Make words, not.

Where did all the words go?

They were sitting here at dawn; rearranging themselves with time, age, and wisdom. I let them go, over an angsty fight. They followed me back into the study hall, where studying was imperative and musing in text was not. Nevertheless, I texted you.

They died while I cried fresh tears of disappointment, then hurt, then realisation. They cried when I sighed, as they were repeatedly ground. They stopped meaning things. They stopped sounding how they were supposed to feel.

Where did all the words go?

Where did we go?

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Tastes Like Cotton Candy

Tastes Like Cotton Candy

We were all born equal. We had equal chances of screwing up and equal chances of miraculously “making it big” and all of us dreamed of making it big.

We were happy growing up and talking about the future in which we were all amazing writers and presidents of the world or “made a difference” or clichedly “made people cry when we died.”

And here we are. Some of you did have these amazing stories of falling in love and getting so much by taking chances. Some of you did turn pretty one summer and with the prettiness came the sense of humour and the will to live. Some of you ditched the dreams and yet kept the big circle of friends. Some of you worked hard and got what you’d always wanted while Fate grew silent and morose.

I grew quieter and quieter as the one big leap I’d made caused me to fall flat on my face. The dreams which once hung around me like a halo were now all I had. They moved inward and melted with the fabric of my heart. I couldn’t see or think about anything connected to it anymore- but I felt that feverish glow emitted by it. I’d say “If only” or “After I do something amazing” and I’d be one with the clouds.

Dreaming can be dangerous. I didn’t have a plan anymore. I just waited patiently- waiting for the blur to fade and for both the worlds I was a part of to unite. It didn’t.

Verbally, stringing words together became a difficult task. I’d forgotten how to say what I wanted to say. Sometimes, I didn’t think there were words that could describe what I felt most of the time. I listened to music and clung to the stories I wrote. I lost all the fair weather friends while the ones who had always mattered did stay. But now we hung out in twos instead of hanging out in packs.

I was the girl who stared at her shoes when she walked. I was the girl who stared at you so intensely but looked away when you’d turn to meet her eyes. I was the girl who wasn’t always like that and you probably knew that as I was the girl you grew up with.

I heard about how you fell in love for the first time. I heard about how she put up with all the rumours and bitchery and how everything made her stronger. I was the one who kept track of all of your stories and built it up in my head. Sometimes, I write about it.

excerpt.

So I kind of wrote my first short story ever. It’s about a girl who runs (track) and then stops running and how a part of her goes away with it. Very cliched, I know. But it’s a start because it’s the first ever story I’ve actually managed to write in an Indian setting. This has been more difficult that anything, for some reason. Writing about what I’ve lived, breathed and experienced is way harder than infusing elements (hazy emotions and vague longings) of what I know and am into something I’ve just (at most) seen and read about.

Plus, it’s actually PG rated. Very very rare. If my mom asks me what I’m writing again and is all “What’s the use of not showing your stuff to anybody?” I have something to show her. Ha.

Excerpt below.

I remember the day of The Accident, though it’s perhaps the distorted, dramatically intense version that clings to my memory. I wish it weren’t so clear in my head… what happened to things fading with time? To the happy endings that were assured after incidents like these?

Perhaps it’s the only thing I have to cling on to. Perhaps I never knew problems before that.

I’m leaning against the back door of my house that faces the main road… I’m just another girl in the big, polluted, calm, sheltered, tiring yet charming city otherwise known as Chennai…

I used to be someone else… someone who didn’t blend in so easily… who was strong enough to meet obstacles and not run away… who had friends to push her towards the spotlight even if modesty and awkwardness made her reluctantly shrink away…

I used to be someone. A girl. An individual. Where is she now?