sunday coping

Lately,
I realised,
I’ve been dealing in everyday miracles.

Which makes existing infinitely easier.

So you can’t escape the voids all the time, you can still look at the sunset
and breathe
and maybe you’ve forgotten what it was like to be happy
but you can stand beneath the rain,
and relearn the basics

or maybe draw a perfect circle
or one that looks more like a square but makes you smile anyway
or maybe wake up on time
and not immediately want to return to bed or

maybe

Just brushing your teeth.

the mint mingling
with the taste
of your morning tea
even if you haven’t slept in weeks.

The smooth glide of pen against paper
feels like a victory

The clouds outside the classroom
peeping over the trees
feather soft rolls over vast blues

and how lucky to have windows
to hear
the rain battering against concrete,
drip down leaves
or the warbling of a distant radio

everyday miracles

like the sound of my mother’s laugh
through the phone
or the curve of my sister’s cheek as she sleeps
or the dimples of my father’s smile

like the sunrise

or the puddles at my feet,
the taste of ice cream
set against marble top visions of the future

things that would make me go blind if I were to ever look at them directly.

 

 

 

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betty smith, the youths, and disjointed journals

Dated: 5th September

I have this book I’m reading right now. I started it properly on a flight to the city where my college (!) is and now I’m on a flight back home and I don’t want to finish it. It’s happening just a little too fast and it’s not a small book but it feels like it right now in my hands with the clouds within grasping distance and the distant, waning cries of an infant settling itself into my skin, the seats, my knees.

Dated: 10th September

I didn’t read the book at all this past week and now I’m on a flight to what will essentially be my home for the next five years again. I finished the book. I love it. I feel a little bit like sobbing.

Dated: 4th September

I look at this one blue building, yeah? And I wonder if I’d disappear right now if I could. I don’t know. I knew a couple months ago, but I don’t now and that.
That’s good, though.

There’s a woman in the car beside mine. She’s holding her child’s head up to the sky and they’re both grinning and something blooms warm and golden and happy and I know this, I’ve known this forever.

Dated: 17th July

Or maybe the metaphor hacks and coughs her way onto a bed, falling just shy of profound coherence. Maybe it’ll slip through the cracks and everyone will heave a sigh of relief.

The hyperbole flings itself onto oncoming traffic.
Or. More peacefully. Sinks into blue on warm evenings, deeper and deeper till its elbows rest alongside colossal mammalian corpses teeming with life

And the sibilants draw on the backs of each other’s hands and one hums, and the other chokes on splintered spoonfuls of syrupy joy.

Maybe it’ll fall into the chasm and everyone will dance all night.
Maybe it’ll never return and it’ll whoop for joy.
Maybe it’ll go to sleep and take a shower on awakening.

Dated: 4th July

Today was a good day.
I think I’m slowly losing my mind.

Dated: 9th September

I feel old. That’s silly, of course, I’m only 18. Still, being 14 sounds awfully young.
Maybe I’ll be 70 one day and think of being 65 as awfully young.

Dated: 10th September

A Tree Grows In Brooklyn is a heaven sent.

Dated: 6th August

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you make me laugh but it’s not funny (II)

there’s no one to do the feeling for them

Part I here

The newest people believed some of the stars ought to get lonely all alone in the dark, miles from other souls.

But the stars don’t have souls, you see, the Sad would interject. They can’t feel anything, not happy, not lonely–there’s no one to do the feeling for them.

Who does the feeling for us, then. the Desperate would ask. Where do our souls come from?

The Happy told them they were born from a laugh. A person would laugh, and birth twenty-nine new souls that’d whiz about, looking for someone to claim. That’s what the breeze is. Twenty-nine new souls grasping for a heart to ease. Can’t you feel them? And the Happy would stretch out their palms.

From war, the Angry would say. People would wage wars and kill children and sob and each tear would bear thirteen new souls that’d splitter and splatter and fracture and catch on coat-tails and shoes and glistening pearls and seep under our skin over the years until there’s a respectable enough ocean sploshing out our rib cages and we drown in every song we sing for the children we killed. It’s why we still wage wars. In the hopes, we might grow a soul at the end of it. Of course, they sighed, there is no end.

The Sad weren’t very sure but they thought perhaps a soul sprang forth at the touch of a hand that lays you to sleep, along the curved edges of clay pieces you sacrificed sunrises to mould, from the first drop of ink that spreads across the page.

The Desperate thought perhaps they didn’t have souls at all.

 

A Break

a single manly tear rolls down my paper smooth skin yO MOMMA

I will be taking a break. From blogging that is (and just social media and writing and anything that brings me joy in general? except going biking at the local national park because ey monsoon’s here and everything is green–i saw a fawn playing with a baby monkey and a peacock dancing during a light drizzle and a turtle maybe communicating with a bird and okay so maybe I’m not giving up everything that brings me joy).

giphy

Not that very many people would care or even notice but in case some poor unfortunate soul stumbles by for the first time in a couple months and wonders why there isn’t any recent stuff, this blog isn’t dead just resting. Feel free to click over to some of the older stuff while you’re deprived of any new content.

Not like doing this will even make any difference, seeing how normally I posted maybe once in two months anyway (barring the last couple recent stress-infused months).

But yeah I’m taking a break, albeit reluctantly, but I gotta keep reminding myself this is all in favour of achieving something I want to do. Which is to go to med school. Which I hopefully will next year if I work hard enough.
I’m taking a drop year to prepare for the pre-medical tests and I’ve been known to be distracted by this platform instead of studying so it is probably for the best, even if it will take some getting used to.

I won’t enjoy it but hey this something I want to do so gotta make sure I do end up doing it instead of, to quote internet sensation, faniel towell, “procrastinate on our one shot at existence”.

Whoop-de-do.

