Poems · writing

Learning to Live (Outside My Head)

It isn’t easy- my years of lazy experience
Has made me an outcast who lives inside her head
The thoughts like little mice scurrying
Through the alleyways of my skull
Project as potent, looming shadows; and thicken
Into a cloud above my eyes

All my childhood I was told
To learn to live outside my head
Look at all these men and their flashy toys,
And beg questions off the wind!
Don’t spin strange, lovelorn tales from your bed
That is just what sad little girls do

I was bitter, fighting war on two fronts
On the inside: starved for words, colors, sounds
On the outside: longing for the romance of the woods
And to discover dampened leaf patterns upon its floor
I thought I knew better than to live outside my head

Today I am still learning, wondering:
What is it like to live outside my head?
Is it worth giving up on the kaleidoscope of nightmares
Inside; to feed perhaps my ego on miles of human concrete
And drinking games, and flashy lights, and the smoke from angelic lips

Hello fellow bloggers, followers and anybody else who might chance upon this poem! How have you been? I’ve been gone for a while now! But I always return somehow. That’s the deal. Sometimes I do wonder if one of these days all the little voices dictating stories inside my head will disappear on their own and I will have nothing else to say to blank pieces of paper- or, in most cases nowadays, to the pristine white computer screen. If experience were to be my guide, I would dismiss this thought outright. But my creative wheels do stop spinning, especially when I live in the outside world. It is a challenge- a delicate balance. Would I be willing to risk my sanity for the Great Writing Cause? I wouldn’t say no to that question because a lot of great writing does come from a healthy dose of insanity. But the remaining comes from discipline.

I’ve begun to think a little bit about drafts lately. Everything you see here on this blog is a “first draft” that is produced in one sitting, barely ever corrected for grammatical or spelling errors, let alone revised for flow. That’s what makes the blogging experience so breezy for me: I don’t let my perfectionist tendencies interfere with it because I see it as something limited- a “hobby” I pursue without rhyme or reason. If I were to promise myself a little more ambition in terms of my blog (and believe me, I have tried and always failed), the little voice dictating errors will take over and paralyze me. Anyway, I just started reading a book called Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamon. It got me thinking about the potential of using the 90% weak writing that I put out into the world courtesy of this blog, to mine for the 10% of gold which I assume is hiding within it. That’s where the drafts come in.

Anne talks about short assignments and shitty first drafts that may make absolutely no sense and be so disgustingly repulsive that you might want to throw your laptop right out the window. But she sees benefit and bravery in your attempts to just sit down every day anyway, to push these shitty drafts out of you (almost like you are giving birth to them, which you are) because that’s where the good stuff is going to come from. I think if that is true, then there lies that balance between living inside your head and living outside it that is so essential for creativity.

Sure, I can lock myself up Marquez-style. It would probably drive me insane but perhaps if I am clever enough, it might get me published posthumously. Or I could simply look for a balance between pulling crazy demons out of my hat(rack) and actually polishing them until they shine in the dark and you can see them stand out, maybe even like them just a little bit. Enough to share with friends and family?

I don’t know if any of this makes any sense. But hey, this might just be a shitty first draft with the potential for greatness, right?

Life · writing

Will You Miss India?

Will you miss India?

