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Noctis Verses

“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.” ― Saul Bellow

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Let’s write

Sunkissed (!!)

I have been in a constant state of being kissed by my sun for a while now; my sun seems to be rising with a steady just like my smile — that’s ever so slowly hitting the eyes.

I am falling in love with a person I call mine, as does he. And besides every fall doesn’t have to end up with burnt cigarettes and bleeding wrists. I am sure this one wouldn’t. It’d seen he’s all I have wanted for the longest time. If anything, I think it’d be an honour to my have my heart broken by him!

The girl who stood by the dresser, in the dark unsure of what to wear; the girl who couldn’t smile, the girl perpetually sad — now wouldn’t stop smiling and being jumpy and feeling a subtle everglow of the warmth of yellow.

Yet, even though you could see the sublime glimmer in his eyes — he was still scared, I was still the Icarus to his sun!

This boy has my heart and puts me at ease, I couldn’t imagine anything that doesn’t have him in the equation — he’s the “1” in my “1+1=2”; perhaps, eventually he’d be able to calm the storms in his heart and love as vividly as he is, I’ll wait till he’s there — it’s something I look forward, the wickedness fading ever so slow; as I lean into his warmth and be there for a very long time.

This one’s for you my boy, smile — it’s you and me, not a me and a you. Thank you my sun, thank you.

Waiting for you, at the Fin.

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Broken = Cool?

Why do we try to portray this obvious brokenness of ours as something beautiful? Why the nagging need to glorify and try to convince ourselves it’s alright to be this way?

Frankly, it’s not. It’s not hipster or cool to know that we are part of a generation that is broken and goes to bed crying into our pillows! Being distraught, not being able to sleep or having insecurities isn’t “cool”, childhood trauma not letting us indulge ourselves isn’t right. Abuse isn’t the new cool!

We need to stop, take a step back and breath, realise that hustle is alright, losing our humanity in the process is not.

Why does being called a generation that is broken a badge of honour? When did being broken become alright? I often wonder where did our innocence slip away, when did fake smile become a regular occurrence, when did being scared be alright, when did being depressed become cool?

When did glorification of mental illness and the obvious brokenness of modernity become a statement?

Noise

Often the noise in my head becomes louder than the one blaring through the speakers

In those instances we reach out, for someone something not there and slump back against the wall and stare at our tear stained palms — sweating blue. The fact that you realise that at the end of the day it’s each man for himself dawns on us, the fact that you too are alone scares you, even your solitude seeking self don’t want this — perhaps at the end of day we all want someone we can lean on to.

Perhaps, even in our weakness we want this one person who would show us all that we are, all that we can be, all that we possibly can be. We want them to show us the light we think we don’t have, hold our shaking hands and calm them; tell us they are here and we are loved.

When we lean on them, we don’t do it out of weakness but from strength we choose to be vulnerable with them because of who are, because we hand them ourselves and trust them to not crush us into into pieces and scatter them for a dime a piece under the streetlight.

Often, at our lowest we look for a north star we can lean on, we look for a footing in the otherwise falling pieces of us — someone to anchor us when it gets rough, someone to say ‘Don’t worry I am here, it’s going to be over soon’

Someone to lower the volume in the speakers, and inside our head.

Embrace us when we reach out,
calm our storms when we can’t,
be there when no one else is.

Hold them

It’s been a while

Well, depression and the fear that whatever you’re going to pen isn’t worth a dime isn’t all that of a combination. You know when people say ‘sadness reeks creativity‘ they often forget to mention that the people who write as a result of this so called sadness are also the clinically depressed ones, the ones we need to look out for, the ones we should check up on and not brush them off, not value them for their words or the sentences they form.

“Its so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself. That’s above and beyond everything else, and it’s not a mental complaint-it’s a physical thing, like it’s physically hard to open your mouth and make the words come out. They don’t come out smooth and in conjunction with your brain the way normal people’s words do; they come out in chunks as if from a crushed-ice dispenser; you stumble on them as they gather behind your lower lip. So you just keep quiet.

Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story”

So, when you see a person whose clinically depressed and sad — and tells you sadness reeks creativity, don’t believe them. Hold them close and console their soul that’s it’s all going to be alright, that you’re there, that they are loved. They might not believe you, but that’s what they need hear — to be told told they matter, to be told not everything their head tells them is to be believed, to be told out there in the storm they aren’t alone.

Stay and love them for the mess they are, love them for what they are, not their words and sentences but for the person they are. Stay, while they build themselves — it’s not easy.

Shades

I had to put on my shades!

His wickedness was rather bright, and had a gentle warmth — perhaps, Van Gogh was looking for this pleasant happiness when he gulped the yellow all those years ago

The winds were warmer than usual, perhaps it was the weather romanticising with the blush — or would it be that the boy had walked in through the doors just as the sun rose and lit the room in an affable orange!

Oh my, I could hear my heart pulse faster by the hour — his gentle wickedness was almost addictive, yet that was all I was yearning for lately.

Doomed, wasn’t I?

Dear diary,

It’s past midnight again — and I can’t not think about him. The gentle warmth of his wickedness, oh my even the sun couldn’t hold a candle to him.

Often, I’d wonder how lucky I got when the sun walked in. There was this charm about him, this homely air to his wickedness — it made you feel like you’d just had a pot full of yellow!

Diary, you know lately coffee seems to have lost its charm, without him around it doesn’t seem right, perhaps I could say his company made it all the much better? And now with him not there the brew wasn’t the same!

Sad. My coffee intake seems to have taken a hit too — ouch! This boy, oh dear me.

Perhaps, I should try to catch up with sleep, haven’t seen her in a while! We’ll get to this later, eh?

Toodles

Brother?

Dear brother,

It’s been 6 years since you’ve been gone, I hope you’re doing well and are in a better place.

We all miss you, it’s been fragmented with you in the picture, a lot has changed since then — you’d be pleasantly surprised I suppose. A few of us haven’t really come to terms with your lack of presence; the little one doesn’t even know who I am referring to when I say your name — you’re slipping away brother.

I know you had to do what you had to, still it’s been hard without you around.
I waited days at end thinking it was all a suck joke, guess it’s been 6 years too long eh?

The oddities in your box miss you, as do Alhambra and Viper. So do I and the others — you’re not coming back it’d seem, sadly.

I hope you’re smiling finally, not the one you’d flash always, a genuine one this time.

Life’s been hard for you — I guess ever since you’ve gone it’s been hard for me, too.

Yet here we are 6 years later, counting days as they pass by — and waiting for a phone call that’d not ring.

Hope you’ve found your great perhaps brother dearest
In your loving memory, with love unaccounted for and an always.

“Always.”

Dear diary,

It’s 3 in the morning I am sitting here with the warm chill hitting my back — there’s a subtle hint of romanticism here, won’t you agree? A nostalgia — I can’t put my finger around, perhaps it was the smile — gotten me hooked.

I was scrolling through his social media a while back, and couldn’t help but let out an ear to ear with the my cheeks flushing a deep rose!

With Sinatra blaring in my ears, my coffee turning cold and a warm chill running down my spine — makes me feel like I am in a romantic fiction waiting for him to whisper his love for me under the midnight sun!

I can’t sleep, and he’s there with his coy smile annoying me and not letting me sleep, and how can I — with all this blood rushed upto my cheeks, it’s hardly surprising, gosh such a bother.

Guess, I should give my blanket another chance. Happy snuggling to me!

Us(ed?)

With the Backstreet Boys blaring in the background, he sat there collecting his tears on an empty phone screen — as he mumbled himself asleep with the sun digging deeper into the evening, a thought was stuck there — did people really want him? Or they just humoured him, humoured him because they hadn’t used him yet, and were waiting to use him and discard him — show him where he belonged: down in the dumps crawling with the vermins

As the moon started to peek from behind the concrete — he wiped his screen, gulped his coffee (which had become cold over the last hour) pushed the thoughts aside (One could try)

He sat down and started to romanticise his sadness, like it was an old love interest.

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