Alert : I am out of metaphors. I am at a loss for metaphors, I try to delve for some in this big packet of my incomplete and raw thoughts weaving a web in my foolishly- immature brain and my little-too-brittle heart. Am I living the most dreadful nightmares of being a poet? Or is it my incompetency as a poet? Or worse, Was I never one?
Need : To look for metaphors for the legislation over the body, the decisions, the choices, the thoughts, the voice, the soul of a women. When I was in love with him,
On some mornings, when I used to wake up with my neck bruised and my stomach smooched, I used to question my consent to allow him to cover his body around my soul. On some afternoons, I used to question my decision to lay a little longer in bed with him, while he reached the depths of my soul trying to liberate me, but the emptiness of not knowing the reason behind my decision, made me fall into deeps depths of what seemed-hell-like. On some evenings, I used to question those forbidden thoughts of making love with him in the night. On some nights, I used to question all those curves of my body which glided against his, while we made love, am I doing right to my father. Or is this the right way to be his, questioning my existence by his side?
When I left him for my father,
On some mornings, when I used to miss the taste of his lip and the warmth of his soul around me, I used to question my decision to let go of him. On some afternoons, when I used to meet various men, my father wanted me to marry to, I used to question my silence which could never speak up for a love I wanted. On that one evening, when I was about to get married to my father's friend's son, when the mehndi of his name didn't shine in my hands, I questioned my soul for not truly belonging to my father's decision and his respect inthe society. On the night of my marriage, I questioned my love for him and my respect for my father's name, was I not able to love him the way I should? Or did I blur the virginity I owed only to one person, my father?
But on some very special moments, On the eighth day of the week, I question myself some unanswerable questions, which only I have an answer to. Can I make love with him and not be the reason of bringing disrespect to my father? Can I owe my self and my virginity to my ownself? Can I be both his and my father's and yet belong to none? Can I be no ones' and yet belong to both? Can I be me, no matter the part of the day, the longitude and latitude I am at, No matter the people I am surrounded with?
I got this task to write a article on GENDER DISCRIMINATION AND ITS EFFECT ON WOMEN by my school teacher for practice of article writing. So thought of posted this here, my approach would have been different if this hadn't been for school. Of someday I write it for myself, i may post it here. Also @eurus , I used one of your lines in this post, I am really sorry if this hurts you. If it does, please comment it, I will remove the line- ignorance is a bliss but at times it is a curse which annihilates each and every one of our dreams.
Dilemma and disappointment are a constant visitor at your gate, if you are trying to interpret life and human behaviour, believing not everything in this immoral world is vanity, and even though paved with cobblestones there lies a bleak scope to Novelty(/originality), content(/satisfaction) and purpose ( The purpose). And one of the many hardest things for me has been to come with terms that mediocrity and satisfaction with your current status is often misunderstood with stagnation. But maybe I will talk about it some other day. Something, which may seem rather smaller and naive at the first look, has often made me stand crossroads with my own self, which is understanding that what creases the heart often overweighs what pleases the heart.
//Ever thought why we have so many memories in the name of those who destroyed the essence and faith of millions, examples are many, the KHILJI road , BAHADUR SHAH ZAFAR marg, why not even a single named BHAGAT SINGH?//
The bad chronicles and gets imprinted in the history, and the good is just remembered of on some fine days, as a result there are a million mundane herioes and heroines (no not of bollywoos or Hollywood) awaiting to be read. And we, the youth are either so busy in our own lives that we are oblivious to these stories or so selfish that we blame this in the name of those who were in power. Yes, ofcourse the hands in power write the history, but is the stand of the good, the right so bleak that is so easily gets overshadowed by these greedy hands.
//Has breaking news become synonymous to Rape, Crime, Nepotism and yes Rasode mei kaun tha? //
Today's media houses have redefined news, no such thing as balanced new exists, no good things are talked of and rediscovery of a golden past is a mere dream. A girl saves herself from being raped will never make to the headlines, because this will give million other girls the strength( which she already possesses) to stand against what is wrong and learn to say NO.
//Politics is no noble profession. Today, terror is misunderstood at respect. //
The more bad deeds you get involved in, the more corruption you are surrounded with, the more fame, money and terror will await your entry. Corruption is society can never be entirely eradicated, but why is our system made in a way that it fails to appreciate the good doer, someone who thinks above his/her own individual interest and the ones who are involved more in under the table work, get decent salaries and even pensions.
Have you ever thought, why and how a single fight with a near one can conceal and destroy all the good they ever did for you? You haven't. Maybe, you should.
// The sky is pink and the floor's a tinted red with my blood . The hue of my murky scarred skin fades away with the intense smudges of blotted ink.
I am writting ballads on love, and the alphabets are twisting weirdly, fighting with each other, with a desire to live alone, knowing that it is their togetherness which gives them meaning. I try to explain them, but they won't listen, after all the ballads I write carry my imperfections, and therefore they possess in themselves my insecurities, the fights I fight with myself and my emotions, to rhyme alone even though I know that it takes unison to form even a clich`ed rhythm.
The worst nightmare, or sometimes the best blessing, for a writer is when his writings start revolving around him. When he becomes the protagonist, when he suffers all those pain he spent evening singing lullabies and writing melodies on. And this reality comes running for each one of the writers, mine did too. ' Single. Pregnant. Depressed. ', the three words I used to define myself 5 years ago. I was living my own scribbles, wondering if I was really a great writer or just one of the many writers whose loneliness make them so bleak that they are lost in the prism of reality and imagination. The loss of love was making me motionless day by day, and I was about to give up on numbness itself when I felt a different pain, the pain of life inside my womb. That was the most difficult time, the time when the decision of destroying one more life or letting it bloom( if not like a rose then like a daffodil in my garden ) , this decision was in my hand. And I randomly or maybe because of what fate had prepared for me, I came across one of the letters I wrote, a years back, though it feels like a century..
