…or technically the opposite of whatever Mayday is since this is a post about all the GOOD things that happened this May. So, I guess a more apt title would be REPOSE PROSE (as informs me repose happens to be one of mayday’s antonyms), but I can’t decide if that would be grammatically correct (and has nothing to do with the fact that it tragically lacks in puns that barely pass off as puns. honest.)

I’m so good at titles.


  1. The most amazing that happened (and it barely made the cut since it was on, like May 30th) was the fact that I met–in person–one of the friends I made on here. Thaz right. I met the modern-day equivalent of my pen pal. This is she. We met and had breakfast and it was wonderful and beautiful and just great. She’s great. Find her on InWords (great website by the way) here.


  1. I also got a bunch of paint supplies and bought more books (even though I still haven’t read half the books I bought at the last book fair) and just had a very good end to a month that was otherwise steeped in anxiety.


  1. According to the International Renewable Energy Agency (IRENA), as of May 29th, the renewable energy sector now consists of nearly 10 million people globally.


  1. Taiwan became the first Asian country to begin the process of legalizing same-sex marriage. (It coulda been us but society playin’–but hopefully this will pave the way for India to also recognize that love is love)


  1. Some corals in Kenyan marine national parks have adapted to warmer waters. Which is amazing news considering the depressing reality of the Great Barrier Reef.


And that’s five good things that happened in the fifth month this year.


There’s a lot of crappy things going on in the news: things that nobody saw coming, things that were predicted by a few and dismissed by the many, things that have been happening for years but only now been able to get the appropriate coverage. So in this day of hyperawareness and (perhaps as a result) desensitization, if you’d like some good news along with the bad, this might be a nice place to hang out on the weekends.

On that note:

Yours Truly,


P.S The featured image is a picture I took of the Husainabad Clock Tower in Lucknow. Which is just a beautiful city. 10/10 would recommend.

p.p.s The gif is of an actor known as Misha Collins, who is among my favourite people currently in this world, not least because of his charity organisation called Random Acts and his A+ parenting skills. (fun fact: he was allegedly accused of being the antichrist by the Westboro Baptist Church–make of that what you will.)





Or Burn This Out



I’m not lazy. I’m not.

But how do you explain to someone you can’t manage normal life when you can barely even dredge up the motivation to breathe, or eat; or not be so miserable you’ve crossed the point of comfort and simply rearranged atoms to make space until it’s firmly woven into you.

How do you even begin to tell somebody you can’t even manage to regulate your own happiness, that you haven’t been able to do that for years, that every time it comes back, it’s a little stronger and a lot more familiar and not any less easier.

“I’m sad” sounds equal parts overdramatic and gross understatement and so so silly but it’s the truth and how do you tell someone you feel like an absolute failure for it but you just can’t right now, you can’t.

How do you even hate yourself a little less? Cut yourself some slack? ‘Cause you can see it logically  sure, but mind and practice are two different things and both are out of commission lately and you need to get it together, this is an important year but you can’t. You’ve barely been holding it together for 3 months and then the universe decides to go ahead and screw you over a little more as if you need any more reason to be pathetic and sad and pathetic and it is so silly it’s laughable–if every laugh didn’t sound forced and fake and empty, like you were shredding up your lungs just to torture it into giving up that basic, basic sound.

Tone down the self-loathing, man. It gets old.

Anyway, point is all of it sounds like I’m just making excuses but I’m not. I want to be able to just function and I want to not be such a flipping mess, and I want  to be able to explain it to you in terms less weak and confusing. But I can’t.

I can’t get out of bed, and it’s such a fricking cliché, and I can’t find it in myself to care, I can’t keep telling myself this isn’t happening and that I’m good when I can feel it heavy and thick and blistering all around me and it’s so amazingly pitiful and I am so done.

I say sad and I say miserable but there are different kinds, like when your dog dies and it sucks but that kind of sadness is one that grows inside you, born of healthy feelings and normal responses, warm and not nearly as self-destructive and then there is the kind that descends over you like a blanket that you wrap around yourself in ways you can’t remember later until it feels like it’s just spun itself into your skin, a physical barrier between you and everything around you, filtering out everything until all that’s left is shades of muted grey and crimson–and why crimson where does that even come from and grey is such a fricking cliché — and it’s foreign and alien and familiar and what does one even say to that.

It is so messed up to describe any sort of sadness as flippin’ “warm” of all things but I speak in relative terms. It’s warm in the way the lump that surges up in your throat eventually goes away, and your eyes may be scratchy but you feel like you’ve been scrubbed clean, like there is a new day and the last one sucked, sure, but this one doesn’t have to. It’s warm in the way that you don’t find yourself drained and empty and pathetic, but just upset and exhausted while being secure in the knowledge that it’s temporary. It’s warm in a way the other kind of sadness isn’t, in a way that doesn’t leave you satisfied and avenged when you don’t eat or get out of bed or attempt to make things better for yourself. It’s warm in a way that doesn’t compel you to self-sabotage in ways nobody else notices.