Will you miss the crazy honking on the street; the bronze and blistering bodies cohabiting a narrow breadth of space; the stalls of watery, salty-sweet, spicy, laden, yellowing, creaming mountains of fly-infested snacks and the jingling of pennies as bodies rub against one another, pushing to be the first in line; the pink sunsets across a dusty patch of land or through the worn, grey mesh of a half-abandoned building (and there might be a story behind it!); the scarves and kurtis that play at being rainbows draped over pear-shaped bodies under oiled, coiled, tangled, wispy hair worn thin or flown high from the heat and the smoke and the traffic and the dust; the perennial sound of traffic buzzing, whistling, flying past and men hurling words at other men, often not caring; the hostility and the harshness always permeated by the yellow sun, trailing a thin line of birds; an under-construction road or building piled with concrete and mortar and bricks; the tiny hammocks made out of thin cloth with little brown babies placed within them, their tiny fingers grasping the air for the first signs of that constant struggle which is to define them for eternity; the pitter-patter of tiny footsteps clad in half-broken slippers, the supple prepubescent bodies shrouded in hand-me-downs from generations ago and turning black under layers of grime and dirt; the toothless grin of a woman shoving her hand into your ribcage in the hope for a penny or two, dancing with an undernourished babe held in her arms as the signal turns from red to green and your eyes are focused on the vapidness ten feet away; the bone-showing hungry trot of a street dog uncared for except to be thrown stones at or fed by the occasional kindness of a stranger and his bark like a question mark, challenging you or his fellow competitors to hurl another hostile gesture into his life of a street thug; the sway of a cow, its body thickened under worship and fodder as it moves nonchalantly down a busy junction; the lines of girls and boys in their late teens, dressed like a uniform in jeans and a tee-shirt from real brands or fake ones, their eyes surveying the scene of their triumph as they trudge down streets that are unwelcoming to pedestrians or navigate their bikes and scooties with the giddiness of first timers- I could write for hours about the images I’ve absorbed over the years, taking for granted the tiny around-the-corner shop where you can find anything from a stick of gum to a bar of soap and the raspy cry of an ice-cream vendor making his way through rows of houses in the twilight. I can talk about nights of religious festivities where loudspeakers would blare the word of God late into the night, regardless of an individual’s sleep requirements and marriages would be celebrated into the next morning. I can close my eyes and see shops with absurd names next to showrooms of international brands on the edge of a road with barely enough turning space for two vehicles planning to go in the opposite directions. And I can see men staring, leering glaring and women walking with their shoulders squared against the onslaught. And I can see the fear in their eyes and the spark and the absolute certainty that tomorrow too, life shall go on and they shall be here trying to make the best of what they have, fighting through a sea of other human beings just as desperate, just as intense, just as overwhelmed, just as burdened and hurt and preoccupied and obsessed and determined and helpless and amazed by the contrasts and the competition frothing all around them.

So, yes I will miss India, in my own bittersweet way.

book review · books · history · reading · writing

A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf

Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no
bolt, that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.”

In as little as sixty pages, Virginia Woolf covers the entire span of humanity’s greatest chasm- the inexplicable notion of ‘male’ and ‘female’, the unending debate on the cycles of gender oppression and denial. This short fictionalized account from 1929 considers what it would take for the world to have more women writers but the essay covers so much more than just women’s ability or inability to pen down their thoughts through the ages. Ms Woolf talks about why there is so little to be found of women’s autobiographical accounts of themselves and how that has led to a vicious chain of suppression for women writers. .

I can say more but I would rather pen some quotes from the book which conveyed the point much better:

“Imaginatively she is of the highest importance; practically she is completely insignificant. She pervades poetry from cover to cover; she is all but absent from history. She dominates the lives of kings and conquerors in fiction; in fact she was the slave of any boy whose parents forced a ring upon her finger. Some of the most inspired words, some of the most profound thoughts in literature fall from her lips; in real life she could hardly read, could scarcely spell, and was the property of her husband.””Possibly when the professor insisted a little too emphatically upon the inferiority of women, he was concerned not with their inferiority, but with his own superiority. That was what he was protecting rather hot-headedly and with too much emphasis, because it was a jewel to him of the rarest price. Life for both sexes- and I look at them, shouldering their way along the pavement- is arduous, difficult, a perpetual struggle. It calls for gigantic courage and strength. More than anything, perhaps, creatures of illusion as we are, it calls for confidence in oneself. Without self-confidence we are as babes in the cradle. And how can we generate that imponderable quality, which is yet so invaluable, most quickly? By feeling that one has some innate superiority…”

“Suppose, for instance, that men were only represented in literature as the lovers of women, and were never the friends of men, soldiers, thinkers, dreamers; how few parts in the plays of Shakespeare could be allotted to them; how literature would suffer! We might perhaps have most of Othello; and a good deal of Antony; but no Caesar, no Brutus, no Hamlet, no Lear, no Jaques–literature would be incredibly impoverished, as indeed literature is impoverished beyond our counting by the doors that have been shut upon women.”
“When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to.”
“Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.”

