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What use is it to close my fists if everything that I hold is water anyway?

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This is a question that I recently asked the universe during one of the most befuddling and all-consuming periods of my life. The answer to which has not been gifted to me yet, neither by divine intuition or an Instagram quote nor as loud words on the back of a pickup truck- it remains undelivered, perhaps lost in transit. It is ironic that I mostly find all my answers in places such as that, yet I must admit, it is a result of a lot of my own questing and being in places that I shouldn’t be.   In all the answers that I have ever received there runs a common thread- an element of knowing everything and nothing at the same time. When you’re creating an anecdote in your mind, you often try to make it as discreet yet clear as possible, like a mouse that can parole through the entire house, eat its appetite’s worth, and scramble off, still having left enough for about everybody else. So when I am spoken to in metaphors, I assume they are written for me- yes- the half-faded and miss...
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Pansie

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Pansie, you give me a little whiff of your soul, fragrant with the flowers of dawn. Its only the same as it ever was yet I see you, and how you have withdrawn. And I just can’t believe that you, Pansie, are the same soul I met the day when- -I shot my shot into the sky, you lit up like a thousand galaxies, that I now watch like circuits, light up at the sight of things- you tell me you love.   Tell me Pansie, why did you stop? Eating your greens Going to class Counting your coins Tell me all of it. I know its not in me, to bring it back to you but I do not have to. As long as I can sit with you on this dark November day, light up the cigarette of nostalgia, and watch it in between your lips, wither away. No words have to leave your mouth No tears you have to cry Just let me sit with you in this loss and watch all our minutes pass us by.   Time is numbered in this city- -for people like you and me. A plane will...
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The picture- Sikkim

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  You never miss the picture, only the moving parts, for the picture is logged into your head in perpetuity, for all time to come. It is these moving parts that trinkle into crevices- crevices that hold everything you thought you didn’t want but ended up needing.   In a different city from the one I have lived my entire life in, I do not miss the big picture, I miss the moving parts. I do not miss family or friends, I miss the walk home, the raging sun, the smoke laden air. It is crazy I know, but it was home. The familiar pavements were home, the laughing strangers in the park at 8:30 pm were home, the tender windchimes on the ground floor apartment were home, it was their home, and my home too.   You leave a place, and you leave behind familiarity, comfort, of knowing where the roads are, and what the blind turn up right leads to. You leave home and you leave the indents in your pillow, the leaking tap, the dying trees in the 45 degree heat.   The way I...
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Your stellar, noble, marvelous lady

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I just hope that you who was born a lonely child, will not die a lonelier man. The ache in your gaze shifts, but never fades. I cannot bear to see it, I must walk on. I am blind to the bourgeoisie fantasy of it all. One house upstate, one tall roof off which to fall. It is your own twisted, untoward way. (One) The wine glass shattering into your organs. (Two) Surgery that will cost you a fortune. I would be the one, to teach you how to walk again. (One) "Follow my footsteps", (two) "imitate my fall"; its okay to scrape both your knees, I will not let them scar at all. Sure, this circling around the talk of the matter keeps it veritable indeed. but we live in what, but an awry lodging, where each day makes us nothing but new and newer. We wind up being two parallel lines on a plane, stretching ourselves in all directions- we try to collide -it never happens.  So we walk, emancipated now, into the dawn. I just hoped that you who was born a lonely child, would not have...
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I can never sleep before 4 am for too long.

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Every few months I convince myself that writing is a whim, its just leisure, just another quirk, a hobby. I seem to forget that I need it to survive, need it to see myself- in the mirror and in the eye. I need to write. Writing is not a multivitamin; it’s a life sustaining pill.  "Love of My Life" by Freddie mercury is playing in the background. I'm wondering if I'm much too young to stop believing in love already. The air is crisp this time of January and if you dare to step outside, you will feel it slap your face. Sometimes like a disappointed parent, other times playfully like a laughing friend, some days like a drunk husband. Growing up is right around the corner, but it is a blind turn. And the car I'm in has no siren. It’s a hauntingly beautiful life. I have never quite loved life enough to go out of my way to live, but at the same time never hated it enough to grab the bottle, light the smoke, glide the blade or sniff the coke. So its only fair that I have...
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Introduction

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I didn't plan on doing an introduction, but I have my first blog post ready already and it feels wrong to post it without one. Hi, I'm Lakshita, a student who made a podcast named "Everything I've Never Said" at 15 years old for fun. (there is barely anything on it but I will get better at it I promise.) A few things about me are- Dead Poet's Society is my favourite movie; I impulsively cut bangs at 15 years old and that has permanently and severely dented my social life; I'm a cat person, infact I'm terrified of dogs so that was never an option; I'm in the process of learning how to cook and people often say if I was a colour I'd be yellow. (highly disagree) I have loved writing, all my life. The first poem I wrote dates back to when I was 6 years old, which is when I barely could read or write. Writing poems was never a career trajectory for me, but more like a way to deal with all that is asphyxiating and difficult to maneuver. The way I wri...
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Ode to Abundance

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I’ve been looking on and on, At heaps of pens and papers Some cut up in halves and quarters, some intact like an uncredited money bill. Crisp like the air that would enter my bedroom window, If I ever bothered to open it. Books I haven't read yet and scents I’ll never spray. Trinkets that will never sit on the crest of my ears now that they have turned grey. I wish for so much Then I wish to throw it all away. Catapult into a new person and leave it all here, it rots to stay. Incense candles that I light on days when each thought is all-consuming and cannibalistic, I watch the wax melt, I dip my finger in it, wait for it to stiffen around my nail beds, Feel the softness amidstthe bleakness.  All my candles now have craters in them, but that’s okay They never had much fragrance anyway. I open drawers and business cards fly out, “Sensitive care” tags and to-do lists, All untended, each box unticked.  I have so much to do, when will I do it? I have much to keep, much to store, mu...
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