December Daze.

Whoever said that a house was not a heart,
that it wasn't growing up and going  back to the start?
A living things,it grew on you,with it's walls that bore the same warmth  of pista green,
and the tall Neem outside the window,that stood through many heartaches and monsoons.
The indigo sky that merged the same with the tar roads,and you counted them,flights-
In their rush hour,leaning against the grilled railing of your balcony tower.
Was it not also home to your first real book read,
the first poem you thought up,and your first heartbreak.
And it still feels like the good warmth of chocolate cake melting away in your mouth,
on a Sunday morning,in essence and memory?
And the odd sounds escaping walls paper thin,from houses that grew up with you.
Standing small facing the facade of the building,shouting out for your friends for a game of hide and seek.
And warm and small,it's spirit lighted the  one inside you.
Only two Decembers ago,you realised how it had become a part of you,so indefinite.A part you left behind with the old life,one that dwells in dusty corners of your mind everyday,still.
You want to think of it with what you call warm remembrance,but all you can wonder is if you would be someone different still living in that house?
Would it have moulded things in you to something better? Do you believe that  houses hold the ability to  shape and change one?

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.
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