“All this pitting of sex against sex, of quality against quality; all this claiming of superiority and imputing of inferiority, belong to the private-school stage of human existence where there are ‘sides,’ and it is necessary for one side to beat another side, and of the utmost importance to walk up to a platform and receive from the hands of the Headmaster himself a highly ornamental pot.”

And so, despite its often unsavory topic, this essay was not a bitter, distasteful rant but a reasonably concluded commentary on women’s role in recorded history over the ages. Ms Woolf expresses an optimism about the future- and indeed, we can look back now and feel fortunate that so much has changed and writing is such an easy and fluid occupation for women today than it ever was (of course, to be truthful, writing is hardly ever easy and often excruciatingly rigid in its flow). This essay does not lose its timelessness because it is unapologetic about the past of one half of humanity and yet does not beg or pray or demand but releases softly into the world a delicate truth that must have taken it by storm when it first appeared in print.

PS: The one glaring absurdity she expresses is a belief that a woman (or man, for that matter) cannot write unless she has a steady income and a room to call her own. She says that impoverished individuals cannot be good writers which is a bluntly snobbish statement to make.

reading · writing

Another Letter (To Myself?)

My Dear,

I hope you are doing well. I am writing this letter because I have such strange desires in my heart today. I do not know how to share them! I don’t want to write a single word without carefully weighing it anymore. I am searching for thoughts now. I am reaching out into the universe with my entire soul concentrated on tapping that unreleased creative energy which lies latent just underneath my life’s outer skin. I want to be a writer someday! It’s been my dream since I was a little girl. More importantly, however, I kept thinking I would wait for a time when I have gathered enough experience to have the most meaningful things to write about. Today I am filled with a horrific doubt for the first time. This is something I have heard before but never imagined possible: What if everything that needs to be said has already been said? And anything else I do or say is just a reflection of something already out there? This means a skeptic who reads something I write could easily say, ‘Well, so what is new in that? This shit has already been said before, since eternity.’

Maybe this thought is a sign that I am growing up. Grown-ups have doubts and fears. One of the main characters in a movie I recently watched states it, ‘What if I have already experienced every feeling I ever will and everything from here on out is just a repetition of those?’ It could be true. As we grow older, life seems to speed up. I thought this was a recent phenomenon, owing to the speed our lives have gained due to the effects of technology. To a certain extent it is, of course. So much of what we do is confined on the internet that we harness swiftness as our eyes and fingers move over the screen and keyboard and our mind briskly processes information. But the other angle is that as we grow older and know ourselves better, we gauge our own reactions and the turmoils of our teenage agony fades away.

Until a few month ago, I would have given anything to replace that pain with stability. So I chose to do just that. Over the course of half a year (or maybe it started unconsciously long before that), I re-created the bricks upon which I began to build myself anew. Pains are still fresh enough in my mind for me to not want to go down that road. But I imagine ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty years of this. And that makes me want to go insane! My mind is already searching for something new. Which is why the same sort of books and movies representing the same emotions are no longer enough. I need to feel something different in the things other people have created. And in the things I create myself.

I extended this argument further in my head as I typed the above paragraphs. I got to the root of my problem: this was something else that was burning inside me in the recent weeks. I watch everyone getting married and starting a family. I know, inevitably, as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow morning, one day I will get married and have (or try to have) children. But…then what? I know it is what everyone is doing and that seems to make it lose some of its value. This isn’t because these things aren’t beautiful or worth having (because of course they are). Nor is it because I want them, someday in the distant future. But because this is the standard society is holding over my head and that alone makes me feel like a clown.

