There and Back Again

This one’s from the archives. Jan 2010, to be precise. Because I was way more articulate seven years ago.

When is the end?
Everyone faces trials.Trials test people,and reward them with pure unadulterated joy at the end.The survivor is crowned and all is forgotten as he catches up with long sought peace.
The question is : How long do these trials last?

All of us pay.Pay for our foolishness.Pay for our sins.Pay for our “free” lunches.Pay in exchange for any small glory.No more.I’m broke.I can’t pay anymore.

I want to know where my redemption is ,and when it will come find me.

I want to know when the present will become the past and rest ,closed, as an unceremonious chapter in history,forgotten in the wake of a great new beginning.I wait for the day my trial ends,and the jury acknowledges my survival and makes suitable compensation.I don’t want to consider the possibility that this day will never come,for hope ..I must.

Hope is all that I have.How pitiful it is that I hope,even as the night fades into a cold dreary morning.Cold mornings are pretty only in Jane Austen’s novels and in books about hiking expeditions to Antarctica.Sunshine is what I want for my life.

I want to go ashore,or sink in the deluge.Staying afloat amidst the currents can be very tiring.
Watching and waiting as of now,is passe,and how we all hate anything passe.






The best things in life are unsaid.


The warmest of meals are  rustic. The sweetest of moments happen suddenly. The prettiest of sunsets, unannounced.

Put away your pomp and glitter.

Some things ought to be alive in your mind and heart and nowhere else.

Delight in childish glee as you realise these moments are yours and yours alone to cherish, to rewind and watch in slow motion, to examine for possible undercurrents, and to stash away for another day.





Six Feet Under

I am so upset and embarrassed at how emotionally vulnerable I am right now. I wish it wasn’t this way.  I wish I didn’t crave the company of others as I do at the mo. It is the absolute truth, and nothing else though, when I say that I am alone and terrified.

It’s hard enough to reboot when your plan A is shot in hell, but what when your 2 year long plan B looks like it’s going down the drain as well?

You have to pick yourself up from six feet under, which is where your ego plummets down to.

And you will have to learn to do it, for most parts, alone.

I wish I could hire some emotional help. Some unconditional love and positivity.

The only people I can ask this of, are my mum and dad. But I can’t. My dad is sick. Seriously sick. He is no longer the person he was. Each day, I see him retreat into his shell.  He doesn’t connect with us the way he used to. He stays in his room all day, and doesn’t talk to me as much anymore. My mum is my savior. She’s the guardian angel I pray for every night. She is human though. How many people can she care for? I can’t drown her with my insecurities and worries for the future.

I need a support system, and I need to build one inside me. A constant companion to navigate rough patches, a strict parole officer that will ensure I stick to the plan, an enthusiastic lifecoach that will remind me not to give up on my dreams, a hand that will hold out a candle as I fumble in the dark.

Luckily for me, I’m not a person that gives up easily. But this is eating at me- bit by bit, slowly but surely.

I want to shout a random prayer into the universe, praying for a miracle that will heal me and make everything whole and happy again.

I’m going to be writing in this blog to understand what I’m feeling. Writing has proven to be therapeutic in the past, and I hope it will help me feel understood again.

Song of the mo- Comfortably Numb



When you feel just like a tourist in the city  you were born 

It’s time to go.

When you find yourself the villain of the story that you’ve written,it’s plain to see;

Sometimes the best intentions are in need of redemptions-would you agree?

If so, please show me… The way ahead.

Return of the Prodigal

1. disbelief or lack of belief in the existence of God or gods.
Synonyms : unbelief, scepticism, doubt, agnosticism, irreligion,godlessness, ungodliness, profaneness, impiety, heresy, apostasy, paganism,heathenism, freethinking, nihilism

Oh no. Atheism is not the loss of faith. It is, in fact, the complete opposite-

2. the realization that it is completely okay to put all  of your faith in yourself and your ability to survive.




The shiny happy

I’m tired of the hand me downs.

Give me somebody unbroken to love. I am tired of stitching up old wounds left by other lives and loves. Give me someone whole,  someone  with no excess baggage, someone who can travel with just a squishy carry on bag. I am too old, tired and fed up of having to play nurse.

