Posted in Uncategorized


There are these people that you meet

People that you come across

People that you start getting to know

Who leave behind a spark

The glitters, the shine

All of it

People who might feel like home

People who stick through

And those that don’t

People who leave you with a fragment of their soul

The Conversations end

The songs stop

But the feeling comes back

Late at night or early at dawn

With ‘re-read texts

And freshly brewed coffee

The laughs come to haunt you

The smiles linger back

With hopes of maybe

In some distant time

To respark the fire

And reignite the light

There are these people that you meet

People who made promises

And the ones who kept them

The ones with a lot left to say

The ones whose goodbyes

Still feel like lies

These are the people that I’m grateful for today

Posted in flash fiction

What Matters

Dearest Delilah,

What sucks is that no matter how many other bigger, much more pressing matters I know I may have, you’re gonna be the only one who actually matters. I don’t care if it’s all the sick movies and songs that over signify how important love is, how important someone can be. But I feel how I feel, alright ? And I can’t do anything to change it.


I know what you’re thinking. I know exactly the face you’re making right now. “You have so many more real problems right now, Rick. You probably can’t even feed yourself for a week, you might be homeless if you don’t get a job soon. You’re not gonna be whining about some girl who didn’t like you back when you’re starving to death for God’s sake. It’s not the end of the world. Life goes on. You’ll move on. The world isn’t gonna stop for some girl. Get over it.”


But it has. All I want you to get that it has stopped for me, because you don’t yet get how someone can be my whole world. And yeah I know it’s all gonna get better one day and how I’m not even gonna think about you ever again, but that doesn’t change the fact that I have to think about you now. That doesn’t change the fact that I feel terribly shitty and this isn’t just some teenage bullshit drama that I have to get over. I’m having to live through this and right now, to me this is my whole world. And it is falling apart. I kid you not.


And I know people have been through worse. I know there are people dying right now, with cancer or getting raped or begging for their lives. I know I myself have worse to be worried about, but just like how you can’t control your feelings, I can’t control mine. I can’t control the fact that I’m more worried about not being able to see you tomorrow more than the fact that I might not have a roof over my head tonight. I know I shouldn’t feel this way and these are just feelings and they’ll go away and its making me so guilty that I should be thinking about my family and my own life over you but I can’t.


What sucks is that I fucking can’t.


And nobody will ever get that. And all people can say to me sounds like the same broken record over and over again. And just demeaning my feelings isn’t gonna help me or you for that matter. I’m allowed to feel the way I feel, and just because someone else or I, myself have even bigger problems to worry about, that doesn’t mean it’s not justified to feel the way I do.


All everyone is going to say is how I’ll forget about you and move on and it’ll all be okay.


And I know it will. Some day.


But right now, it isn’t okay. I’m not okay.


I just want you to appreciate that I’m not. And let me not be okay for once.


Yours forever,

Not forever, maybe just now, just for this moment ; but so completely yours in this moment that I cannot fathom how it’s even possible,



Posted in Uncategorized


In front of him, were stars.

Thousands and thousands of them.

Blinking with the utmost happiness he had ever seen. They were dancing, in rhythm, swaying to the beats of the drums. Complete chaos and utter discipline all in one somehow. It seemed like they had it all planned, rehearsed it for ages. It was dark, and all he could see were sparkles and the energy in the air was elevating him.

They were all  humming to his song. Singing in harmony, to his emotions. What he felt, was unreal. What he felt, he could never write about. It was pure ecstasy, and simultaneously the worst he had ever felt. They knew all the words, they knew the exact symphony. But they could never fathom what kind of pain brought this about. It felt deafening to him to hear them so happy, when he was so sad.

He was screaming out.

He was asking for help.

But no one gave a shit.

Its weird how he’s heard so many people come up to him and ask him how he wrote such beautiful lyrics. How they could relate so well with the songs. But no one ever asked him what could have possibly made him so terribly, terribly scarred. What drove him to the point where he had to write to get it out of him? Just for some sort of sanity.

You look at art, like it’s something to think over, forgetting sometimes it’s just a form of expression. Sometimes he just wished he had someone who’d pick on his expressions. Someone who’d wipe his tears and embrace his all his frights. Someone who’d accept all of him, as he was their own.

He keeps searching for someone.

He keeps searching for some sign.

He keeps searching for meaning.

Lost in translation however, divinity goes further away.

Maybe only when the stars are at his feet, he feels at home. He finds purpose. He is content. He is happy. The search stops for a while, as he takes it all in. Maybe he’ll go on. He’ll keep on looking. Just to find out where it all ends. Each time, there’s a new epiphany. A new thought that barely keeps him hanging. In that moment, it’s all worth it.

The show ends.

His feet hit the ground.

And the ecstasy is gone.





Does it ever feel fake?

All of it ?

A lie to it’s very core.