That is why I have started to think of writing as my one single saving grace. Words hold a strange power over me. They distort my reality but I love them more for that. I want my experiences to be translated into words because nothing else is enough. I don’t think I knew how powerful words were in my life! There was a whole year where I barely wrote anything but the flimsiest excuses of prose that could possible exist. Somewhere along the road, I found those words again and now I want to lean on them again. But how! It takes finesse to create something wonderful. I want my words to be more than just random letters laid on sheets of paper! People tell me I am a good writer but I value the opinion of those who point out my flaws more than those who say how formidable, effortlessly talented my writing really is. It isn’t! I know that. They might not. So I want to see the my writing reflected in the eyes of readers who know what they see when they see it.

There are three ways to begin as soon as I possibly can: One, of course, is to have a journal again. Much as I adore this blog with all my heart, the content I put out here should be slightly more thought-over than it currently is. A post of this sort is useful once in a while but I should be able to do more of this writing in a journal. I love pretending to be writing letters. Of course, I created a “Kitty” of my own in my old journal and for some pointless reason, I called her ‘Lucy’. I no longer want that, of course. I want a journal where I can stick to the format of letters but they should reflect my growth over this period of time.

The other inspired solution owes itself to the reading of The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. I adored the harsh standards to which Sylvia Plath held herself as a poet and author. She berated every sentence she created. This has never been my style. I’ve been in the habit of pouring out the insanity of the minute and then watching it spread slowly over my consciousness until the meanings pop out. There are times when I am ‘inspired’ by something beyond the ordinary. Posts like ‘My Unborn- A Letter’ are a testimony to that. But most other posts are tiny sparks that I convert into something more. I do not do it painstakingly and I do allow myself mistakes- lots of them. I want however, to capture tiny moments and learn from exercises that actually show a pattern of evolution. For that, I must learn to capture the essence of descriptions- people, places, emotions and more. There are numerous ways to do this and I want to start trying. This needn’t be a daily exercise but as frequent as I want. After all, I did keep a diary for eight years. I should know how to channelize myself better.

The third, of course, is to keep reading. In 2013, I read 30 of the 50 book target I set for myself. This year I managed 32. I don’t mind the count. Having enjoyed reading books such as ‘The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich’ and ‘The Brothers Karamazov’, which were long and challenging, I feel satisfied with my numbers. But this year I ended up reading a lot of books I wished I hadn’t! If I give myself a good 60 years more to read books and pretend to be able to manage a book a week (which means 52 books a year), I’d only have read 3120 books by the time I die. That is nothing compared to the books that are out there, begging to be read! And of course, I cannot and do not want to read 52 books a year because that would mean I raced through them without stopping to smell the roses. Also, life would get so hectic soon that I wouldn’t be able to manage even 30 books, unless I’m in every weekend (which is quite plausible, but let’s pretend it isn’t).  And that would be utterly pointless. So I need to concentrate on reading better books which make me feel like I achieved something. I must be careful of what I pick up because once I start a book, I cannot leave it midway. So I should be more careful about my reading choices than I have been.

This could be a ‘Resolution’ post to the future me. Now that I am nearing the end of it, I think that is what it has grown into. I do not like keeping resolutions per se but giving this post that label helps justify having it out on my blog. I need to buy a journal that suits my needs. If anyone who is reading this has any tangible suggestions on that front, I’d be happy to receive them.

As 2014 draws to a close, I am forced to think in a backwards direction. I cannot help it. 2014 was more stable than I might have hoped. Every year keeps getting more so. What sort of a creature am I, to want more! Stability was what I wanted and now I want to be swept off my feet! But please, life, do not take this as an invitation to swing out into a tangent direction! Instead, curve slowly towards something new and interesting. And teach me the art of mastering my emotions without losing them, so I can use them to play by my strengths!

Wow. I really must be growing up, in order to be able to give myself such mature advice.