The other kind is just plain cruel. Shaky hands and dim rooms and self-loathing.

I’m not lazy, I’m not making excuses, I’m just incredibly, terribly off.

(And I am sorry, I am, but I don’t know how to fix it)


Yours Truly,



P.S I haven’t been around for a while and I apologize for that. I also apologize for coming back just to post this depressing thing but I really needed to just get it out. Thank you for putting up with it.


When You Don’t Always Recognize Yourself

Perhaps it means nothing to you. You’ve learned to be okay with it and you no longer fight. You were never an outwardly passionate person to begin with, but you did believe in stuff. It made you who you are. Your mother called you a fairytale baby; a firm believer in faeries and magic and bubbles. But at the same time you knew where the stories ended and where reality began. You also understood that reality was a fluid concept; everyone was entitled to their own version of it. Perhaps that is what made you so good at weaving stories. Grand sentences and beautiful tales conjured up late at night to help your younger sister sleep. You saw the sparkle in her eye, the excited questions, that satisfied drowsy smile at the end of it. And the next day you could do it all over again.

People thought you were a bubbly person, you knew otherwise. Your mother feared you lived in a land of fairytales and would end up being hurt by the Big Bad World. Again, you knew otherwise. You weaved stories and so knew it wasn’t real. You told of happy endings and castles while being painfully aware of suicides and abrupt ends. You were rooted in reality while still having the privilege of floating away from it from time to time. You knew all the ways things could go wrong but believed in all the times they won’t. You had beliefs and ideals and the occasional pretty bubble. You fought for people, for those beliefs. Fought against the concept of evil and its incidence. You believed people to be fundamentally good, no matter how naive others thought that made you.

Nowadays you tell friends that people are selfish. You don’t truly believe that, you know you don’t, but you say it anyway. Because it’s the smart thing to do. Terrible things happen in the world making it a terrible place filled with terrible people. You’ve met a few. You’ve met truly evil people who made your blood crawl and your eyes fill up in despair because you couldn’t bear the level of hatred you felt for that human being. You never believed in the concept of hate. And for a while, after meeting them and finding out the horrible things they’ve thought, you forgave them. Or you simply didn’t believe anybody capable of such thoughts. You’ve accepted it now. And so you tell your friends that people are selfish and mean. You don’t believe that. But you’re okay with saying it, because that is who you are now. You have fewer beliefs than you did before. You haven’t made up a bedtime story for your younger sister for a long while now. Her eyes still sparkle and you look at it and pray to God that never goes away. Your mother says she’s a fairytale baby too, just like her oldest sister. And you see it. You see it in the way she looks up at the night sky with you on the days you come out of your room, in the way she flips her pretend hair this way and that and talks in a strange language, in the way she treats her toys like they’re actual living beings—in the way she believes them to be actual living beings. In the way she believes in magic while still being able to question the absurd. You’ve gotten rusty at telling her about fairies and you realize she doesn’t believe in half the things she used to. When you told her stories. You look at that and think maybe it’s a good thing.

Perhaps it meant nothing to you. The stories and the belief and the magic. Maybe you feel silly talking about spells and fantasies. And maybe that’s what’s killing you. You can’t write stories anymore. You haven’t in a long while. Not happy ones anyway. You write of sick mothers and poetic deaths. You tell yourself that’s what you should be writing anyway because it’s the best kind of beautiful there is: tragic and grown up. You’re a sham.

You believe in people being fundamentally good and you believe in fairies in the garden. Or maybe you actually don’t. Maybe it truly means nothing to you and you’ve actually changed. Its why you can’t write stories. Not ones you love.

Magic never denies its evil side. There are witches and hags and greedy giants. You fight it with the good. You’ve learned to simply be. And you hate yourself for it.

Yours Truly,



My last post was my hundredth. Which might not seem like too big a deal to most of you, but it is to me. It meant I finally did something completely and properly and loved every minute of it.

Yes that's me. I'm an overjoyed potato. An overjoyed potato whose make up game is the bomb.
Yes that’s me. I’m an overjoyed potato. An overjoyed potato whose make up game is the bomb.

I wanted this one to be special. 101. I wanted to write something meaningful and profound, something that’ll tug at your heartstrings and float in the recesses of your mind long after you read this. If not beautiful, I would’ve settled for funny; something witty and light-hearted that’d brighten your day. But I don’t know. I should know by now that that’s not how it works.