Does it ever feel like you’ve been asking for help, and nothing is right. But no one seems to notice. No one seems to give a shit. You’ve been pretending to be okay for so long, now you believe it yourself. But just the belief of something doesn’t necessarily make it real does it now?

You feel suffocated, and things hardly make sense anymore

You wish your senses would be numbed, but they shake with each blow

You wish, things would feel right for once, but they get worse each time

Each step you take, each little movement, just results in something wrong and it all becomes hazy and you wish to lose control when you never really had it in the first place

Each little mask you ever painted ever since day 1, it’s all coming back to haunt you now. The lies you’ve woven for yourself, you’re getting tangled in them



Lost cause.

You’ve always wanted to lose yourself, but not in this way

Losing grasp of who you ever were

Look into the mirror and you can’t see

The blank stare just holds memories now, with no strain of sentiment

It’s all gone

Yet you manage to go on

Living each day as it comes, like a cliché saying repeating itself over and over

Tell me it gets easier

And  I’ll figure it out.






Posted in fiction, flash fiction

One Last Walk

It was winter when our paths first met. The fog aligned and settled itself around you; you in your beige sari, with a red shawl wrapped around your arms, blowing on the cup of tea in your hands. Even in 8 degrees Celsius you were looking so warm, so filled. Your eyes kept wandering to the little puppy playing around, and each time you put the strands of your hair, back in your bun, your cup would tremble in your left hand. I could see specks of paint on your fingers and a poster tube on your back. You were like the first dew drop falling on freshly cut grass, lone and grand.

It was raining when we first kissed. The drops were resting on your eye lashes, as they closed. I could taste the rain on your lips and it felt like ice cream in cold winter mornings. Nothing necessary, but completely exhilarating. I remember, how your bangles broke that day, and how it got stuck on my shirt, while you tried to lean away from me. We walked for a good four hours that day, the same path over and over again.

Sometimes I like to believe, that we all have different paths to take, each laid out in front of us in the shape of decisions we make. These paths lead us to many different places, and these paths separate us from many different experiences. We may be the ones choosing the path, but the destination is something nobody ever figures out. Sometimes these paths meet, collide and separate, and sometimes the collision results in an explosion, leaving all else in ruins.

Four years after, I’m back here, in ruins left behind. Only this time the sound of your nupur was missing. It felt deafening. I took my first step, on this path where I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve walked. But for the first time ever, you weren’t here.

It was summer when you died. I have failed to forget how you looked that day. We were driving to come to our path. To walk for hours again like we used to before. Your hair was open, and blowing in the wind. The smoke from your cigarette getting into your kohl lined eyes. Your smile had the softest shade of pink that day. The pink that got stained with my blood when the car crashed.

They say you’ll get over it. They say you’ll move on, to a different path, to a stronger path. But my path had stopped with you.

Sometimes, certain people pierce into your soul and never leave. They create this small little hole inside you and they reside there forever. Each time you’re with them, you’re gathering memories and storing them in the gentlest way you can, filling this hole. But once their presence leaves, this gaping hole inside, devours you from within. Destroying each fiber one by one. Stabbing you with each little moment, you had stored inside. But that is precisely why you must learn to let go.

That is exactly why; I’m here alone trying to walk off the edge. How can I possibly go on, when my path had ended before me.

One last walk wouldn’t hurt anyone right?

Posted in fiction, flash fiction

Birthday Party

As the dream faded, she chased it, forlorn. She tried to fall back asleep, twisting and turning in her bed. The cushion felt soft to her touch, the temperature was cold, and the blankets were just right. But she felt this weird state of frenzy. She had always been a very calm sleeper, but tonight she couldn’t stop fidgeting.


She had dreamed of him coming back to her, cradled in her mom’s arms. Like the very first time she saw her. It was a pleasant kind of nostalgia, but it was black and white and cold. For the first time in her life, this memory of hers, felt to her very foreign, as if it was never her memory to keep. Failing to fall back asleep, she woke up and made a cup of coffee, lights turned off, the entire house was pitch dark. She walked around the kitchen table, tracing the edge of it with her red nails. She remembered the time when his head could barely reach the table. How he almost hit his head, when he first stood up holding on to this very edge. She used to make coffee the same way, as his small eyes would peak at her, trying to jump and catch a glimpse of his waffles and chocolate syrup.


She turned the lights on in the doorway, as she walked with the mug in her hands sipping on her coffee. She lit her cigarette and paused past each picture on the wall. They were all him. The first baby cot, the first little birthday cake she made for him, his first walker, his first bike and finally his first girl friend. They weren’t exactly together anymore; she had apparently disliked his taste in slimes. But it was too  pretty a picture to take down. She was in a little pink dress, and he had his Dragon Ball Z T-shirt on. The next picture right next to his room was from the time they went to the beach. This memory was still very fresh. She had him in her arms, holding him up high, against the sunset. This was a year and a half ago and he was 6. She touched the dust on the frame with the hands of her sweater, as she thought how light he was back then. They all thought he wouldn’t grow. But he did.