Life · philosophical · writing

Rant Day (Again)

It’s rant day! Today was supposed to be about something else but became something entirely different instead. I found myself window-shopping with a friend. It made me happy but it also made me nostalgic. It was stranger still because I saw a couple of people I hadn’t seen in years; mere acquaintances whose worlds never collided with mine except for a brief spell four years ago and yet here they were, just as alive as I am. I feel as if everyone is busy trying to clamber onto fast-moving trains and I’m just standing at the station watching them leave. They’re pulling off so fast, they often don’t have time to  turn and wave. The artist inside me longs to create something so powerful that everyone will stop for a few seconds and just appreciate something as simple as a half-forgotten old song. Is it really so hard? Must everyone rush headlong into one another in their haphazard hurry to get away from one another?

The truth is I’m going to miss some of the things I did in the recent months with some of the closest friends I’ve made in life so far. I’m not saying things shouldn’t change or even that I demand they stay constant (or even that I think the change is unfair or unfounded). It’s not, it’s none of that. This is just me wallowing in a little bit of nostalgia for times begone because I can’t trivialize some experiences despite knowing how transient they really are in the bigger frame of things. What a messy picture I paint inside my own head, trying to balance these emotions with a rationality I impose, I desire, I need!

I am also thinking about all those times I’ve not known what I want to do. The answers are right in front of me, they always are and will be. But there is no discipline in this chaos. I don’t feel like I want to find the sort of discipline that life demands. It seems like a sacrifice too big to make, a chunk of life too precious to give up without a fight. How inept I am at the things that need to be done and how powerful in the face of abstraction that just floats about in the air in front of my eyes, almost taunting me into a deluding serenity that can break me apart if I give myself in to it completely!

And why then, do I continue with the same things? Why, when I know how evil the world is? When I have seen it with my own eyes, felt it inside myself, experienced it in the vividest manners possible? Why then can I not give up on this straightforward manner of confronting beauty and honesty with my own brand of these same things? It’s the weirdest thing that putting this all out here feels so wonderful in a way. What a strangely suicidal operation I embark upon with such enthusiasm. Something like this shouldn’t come out into the world even for my worst enemy, even posthumously.

I am not trying to aggrandize life events, only falling into dangerous reminiscing and letting some dark realizations wash over me.

I am thankful, so very thankful for the things that have brought me where I am today. I feel sad but strangely hopeful. I know who I am now. I may still not know what I am doing but I know which roads to take, which ones are best for me. I may not always do what is right but I tell myself every day that I can.

I feel bittersweet- a little lonely, a lot liberated. Somewhat scared and somewhat excited. Nervous but looking forward to finding my purpose. I can smell it now. It’s getting close.

Until next time! 🙂

Enjoyed my ranting? Can’t wait to hear more of this blah-blah? Or just looking for something rant-y to inspire you with your own free writing? Read more rants from the past:

Late Night Candidness

Thank you?

Warning: Feeling Explosive

On the Keyboard

Song of the moment. Because it is such a powerful ballad:



Poems · writing

Some People


Some people think it’s all a dream
Southern lights and fairy whispers
Some people say they don’t understand why
You grope around in darkness and crib about light
Some people think that songs and magic
Are wounded beasts, just preying on your soul
Some people will have you cut to the bone
And piled in a heap sky-high

Some people think that smoke and dust
Are beautifully enigmatic and mysteries untorn
Some people think that lying inebriated
You count a dozen stars and catch none
Some people think that love and lust
Are torn pages from the same little black book
Some people shine like diamonds on a crisp moonlit night
Paint the sky a crystal hue but are too afraid to cry

Some people live in fear of pain
Not knowing it’s inside them
Some people sing in prosaic verses
Falling shattered before they can see the evanescent flames dancing
Some people hurt to put a knife down someone’s back
And turn to soothe the scars with salt
Some people don’t understand why the world
Can continue on without them too