SO, in my usual narcissistic fashion, I’ll settle for something about me (and no contrary to what you might think I hadn’t started this post with the intention of writing about myself. Yes I know I do it a lot, I do feel slightly guilty about it, but hey this is my space. It’s either this or weekly updates on social networking sites giving away too much unasked for information. So really you’re doing the world a service by reading about the stuff I write here so I don’t feel compelled to write anything on Google+ or something. Yeah, reading this is your great service to humanity. The angels smile down at you at this very moment and shake their head adoringly while contemplating including you in their ranks. You’re welcome.)

I’m a little lost. As regards to what I have no idea, there’s just this general feeling of being untethered—and by that I don’t mean free, but just sort of…ungrounded? Is that even a word? For the most part I get caught up in day to day stuff and don’t dwell on it much but then it’s always just right there. I know we’re kids and not supposed to know what to do with our lives but there’s just no joy in it, you know? It’s just blah.

With me being smack dab in the middle of boards, my anxiety is having a field day. I have bio tomorrow and should be studying but I figured I’d take a break. Help. I have this soul crushing image of receiving my results in January and finding out I got B’s and C’s. I was in the car on the way back from school on Friday and we were parked and all I could think about was all the ways I could get into a car accident right now and what would happen if I did. My first thought? I wouldn’t be able to give my exams properly. Not dying, but failing. Hermione would be proud.

Things aren’t all bad though. Some things have actually settled down, which I’m not sure is a good thing or a bad thing, but the plus side to the closing of chapters is that they allow for the beginnings of new ones. Oh and I got to finish the last of the ice cream—which never happens in my house. I’m usually the one excitedly opening the freezer to find an empty carton. What kind of a monster puts the empty ice cream tub back in the freezer to taunt the less fortunate?

Okay well its a little after 8. I should go study.

Thank you, by the way. For soldiering through all the whiny posts and the boring posts and the downright absurd ones. I mean yes, I know it’s all for the greater good, but thank you anyway.

Yours Truly,



And maybe that’s how it works. Bit by bit. Settling in and cutting deep—but blunt so you think its just a tiny dent, a groove, harmless. And there it sits. And there it cuts. Barely noticeable, for now.

And you hum and you sing and you go about with your daily grin, and that’s that.

Until it’s late at night and you’ve been alone for too long. Thought it all out for too long, but still you hum, and still you sing and still there it is, your daily grin. Strained maybe, but practised long enough to not remain that way for long. And you wonder how no one else sees it; how they don’t notice it cutting in deeper and deeper in you, hollowing you out. It’s obvious to you; can’t they see it in the eyes? In the daily grin, strained and perfect for too long? In the drastic, rapid oscillations between the too-good-to-be-true bubbly to the quiet, smiling still?

And always the hum, and always the dull throb of it digging deeper, scooping out another part of you and flinging it to the wind and settling in inside the new, shiny hollow. And always, that daily grin.


Smile–not right. A little

to the left? Deeper on the right.

And they cast shadows on her face

where there had been none.

That dent again, tiny, insignificant,

Another shadow, another wrinkle,

Another blemish where she could

Afford for there to be none.

Easy enough, for most.

Slight tightening of the muscle.

But not right, no, not hers.

A little to the left and deeper on the right.

And there, again, a shadow.

Where there was supposed to be none.

And so it goes, and on it goes,

A broken merry-go-round no one boards.

Teddy Bears and the Threat of Cockroaches

I haven’t written in a while. Or maybe it hasn’t actually been that long, but it feels like I haven’t written in a long time.

I haven’t really done a lot actually. I painted over an old painting—well, a part of it (I never liked that part anyway) but that was just a few layers of white paint over fiery red hair.

I feel a strong urge to spout words along the lines of ‘the abysmal infinity’ and ‘bottomless pit’ and ‘snufflepugs’. I don’t feel like doing much of anything else. I haven’t in a while.

Speaking of ‘have not’s, I have also not figured out exactly what it is that I’m writing about. Guess it will be about the fact that I haven’t written in a while.

Aren’t I absolutely fascinating?

As far as Thursdays go the past one was certainly something. Teddies were involved but that is about as much as I can say about it. That and the phrase “feel anything yet? Maybe you should hold it for longer?” Whatever you’re thinking I assure you it isn’t half as bad as that, but it is twice as hilarious. Too bad I can’t tell you.


It’s been a weird day.

I do feel sort of liberated though. Thursday was weird (in a good way and not at the same time) but Friday (even though it’s only been an hour since it began)  is turning out to be better…well I mean things aren’t ideal but at least they’re concrete and I can finally just…I don’t know, walk away? Without second guessing myself. It’s nice.

You ever have that? That freeing sort of feeling after something you’ve constantly been going back and forth on finally concludes and you’re relieved because at least it’s over? I mean it doesn’t even matter how it turned out, you just bask in the finality of it?

It’s over. 🙂


Yours Truly,


P.S How dope are my photo-shopping skills? Isn’t my hat wonderful?