Dear Death, This is a letter to you. Maybe I am too small to even think of this, but I have a grudge for you, and because I have nothing left, I don't want to take this grudge to wherever afterlife takes me. Well dear death, this isn't just a letter about complains, this is the only one I could ever write, because when I think of familiarity, think of you. This could have been a symphony to life, but life left me hopeless, so with whatever hope left, this is a regard to you.
The only grudge I have against you is that I wish you waited for me to be born, to take my first breath, before you extended your beckoning hands to my body. ( Or maybe my soul, I was just a foetus afterall, but I heard the nurse say that a soul never dies, I told you I am too small to even think of think and here I am writing this letter to you. ) If you even run across my mother, tell her that I love her for bringing me in this world, oops, to you. It is because of her that I possess this familiarity in you. If you have trouble recognising her, all I know of her is the warmth of her womb and her insecurities.
Dear death, I wish to looked at life as closely as you do, every single day entering the world and liberating some new lives and at times, some foetuses like me. I wonder what it is like to be born.
One of your preachers (Though my mother never taught me what that is.)
After reading this, though teary eyed, I made my decision, to held onto this life growing inside me. And I understood that I wasn't just going through a single fight but actually two. One was mine, which was preparing me to become a mother and the other one, was that of the writer within me, who was growing to understand that 'Pain is inevitable, but suffering is an option ' which taught me that there will be days when my mind will be filled with dark thoughts, but in the end it is the goodness which will get me across. "The bad may be the fulcrum the world works on But it is the good it stabilizes on."
Five years spent, and I found love and life both in my daughter, Eva (which means to live.)
- Rutvi The reason I wrote this? A tiktok video. No not at all, just kidding. Written in one go, so please don't mind if any spelling errors. I always forget giving picture credits .. P.c. - Pinterest
//I found my Polaroid.// I found my Polaroid today, beneath some of my old t-shirts which have grown short now. I feel the touch and with this familiarity comes a realization so strong that it weakens my legs. I remember when my father gave me this Polaroid as a gift, with a hope to make me acknowledge what lies all around us unnoticed, embrace the nature and let beauty bloom from within . //how foolish are we?// I pity myself for I thought I can capture the whole universe inside this small Polaroid camera of mine, and carry with myself a part of everyplace my footprints get imprinted and every person I ever encounter. We tie our life with persons and things, thinking that the greater the web becomes, the more stronger a spider we are. But among all this, the question isn't about how strong the bonds we create or the threads we tie are, the question isn't about the probability of the threads to survive and remain strong when knots form, the question isn't about what will we cling to? when the biggest spider arrives, and all our threads start breaking, the real question is that when we or the spider dies, will the threads break on their own or will they just vanish as if they were never really there and we spent all our lives in vain, creating something which was never really there.
All of us tie these threads, willingly or unwillingly. And all of us die. But something, or maybe the only one, which stays with us forever are the memories we create and the deeds we sow. To me, my Polaroid was one such thread, and I am holding it close to my heart on this walk back to my cementery, my only real abode which i don't even need to pay for every month.
This cementery is my final abode. The only asset I own
I breathe death alone. - guts (rutvi)
Since birth, the only battle we ever fight and always lose is the one with death. Death indeed is inevitable. And all the settlements we make, are to comfort us when we can't breathe. Even Parents want children(a boy preferably) to carry them on their shoulders on their last voyage, and this is not bound by borders whether it is Ganga ghat in varanasi or a cementery in London , the last voyage shall be this. So everything is just for show and eternally temporary, and nothing is yours.Including the body you invest in, the money you think is yours, the surname you own, the threads you tie.
Note: The lines is caption are a part of a song by lost frequencies named crazy. Thank you for reading ! Cheerios Also, I know this is shit but all that I could come up with the word Polaroid. @_aradhya PC- pinterest:)
This is for you Aradhya. You are special, you know it right? You have many friends, I just have handful of them, but you matter. And I know I matter for you. And as this was the point when we finally had it all cleared up, I want to write the advice I gave to you, just so that whenever we read this post again, we bloom, we cherish together, love. " Aradhya, please don't mind me, but if someone matters to you na , u never do such things. I know there are people who matter a damn lot to you.And I am not even trynna say that u don't love themm.... Its just that, before your arrogance comes in... Think for a moment ,does this person matter to me, if the answer is yes, u will yourself refrain from saying anything like that... If it is a no, have sonder."
I love you, Aradhya. Thankyou for listening tonight. @_aradhya
Now I'm searching every lonely place Every corner calling out your name Tryna find you but I just don't know Where do broken hearts go? Where do broken hearts go? - Where Do Broken Hearts Go, One Direction
I think I've "mistaken" Soulmates and Muses to be synonyms.
@writesnetwork kyu? Koi aur username nahi mila kya? Thank you for the repost ;-;;;;;
So I finally wrote this!! From days I was trying to gather my thoughts and moreover facts from internet ( it didn't help) I read in political science book about reservation and it gave me idea to write this. PS: This not to hurt anyone's sentiments and if any line makes you feel so please tell me in comments that line will be changed if possible