Some people touch with hands painted red
Too cowardly to feel the naked heat
Some people hide behind curtains big and bright
And question everything they have
Some people live in shades of grey
And live and die beneath the city lights
Some people, blinded; never see a single shining star
And then question you about your fight


Fiction · writing


He was careful to weigh the options before him- like a sentry who would be fired for one undue mistake, he was always on guard for the first sign of trouble. He had nightmares of machinated men leading cavalcades of monstrous armies across swathes of arid land whilst he slept on, the vaults unguarded, his possessions a gaping hole for the unstoppable forces of the enemies. He thought it could happen at any moment; while he slept with one hand on the gun, jerking awake and falling back into an uneasy doze, he made certain that the tiniest leap of a summer frog across the landing would register in his ears like a faithfully alert dog.

‘Excuse me?’

He was dreaming of armored men holding large swords and cutting through human flesh like a butter knife through its targeted slab. His eyes and chest hurt from the scratchy stretch of space between consciousness and unconsciousness on which he broodingly stood.

‘Excuse me!’

He startled and sat up straight, one hand on his rifle, eyes open for the first hint of trouble which would spring him into action, his other hand steady inches before the one-touch trigger which would raise the alarm.

Instead he was facing a woman. The prettiest woman he had ever seen. With ringlets of dark hair falling across her forehead and angled eyes the color of chestnuts lighting up a beautifully bronzed skin. In a moment, he forgot about the monsters and the dark creatures of the night and focused instead on her violet blouse with gold chains hung over firm breasts. He appreciatively admired her slim figure and his fingers relaxed around his weapon.

‘Excuse me?’ the woman said again, not angrily like most women would be but with a slightly quizzical expression that rounded up her delicate features, her mouth pouted into a round ‘O’.

‘May I help you madame?’, he finally replied in his glibbest voice, sending his hair flying backwards with a single flick of the neck.

‘Yes, I was wondering if you could guide me to a Mr.-Mr-‘

She held up a slip of paper, muttering words he couldn’t distinguish but the agonized urgency with which her hand pointed towards the paper in her hand moved him in a second and he reluctantly turned away from her to examine the paper.

‘Mr. Quastershquatsch’. He read out for her. He got that a lot. It was the weirdest name he had ever heard to.

‘Yeah, he’s up on the fifth.’

‘Well, that is so kind of you. I’m grateful.’

She flashed him a beautiful smile, revealing a set of glowing teeth and reached out to sign the visitor’s book before she turned away towards the glass doors.

He watched her retreating back with a smile of his own and settled back into the chair, the demons of his nightmares replaced by the beautiful woman he had just seen, pushing back his curls with his hands, he found her tender lips turned up and ready.

In a flash of lightning, he was awakened by the sounding of alarms.

The beautiful woman was at his desk again, signing herself off.

‘Looks like there is a spell of trouble brewing inside.’ She told him helpfully before letting herself out.

He ran up the stairs, confronted the gaping hole and looked around in despair for a signal. There were no large armies, no guns or cavalry men. Just a woman, three blocks away, turning up the collars of a dark coat in an alley which was carefully hidden from the nearest security camera, her breasts enlarged under the extra padding of weights they weren’t supposed to drag.

Life · philosophical · writing

The realization of not meeting again is making me miss you more.


It’s true- life is cruel. It brings people together briefly and then pulls them apart with an air of finality they cannot argue against. Life is like a toddler’s parent. The toddler might refuse to part with an old toy or argue incessantly for an ice-cream cone that its parents might refuse in an admonishment that carries an air of superiority with it: I know better. You cannot have it and that is the final decision. The child does not know why and is not interested in knowing why. It wants what it wants. That is not to say of course, that all such parents always have their child’s well-being at heart. Life could just as easily be the sort of parent who is a junkie and couldn’t care less about what the child does, as long as it is out of his way. Life may not be well-meaning, it may just be.

