Swim.

Some friendships die too young,
And some loves last the smallest quarter of a lifetime.
Some songs end too abrupt,some don't end at all-
Some just become symbolic of people from the past.
Some fires are blown out before they burn their brightest,
Some are unborn cold vacuums,don't even ignite.
Some birds are tamed out of love,
Some are just caged like overripe stories.
Some smiles turn into invisible scars,
Some are just half  born dreams,don't last.
Some light is only a deceiving spark,
Some of it veiled shadows of well known misery.
Some hopes are but consolations of despair,
And some abundances are not in our share.

All the good things.

Church bells at a distance,
Add somehow to the vastness of the sky-at its bluest and widest.
An electric blue butterfly lands on
the rip above the knee of my jeans.
The bougainvilleas and a sole yellow hibiscus
is all that the warmer times have left behind.
A spring cleaned Sunday soul,
I sit soaking up the wintry morning sun.
This must be it,This must be Heaven.

The language of the butterflies.

The very purpose of my rememberance,
is to remind my olfactory nerves the pleasant smell of detergent on your gray T-shirt.
And our hands don't fit together so perfectly,
My palms a tad too sweaty,and your fingers on my spine sting like a cold water shower.
But your smile plunges me in to a prolonged comfort-
Like that of my old school Reebok shoes.
Always there,cozy and even when worn out felt almost new,
Abide by you years and years through..
And I'm a little more in love with you.

The consistency of change-The ballad of growth.

We watch a little girl walk away,
Disappear into the dark.
The last hint of her chubby calves,
grows into but a veil of winter's scarf.

The newness of hope tries to outdo
the oldness of nostalgia surrounding you.
You,who took my hand and lead me here,
A simple affair,but a great big deal.

My world has changed,shifted it's bounds,
Broken by people,and by very people rejoined.
The girl we watch,it's you,it's I-
Walking into a difficult goodbye.

Walking into newer joys and pains,
Souls reverberating with sadness and hope,
From  love to hate,and hate to love-
We watch each other grow,oh oh.

Into our hearts,we're disappearing,
Halfway there and yet,halfway not.
Somewhere in between-
It's the best place to be.

Beaded melody.

Happy Childrens' Day,Peksshi Jojo.:*

The sun hilts its rays upon your face,
Lightens up all hidden grace.
I found it,yes,the perfect place-
It is for you and I to embrace.
We'll run away and leave no trace.

And bring along your string of beads,
Pink and black,their mystery leads,
we'll hold them close in times of need,
string them along with wild,wild seeds.
Enchanting songs they'll make us heed.

On black and pink,the sunlight will fall,
(Screw it,I can't rhyme this anymore.)
them beads will catch it,make it scatter across.
Like hippie souls,we'll dance like homegrown songs.
Our gypsy beads,our sole companions,
And all their worth will shine upon you like wisdom.

"The Ecstacies Of Love."

(Special thanks to my extremely artistic thinker of a friend,who came up with the line "The ecstacies of love."

The only time I feel fragile,
Is in your arms,the safest haven there is.
So hold me tight,don't let go-
Show me all the ecstacies of love.

Your warmth nuzzles against my being
 Like the inside of a childhood memory,
I will shatter if you leave now,so stay right here-
Show me all the ecstacies of love.

Held in this embrace divine,
Every breath I take is redefined.
Pull me closer,hold on tight-
Show me all the ecstacies of love.

Happiness,itself,is holding us,
Intoxicating us in its indulgence.
Never let this moment fleet-
Show me all the ecstacies of love.

The two of us,we feel like one,
blending every hue to a beautiful melange.
Form a realm only known to us-
Show me all the ecstacies of love.

The courage it took me to say "I'm fat,so what?"

This is an age old topic and no matter how much is said and discussed,it will never be enough.
It's always been a recurring debate on my blog and in my mind-and in those of almost every girl I know.
And I  say girl,because I wouldn't do exact justice to male insecurities?

