Waves – They are like everywhere. In your hair, in your moves, in the gesture of a hand and in the incessant ups and downs of your life. They are beautifully scary, just like you. They can form the most beautiful coastline or be another name for devastation, it all depends on their mood. You can run away from them or you can choose to surf them…but you can’t ignore or escape them.
I am obsessed with the powerful roar of the sea and its endlessness. It reminds me of the most incredible women I have ever met. They are the most pleasant to enjoy from a distance yet they can wreck havoc and be a fuckin’ Tsunami if you call for it.
The morning sun is offline today. How do you feel about the gloomy sky overlooking your existence? Does it make you irritable? Or does it make you poetic?
My night lamp worked overtime last night – unpaid and drama free. It shed light on my journal as the pen (mightier than the sword) carefully cut through my ginormous ego and I bled all over the page.
When someone enters my room, they visibly encounter fresh bed sheets, a floral fragrance in the air and a pile of non-essential paperwork. The naked eyes miss out on the desolation, melancholy and meaningless efforts to live. I wonder if the internal ruckus is real or if the external is just a coherent manifestation of the voices in my head.
Self Sabotage – This is how I introduce my story. People have it far worse than I do, but I have the magical ability (read: disability) to cook up negative stories in my head and pour cauldrons of sympathy onto my misfortunes. This somehow felt good to me, not that it cheered me up or made life easier, it just handed me the permission to remain curled up in bed and be useless. My mind was probably designed for far greater stuff, such as address a Ted audience, speak about my story, pen down incredible novels and travel to the furthest of lands, but all I utilized it for was to create saddening scenarios in my head such as how an ex-friend would feel when I will be on my death bed or how someone will regret mistreating me when I am far gone. I was a crisp script writer but my ideas could only be applied in horror movies. Some might imagine this as a form of sickness, but I knew I was losing control of my mind and that’s about it.
This culture went so far that I couldn’t craft a series of positive thoughts in my head at all! I would struggle to make things seem do-able. It was easier for me to give up, to not show up and to not take phone calls. I would binge-watch YouTube videos and feel practically exhausted from all the screen-staring and junk-consumption. It was bad. There was no one I could turn towards for help, as friends, family and lovers alike said “It was going to get better.” But it wasn’t, I was drowning and no one could hear me cry “Help”. So I rose, suited up and started my journey as my own super hero.
Whiskey under her breath, cigarette stubs under her feet – a raging queen stepped out of her unmade bed. Dirty, unwashed curls hid the prettier half of her face. The eye make-up from last night seems to have made love to her face and refused to wear out. She stumbles upon an empty beer bottle lying on the floor of her rented apartment. In someone’s over-sized white office shirt she takes a stroll to the bathroom. That’s one space for contemplation about life, she thinks. Splashing her face with water from the rusty tap she looks up at her reflection in the stained mirror. She sees an unknown face, the girl she used to be, was nowhere to be found.
A writer by day, an overthinker by night.
I hold onto bed cringes, I topple, I fight.
I bathe in dreams and I sleep in gloom,
I try not to step outside my room.
My room is my nest, my room is a furnace.
It tightens my anxiety to me like a harness.
I choke and I stab, I lose and I cry,
I try to remember the 13 reasons why.
I am a dead plant waiting for a drop of rain,
I don’t know how and I don’t know when.
#thoughts #ťhoughtoftheday #thoughtcatalogue #elephantjournal #quotecatalogue #poetry #poetrycommunity
I stand in the middle of a loud club downtown. There’s mindless music enamoring the space and it goes something like *objectification of a woman’s body part* … bass drop… *some more objectification*. In the background modern, independent women are “putting their hands up in the air” and enjoying it.
Few shots down, a sweet girl exits the club and throws up on the bouncer. She looks unwell and in need of help. Clearly the boyfriend bailed, now she’s unconscious, alone and dehydrated on the dance floor surrounded by men and women with sparkling outfits from Zara and matt personalities from Maybelline. Noone comes forward to help because the world is rejoicing to the glory of the ass.