With time memories are covered with a sheen of blessed haze that makes it harder to remember details, recall events in flesh and blood through the mere act of closing one’s eyes. This is not the case when these memories are as fresh as they are right now. They will fade- transience is the only timeless truth we can fully embrace. It is sad that they must, though.

I don’t know how I expected adieu to be. I know I’ve spent time in the past imagining the final goodbyes but then pushed them out of my head with the certainty that they were still in the distant future. As they drew closer, I chose to block out all emotions completely and that stayed with me until the very end and perhaps even through it. That is why I was laughing when I didn’t want to and asking myself ‘how stone-hearted can you be?’

Because I knew once the moments were gone, sadness will just remain a constant echo. For a few days it would be a steady stream, then it would reduce to a pulse ad finally it would fade into tiny stabs of pricking hurtfulness aimed at everything I’d had and lost. There is no other way to it. There is nothing to do right now but sift through the sometimes haunting memories. It isn’t even a reality yet. But it will be.

So what kind of memories are better– the fresh ones I have right now or the ones I will have a few years down the line when, browsing through my Facebook photos I would come across a picture that will take me back to things and people and places I would no longer be able to claim to ‘know’?

I can only say that for now, it all feels painful. But with time and acceptance, the same memories will just be sweet recollections, less hard to behold and easier to delve into. Reminiscing is a part and parcel of existence and it will only grow bigger as we grow older and leave the golden phases further and further behind. It’s possible to smile and simmer but impossible to hang on and bleed.

Poems · writing



Don’t tell me in the morning
The only reasons you lay
Were confined behind your subconsciousness
And the little act of jarred love
Was a broken inconvenience
Or perhaps a voice inside your head

Don’t tell me in the morning
‘You’re beautiful to me’
In your arms with our warm skins touching
I didn’t feel the need to adorn you
For your godly body
And I shouldn’t need to hear the same

Don’t show me in the morning
The way the night had passed
I want it to be a whisper etched in stone
Not an atonement under the light of dawn
The way this awkward suddenness is
Enchanting all by itself

Don’t make the morning disappear
In a haze of disguised appropriateness
I am over all that you see
Shamelessly belittling the things you’ve seen
Don’t whistle in the morning
Don’t call me in the morning
Let the slow sun rise in heat

Just come back when the fly-swatters are gone
And the day has filtered through
And the universe has time for me and you
And the stars make feeble attempts to light the sky
Don’t write me a sonnet
Just come back to me
Don’t dazzle me in the morning
Just be.

Life · reading · writing


Blue Loft turns FOUR.


Four? Are you freaking kidding me? It’s been four years since I have been writing in this little white box bordered with a bunch of random tools and just hitting ‘Publish’ and letting thoughts out into the globe? Four years ago (oh boy, here I go again), I had no idea what to expect when I started putting some of the scribbles out of my notebooks and diaries up here just because people said I should. But this space has become ‘home’ in  weird way and it’s obviously great to have people tell me they enjoyed a post or two (who doesn’t like flattery?).

New Monthly Segment

So far I haven’t really been doing any regular segments although I have often thought about them. The nearest I have come to this has probably been through my Dexter and Game of Thrones weekly reviews. But for a while now I have wanted to do a section on some interesting unsolved/solved/unsolvable cases/stories/anecdotes. The world is stories we wonder about but many are left untold and so I’m going to take something interesting up each month and speculate upon it. This is exciting! But let’s see. I’m going to start this month with something interesting, I promise you. 🙂

Thank you for stopping by and making me not feel like a complete idiot who is just blubbering to herself.

I’m grateful for every view, like, comment, vote and subscription. I really am. I would have gone on writing anyway (probably. hopefully) but it’s better to know that a bunch of people actually do stop by to read what is often only a random rant like this one.

And so although I’m not launching into another year of blogging with the toddler Blue Loft with any sort of pomp whatsoever, I just hope that if you’ve ever found something here that you liked, you’ll keep coming back and finding more reasons to connect. 🙂