Because having a gap between your thighs is just so much more important that having enough  insulation to keep you warm in winters.
And having that much less or more on any part of your body would honestly make soo much of a difference,like they put it.
I spent the longest time wanting skinny plastic legs,but only when someone pointed out to me that they liked mine did I realise mine were just fine the way they were.I'm must confess a small part of me still covets those legs and it's not something I'm proud of.I'm sure there are so many out there who've wanted one kind of hair,skin,height,weight-with one common determinant shared universally-the lack of it,therof.
But let me tell you something I discovered growing up in a dysfunctional scape-
and heck,on most days,it makes me feel pretty good just looking like plain ol' me.And talking about body image always makes we want to embrace myself a little more-
Perfect is not beautiful,not even close.Perfect is nothing,at all.And if you still argue that it exists,I'll tell you it's subjective.Why do we need to all have an identical idea of perfect?
The creator left you flaws because every work of art needs to be flawed to be beauty in itself.
Identical ideas are sickening,and they make the monotony of it all so tiresome.Diversity is beauty.So is intelligence,wit,skill,talent..Qualities are beautiful,not ideas of how one appears or how one should.
Most of us don't realise it,but we are a sum of all our perceptions-you live your entire life inside the confines your mind and the only notion of beauty you should accept is yours.
Beautiful is not a mere description-it's a feeling.If you feel it,you potray it.Draupadi wasn't  the prettiest of them all,but she felt beautiful,because she knew what she was destined required her to believe in her beauty.
You can,too.
.

Lets call it a memory.

A friend of mine wrote this post   recently,about his hypotheses of  the design a perfect world.It got me thinking,and this isn't a defiance or anti-thesis,just a co-existing hypothesis.

Somebody once told me that the purpose of life was not to attain a constant state of contentment,but to live-to experience it with all  it’s fullness,all it’s pitfalls  and loopholes,shortcomings and coming of ages.Life,for what it is in it’s wholeness.Maybe that’s the secret to self-actualization.Like the Buddhist tick goes,experience the pleasure and the pain,absorb it and then set it free for the sake of your soul.

And I couldn’t agree less,although it took me a while to phatom the concept.

Memories-they make you nostalgic,Nostalgic for a place in time and space that ceases to be.And it’s heartbreaking,but I would never trade mine in for oblivion.

A happy memory-Being carried to bed when I fell asleep  in the car,when I was little or  rushing across the railway tracks to reach school on time,sometimes we’d go through train compartments.

The rememberance of the time when My lovely cousin and I told each other that we looked much like Princesses,at a wedding.

A minute of pleasure makes the entire day,runs through me,joy reverberates.It spreads  it’s roots deep into the soil,nourishing it daylong.

And for the bitter ones,some are soon to fade-quarrels,miscommunications,heartbreak,and the ones that linger longer,still-have something to offer,to learn.A hidden lesson,a life-altering situation.

All of this might sound like my silly teenage notions of positivity,but like the Japanese believe in Kingutsi-The art of repairing cracks in earthenwear with gold or silver laquer,for something broken is something beautiful,I think it’s time we fill the crevices in our souls with love and light.

On a lighter vein,I don’t know how many times Marylin Monroe e has to be reposted before the line “Imperfection is beauty.” Finally gets to people.

Dreading the D word.

Brace yourselves,a rant is making it's way towards youu.
Wake up groggy eyed,sit there covered in crinkly sheets,
Soaked up in the guilty pleasure of doing nothing.
It's Di..Uh,no,you're not mentally ready enough to brace the day yet.
Feel so much like a fizzled out chilli bomb,that dies before it lights up.
And my fridge is stacked up with boxes of sweets,
but the sweetness of festivity is but a long lost memory.
The only source of happiness remains to be a smooth,sterling silver pen,
with it's gold tinted clip modelled like an arrow.
How materialistic wonderful.*Cough cough.*
It feels so fluid in your palms,the shiny new thing,
Such a shame to be spending the festival of lights,
lighting up your world with the consolation that it's only a day long to go.
That it's only so long before people will live the fast life.
A memory of your mother's voice saying "Isn't it as good a burning money?"
It's a sad-ish time of year for socially anxious teenagers,
Can't even youtube in peace.Bah.
Okeebyee.

The Cinematic Interludes Of My Life.

If Bollywood could fit into a classroom with all it's boisterous bustling,
and squeeze through it's crevices to be embodied by a girl,I'd claim to know her well.
She's sheathing herself in colours new-scaled like butterfly wings,layered in dramaticism and sentiment.
And when you brush off against her good charms,she leaves a trail of glitter dust on your skin,just like butterfly wings.
Is she not pretty paranoia in every shade of pink?
Her liquid brown eyes,fluid like the action of the 70mm reel,
Her smile like the groovy numbers so lovable.
And her voice so sweet-that holds in it the warmth  of happy endings and heartfelt reunions.
If Bollywood could fit into a classroom,she would begin to grow on you,too.