 

giphy2

Yours Truly,
Simran

p.s. rice has the prettiest of the plant scientific names: Oryza sativa, as does the sweet pea: Lathyrus odoratus 

p.p.s. rice + Arabidopsis thaliana were among the first plant genomes to be sequenced before the Human Genome Project.

p.p.p.s. carrots were originally purple.

And that concludes your botany lesson for today. Tune in same time next year for some juicy deets on the rich and famous from the sorta-journal I will maybe kinda hopefully keep while away.

god is a woman

What am I when I’m not simply potential?

Death isn’t something I think about very much. It’s inevitable and a normal part of life, so really what’s the point? There’s nothing I can do about it, just like there’s nothing I can do about the Universe expanding or the fact that our sun will eventually literally blow up in all our faces (and to think the Beatles wrote a song about you, ye ungrateful wench) and the Earth will become a flaming pile of destruction (metaphorically though, we’re already there).

I do, however, think about getting old. Which also happens to be inevitable and a normal part of life but the difference, in this case, is that I know what it’s like. I have physical, documented evidence of what it’s like to grow old, i.e. (from what I’ve seen) mostly bad hips and saying, “I’m too damn old for this”. Maybe shaking your fists at rowdy teenagers, I don’t know.

Point is, growing old bothers me.

What will I do when I don’t have my entire life ahead of me. What am I when I’m not young and idealistic (lolololol maybe idealistic isn’t the word. what do you call people who are disappointed about the glass being only half full but also intensely fearful of the glass breaking, leaving dangerous shards all over the carpet? what do you call them? losers? idk)

What am I when I’m not simply potential?

I suppose what I’m really asking is what am I when I’m not allowed to make mistakes anymore. What am I when the things I set out to do have been done or irreversibly not done depending on where life takes me. What am I when something I do wrong has consequences that reach far into the future (because everybody knows you get an entirely new identity once you turn twenty and your past is more or less erased and so nothing you’ve done till then matters. It’s why the underworld is crawling with pre-pubescent crime syndicates).

wHaT AM i.

A bird? A plane? Two bipedal cats in a trench coat trying to sneak into the opera?

lgbtq+ icon whom no one knows and whose orientation is actually represented by ‘+’???

Growing old under protest? (she says at eighteen. which, as you all know, is positively ancient.)

 

~fin~

About the title:
She’s not, actually.
He’s not a man either.
He just is. She doesn’t subscribe to the gender binary. It’s just some translation problems, from what I understand.

Just like ships aren’t women. But the Titanic still broke your little adolescent heart in history class, didn’t she? (the ship, I mean, not the movie the movie THERE WERE OTHER PIECES OF SUITABLE DEBRIS HE COULD HAVE FLOATED ON IF NOT WITH ROSE THAT SELF-SACRIFICING LITTLE OLD STYLE STEP DANCING EARLY GATSBY FOOL)

~fin2~

gif used.

~fin3~

Every Story But Mine

giphy

i am 23 and singing to a girl
who does not love me-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
a pretentious witch
who has never fallen in love
but can pretend
and shamelessly exploit
the theoretical heartbreak anyway.

i am 48 and clawing at a nicotine noose
that only seems to cling closer-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
and smoke may look good in black and white
but cigarettes make my eyes water.

i am 34 and burning the slippers
of a husband who left me-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
and the burning plastic would
only serve to poison me.

i am 9 and aboard a train
and the man kisses my hand-
-but that’s not true i am 18.
and kindness can be a disguise.
 

yours truly,

[idk man do I even need to sign-off? why am I making this harder than it has to be]

Hairy Fingers

We all have those days. The ones where you can’t find anything to write about because the voices inside your head are completely silent (the voices inside mine are rarely ever silent—quite the boisterous, bickering bunch if you ask me, but they don’t always talk sense and I find myself, as I am right now, somewhat lacking in the ‘legit posts’ department and I do want to write something because, well, because I have the time)

I have a notebook. It’s a nice notebook. It’s a nice notebook I write down ideas in. I flipped through the nice notebook with the not-so-nice ideas and there were a few blog ideas I wrote down. Clearly I never actually got to them. But since I have nothing else to offer and I fear posting this infrequently will cost me quite a few readers, here they are (some of them truly are terrible, okay fine most of them):

gold
An extract from the above mentioned notebook. It’s from the few entries that were journalistic-like in nature. It’s okay to cringe. I cringed the hardest.
  • Birthdays: Celebrating the countdown to your death…speaking of things that don’t make sense: I’m In the Eleventh Grade! (?) [this was way back in January when my birthday was nearing and I had been an eleventh-grader for a month and yet it was still only sinking in]
  • Favorite Past-Time: Turning Water into Wine
  • A Woman Without a Man is Like a Fish Without a Dream Board [I think this one was after I saw another mind-numbing movie where the girl’s sole purpose in life was landing the guy]
  • Dawn of the Dread [don’t even know with this one…]
  • Skating Away on the Thin Ice of a New Day
  • The Older You Get, The Greater You Were
  • All the World’s a Schrödinger’s Box and We But Mere Cats [Happen to quite like this one, to be honest. Wonder why I didn’t write anything…]
  • Criticize. Condemn. Complain [Always did like alliterations]
  • It’s Not the Bullet That Kills You, It’s the Hole. [Aren’t I a clever little thing?]
  • Shaolin Soccer [Actually a review on the movie by the same name, but I didn’t really write a “proper” review and so decided to not actually post it]
  • Smell Flowers, Look Around For the Coffin: The Average Cynic, De-mystified.
  • A Closed Mouth Gathers No Feet

And on that note, I shall bid adieu.

Perhaps I should try actually responding to the Daily Post prompts instead of writing crap like this…

Yours Truly,

sign-off