems have been
Like a task for me,
Like a big step that I have to take,
in order to survive,
amidst the world of flames and cuts.
I’ve used sleep to procrastinate,
and thought everything through.
Used the veil of a perfectionist,
to cover my hopes in a belief of awakening.
My problems have been
Like a clock that is ticking away.
I’ve used sleep as my fingers,
and removed the cell.

Today,
I’ve decided to wake up.


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Related post 1 : Palettes of life.
Related post 2 : It’s okay.

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Whisky Words: The End

The writing project has come to an end.

So, about a month and a half ago, I decided to start a project that will help fellow bloggers or my readers in general to let their compositions be read. I called it The Whiskey Words, for that’s what words are like. Whiskey. It burns your throat, and makes you forget your pain.

The response to the project has been over-whelming. To be honest, I did not expect more than five entries for the project, but could I be more wrong? (Chandler: hehe)

The amount of entries I received was both a boon and a bane. The bane being that it became tougher for me to choose between the entries. But I did, and here we are. The following are the three best entries according to me, in this very order:

The winner: The winner of the writing project is Anchal Rani (Whiskey Words: Project 3). I tried to contact Kathy Gardner (Whisky Words: Project 11) but failed to get her address as response to my mail. So, I’ve decided to give the Giveaway to the second best. Congratulations, Anchal!

March was truly a wonderful month. Thank you so much. Leave a comment below if you liked the Whiskey Words, and also if you’d like more of such projects in the future. Also, all suggestions for my blog are welcome and you can mail them to me at: utsavraj3@gmail.com

Thank you again for sticking around. April is here and so am I. Let’s have another awesome month. We are going back to my compositions. Do share my blog with your friends if you like it, it’ll be a great help. Also, criticism is always welcome and appreciated.

Adios!