Where is the shiny happy? A life set to slow jazz? Where I run home to someone who is covered in crumbs from baking me some foccacia? That and smiles, as  he says to me- You must be tired. Dig in.

Heal your wounds.  Shut it tight in an iron box, throw away the rusty key, and bury it with the past. Do not come to me before that, because I will not be able to help you.

I’m sorry- but maybe I’m not. Not  sorry for you anymore.

Maybe I am broken enough without having loved at all.

I am only just getting started on my journey. I’m looking at the stars, and not the slush beneath. Maybe you  can do that too?










It’s not them, it’s you. 

Something to think about.

 Own your life story.

 Stop playing the victim. 

Go out there and fix it, or die trying. 
It’s time for the tough lovin’. 

Ship of Theseus


It scared her, how much she wanted to talk to him.


She wanted to share every thought with him. Maybe it was because she missed him so, or maybe she hoped one of these strange and beautiful thoughts would be the one to pull on those heartstrings, that one of these notes would finally strike that fortuitous chord in his heart.


Set lists of bands she loved, photos of cherished memories, obscure trivia, unfulfilled dreams, weather reports of home, nothing was off the table.


Sometimes, she worried the excess would flood him, drain him of his patience.

How much could one person listen to, after all?

He had a whole and full life outside of her, and Hemmingway’s sun also sets someday, although people don’t like to talk about inevitable endings too much.


Helpless, she took her stories and feelings and scattered them across the internet, that virtual playground of the world.

A trail of breadcrumbs that Andersen would’ve approved of.

Like deconstructed dessert or Frank Gehry buildings.

Horcruxes of her past.

A puzzle broken into bits and littered around, no key in plain sight, waiting for someone to chance upon it, and care enough to put the pieces together.

Song of the mo’ – No Room in Frame

Postcard Promises

Long distance anything = total sucko.


Sure, it can seem like a challenge worth rising to, and even seem like a romantic notion worth pursuing, if you’re deluded enough at the moment. You can console yourself with the idea that your relationship or friendship is so strong it can transcend all seven seas, but in the end, that is all it  might remain, a lone idea in your lonely head.

Of course there are bonds that survive, that even grow stronger with  time like the finest of wine, but for every story that lasts, a hundred more are crushed to fine sparkly dust, and all the glitter from your story lines the path to relationship oblivion.

Cheery, non?

Well, I’m not a poet, at least not right now. So I will let someone worthy do the talking for me.

Saray Kay, everyone.


If you’re in the mood to read, here’s a transcript of the genius that is  this piece of slam poetry.


“I had already fallen in love with far too many postage stamps.

When you appeared on my doorstep wearing nothing but a postcard promise.

No, appear is the wrong word. Is there a word for sucker punching someone in the heart?

Is there word for when you’re sitting at the bottom of a roller coaster and you realize that the climb is coming, that you know what the climb means, that you can already feel the flip in your stomach from the fall before you’ve even moved?

Is there a word for that?

There should be.

You can only fit so many words in a postcard.

Only so many in a phone call, only so many into space before you forget that words are sometimes used for things other than filling emptiness.

It is hard to build a body out of words – I have tried.

We have both tried.

Instead of lying your head against my chest, I tell you about the boy who lives downstairs from me.

Who stays up all night long practicing his drum set.

The neighbors have complained. They have busy days tomorrow, but he keeps on thumping through the night convinced, I think, that practice makes perfect.

Instead of holding my hand, you tell me about the sandwich you made for lunch today.

How the pickles fit so perfectly against the lettuce. Practice does not make perfect.

Practice makes permanent.

Repeat the same mistakes over and over and you don’t get any closer to Carnage Hall, even I know that.

Repeat the same mistakes over and over and you don’t get any closer! You never get any closer.

Is there a word for the moment you win tug of war?

When the weight gives and all that extra rope comes tumbling towards you.

How even though you’ve won you still wind up with muddy knees and scratches on your hands.

Is there a word for that? I wish there was.

I would have said it.

When we were finally alone together on your couch, neither one of us with anything left to say.

Still now, I send letters into space.

Hoping that some mailman somewhere will track you down and recognize you from the descriptions in my poems.

That he will place the stack of them in your hands and tell you

“There is a girl who still writes you. She doesn’t know how not to.



Song for the mo’- Everybody Hurts