Bait and Switch

I wonder if this sunshine could break me, as I lift my head and let it warm my face. The rays seem to hit a thin barrier and when I touch my face I feel as if a thin layer of skin is covering an eggshell underneath. Maybe I am a painting, an abstract construct even, a child’s art project. Could this light get so strong and break my face? Would then this covering of skin stay? Or would it collapse within itself, into a crumpled heap of eyes, lips and nose? Or would it shatter too, dehydrated by the heat? Turn into dust and blow away? What would remain then. A headless anomaly seaping into the cement floor?

Will this sun do what every aspect of love and warmth has ever done to me?

Bait and switch?

To Whom It May Concern

(Android Post)


I do miss it, sometimes. Blogging, writing, old friends etc. But I am not as sad about it as I should be. I am not that broken anymore, nor do I need to vent so much because I don’t let things pile anymore. Being a more stable person, has somehow made me a bad writer. Having more confidence has somehow made me less impulsive. I don’t feel like doing things I would’ve done earlier, just to validate myself. And a genuine lack of interest in social media is partly there because, I just don’t care anymore of what’s out there. I know my priorities, after being mistaken about them for so long. Have you woken up, one day, while reading a book, watching a movie..and know that you know far better than you ever did. That you are up now, and you see better. I am glad those phases before are over and life is, chaotic in it’s own way with much less drama and hurt.

Winters are coming, the season I love. For once I’ll welcome the sun and the warmth from my window, rather than hating the scorched desert it makes my room in summers. I’ll love the Sun like I love rain and clouds. As for Wind.

She always knows where to find me.

A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking

flower to hold

It’s been a beautiful cloudy day. I like clouds. I like rain. I like winds. I like the sweet sunshine that follows. I love doing what I do, hanging out with a bunch of people, college, home, mom.. I sit down on the steps and I can hear everyone moving around and it It feels as if you are shrouded by a mist, hidden and away and deep down.. maybe you like it even.. or maybe you don’t, I am not sure anymore..

It’s just a big world and I am so tired.. Being an HSP is shit.. I laugh all day I write all sober and sad and all my friends think there are like two weird sides to me. Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Madonna…

Puff. I am going ter bed



“There are only two seasons — winter and Baseball.”


Pity by the time I can get down to write about the good days I am down with a bad one. Last few days have been good. Everything seems to be fine when the heart is light. I feel wretched at the fact that within the ten minutes it took for grabbing my laptop and hooking it to an internet source, my heart went down the low road again

So yeah, I, pathetically so, am gonna talk about that

Today was good. I got up so early. I charged my poor Kindle that died on my way back home. I read ”An Artist of the Floating World” sitting in the sun and *tried* cooking. Took a shower but midway the waters turned traitor and I was frozen into a big shard of ice. I am still shivering. And am drinking, what perhaps is, my fifth cup of tea. *Shiver*

You know, sometimes I feel as if I am watching over a fence, into the world of someone I alone hold close to my heart. You see into their world and don’t understand what’s going on. Big patches of stories missing. You long to ask.. but just cannot. It’s a brief feeling, for I know how to shut myself into barriers of smiles and laughter. It’s very natural for me. You can’t call it pretending

Anyways. Winters are on and I hope all your friends and foes remain warm

(as for the foes, don’t worry,you never know when the waters in the shower run cold =D )



Title: Quote by Bill Veeck

For what is it to die, But to stand in the sun and melt into the wind?


Apple green and light blue. Simple colours that light me up. Brown wet hair blowing dry in winds and that sun warming everything up. It’s Sunday. That ball of light was up. I watched it the whole day, until it sank behind the trees I am not friends with

Sometimes, everything seems oddly at peace. We shut that mind that heart that conscience in us and for that moment everything is still. We close our eyes to everything we have done, all that we should’ve done and sit somewhere on the grass. Not trying to think. Not thinking. Not breathing. Not listening. Afraid that the tiniest of whispers would shatter it all. The mist would part and we’ll have to face it all. Face all that we left behind. Feel  her still there. In the past. Near. But so far from the heart.

But how long will she stay. How long will she wait. How long will she break. One day, when the clouds will leave and the Sun will pour itself to light your blind eyes, you won’t find that friend there. World’s oldest story. No tracks. Not a single reminder of her existence. Even the words in your head will sound distant and blurred. A slight sting would remain, buried somewhere deep in you. A thorn buried deep in your flesh.

No matter what, son, The Sun will rise. It will rise from behind those trees, that, ah, just never became friends of mine.


Title: Quote by Khalil Gibran