She turned the knob on his door, and slowly opened the door to him. He was still the cutest little kid she had ever seen. He had very faint similarities to his dad, and he was rather identical to her, she always told herself even though no one would ever say he looked anything like her. She tip toed across his bed, and turned on the lamp and his face lit up. She looked at his lashes, so long and blonde; and his little baby cheeks, she kissed them. As she was leaning on him, she felt something drip on her toes. The blood from his body was leaking down to floor, crippling down the bed sheets. She can’t possibly get a stain on the floor, she thought. She would have to clean this mess up as soon as she could.


But her little boy looked so peaceful; she didn’t want to move him an inch. But her OCD was getting to her. She looked at him once more, before going over to the kitchen. This time she turned on the lights. She thought she should clean the knives first. As she turned the tap on, the water trickled down the dried blood on the knife. She would have to get her hands dirty it seemed. She sighed, as she took a dollop of dish washing liquid and started cleaning the blood off with a sponge. She took her time with it. The water falling down was ice cold, and her hands had gotten numb. The ashes from the cigarette on her lips were now dropping off into the sink.


When she was finally done, she took a mop to his room and turned the air conditioning on. She began by taking the blanket off as she regretted stabbing him through the blanket. It was such a waste to throw the beautiful blue color away. She stripped his clothes off, one by one, carefully folding them and keeping them in the laundry basket. Finally, she cleaned the wound in his gut and stopped the bleeding with a lot of gauze and bandage. Her hands were perfectly calm again, not like when she awoke. Then she picked him up, and sat him in the chair; the same chair where he first wrote his ABCs and on the same desk, where she had helped him carve her name.  She noticed that his medical reports had blood on them. She wiped them off, with her white sleeves, and put them away in the trash. He had been diagnosed with Medulloblastoma last year. Right in front of her eyes, he had changed from her little ball of sunshine to a ticking bomb. She couldn’t take it anymore, seeing him die little by little. So she took matters to her own hands.


She changed the bed sheets, and for the last time she put him to bed. She put out a fresh new blanket she had brought for him yesterday and kissed him on his soft blonde bangs and whispered “Happy Birthday, Love”.




What It’s Like Having Phone Anxiety 

So I’m pretty sure most people won’t relate but at least superwoman does .234687
Having Phone anxiety is weird. Like it literally makes zero sense most of the time. Because phone calls have become an essential part of our lives now and there is literally no way you can avoid it. Here are certain things you have to deal with because of this weirdness.

You’re a shitty friend : okay so most friends will expect you to call. Or if you’re lucky enough they’ll at least expect you to pick up. But for someone with phone anxiety it’s an extremely tedious task. That feeling of utter disappointment when your phone rings is what sucks.


Now it’s not that you hate the person. Oh no. It could be someone you absolutely adore but you still might dread a phone call from them. And then of course people also expect you to call back. ( rolls eyes )  They expect you to call them once in a while and ask them how they’ve been. Or maybe even during a crisis moment when your best friend has broken up with their boyfriend and texts you

“can you call asap ? ”

” umm I’m sorta busy right now can we text ? ”

does not go down well in the “being there when I need you” vow of friendship. And then of course there are people who aren’t good with texting like normal people aka me. You want to talk to them and want to listen to everything that happened with them but they won’t type and you won’t call. It’s a nightmare. You just need those people who’ll text with you and those are hard to find. I mean emails, letters, voice recordings even,  so much better but no you muggles have to talk. Ugh.
Online delivery : you know most of the time you’re glad that online ordering exists and most things can be done in a click. But God forbid you have to call a stranger to ask whether that they deliver to your area or something, because they won’t reply on the page. Oh hell no. You’d rather starve then call a random stranger and ask.if they have food for you. Even you go past all this, the delivery guy will certainly call and you will certainly have to pick up. Oh those minutes of utter terror.
Family : as if talking with your distant relative isn’t awkward enough face to face. What the hell do you talk about  ? You can’t even awkwardly nod yes or no to each of the questions. True story, I once blocked one of my relatives just because I didn’t really wanna talk on the phone with her. Sorry if you’re reading this. Ehehe.


Long distance  : you know that awkward pause you get when you’re talking long distance and the sound travels. Yeah that happens less now with online calling and shit but it is so weird. I mean is the other person gonna say something ? Do you wait ? What if you start talking together ? And since it’s delayed you both either start together or stop together. God,rocket science is easier than deciphering this shit.

And that is how ladies and gentlemen I hate phone calls. There’s no particular reason for it. Yes I’m just that weird. It honestly takes a lot to find someone you’re comfortable talking on the phone with and it rarely happens. If you have this weirdness and have managed to find someone you can talk to normally NEVER LET THEM GO.