War

He and I
are always at war
with each other
but most of the times
with ourselves.

It all starts with a slight change
in our schedule
in our daily lives
in our routines.
And he is always the one who changes things around.
I have someone to take care of.
I end up letting someone go.
I end up realizing letting go was a mistake.
I lose someone forever.

Right when I am coming to my sense
right when things are falling into places
right when I am finally making peace
he comes around with a bang
and the world crash down upon me
and we are back to square one.
We are in war.

Sometimes I feel like I am Afghanistan
I am always in war
I am always in ruin.
He and I
could’ve been bestfriends
but he always breaks my heart
and leaves
right when I am getting used to him
he always comes around with a sorry
right when I am getting used to without him
and everything starts all over again.
We end up being at war
with each other,
but mostly with ourselves.

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It must be hard I know, to listen to someone who only knows how to rant. Even a story she says sounds more like a rant.

Like how she feels that she is caught up in a war. Inside a jungle. Alone. Feeling scared, tired and angry at the same time. Lost. Not knowing where or how to come out. Fearing for her life. Confused about whether the war is real or just made up inside her head. Whether she is afraid about being alone or being lost.

Yet you listen to her. Patiently. Not offering anything in return. You just say your “mmm” and “ani”. And maybe that’s why she is into you. Because you listen. No matter what. You listen. To the chaos of her world. Created only by her.

Lost in Inspiration

I am not the girl you think I am. I am not strong or smart or confident. I break down easily. I don’t know why are we having wars. I cannot stand against a bunch of crowd going against my view. I cannot even stick to my view.

I know I declared that I will stop writing for a while. But the moment I declared it, I couldn’t help but long to write again. I was waiting for inspiration. Every Saturday since last few weeks. But all my Saturdays have gone against my wish. The first Saturday, I couldn’t meet everyone I planned to meet. The next Saturday which I planned to spend by reading books, was spent being tired and feeling sick. And today, I thought, I would go out and enjoy a concert. But I’m at home, with an almost sprained ankle.

I have a dream. To write. And travel. And tell stories. I have been planning to do MFA in Creative Writing after a year or two. Then, work in a magazine while also working on some books. Get publishers and travel. Go to places. To Europe, Peru, Egypt. Afghanistan. But lately, I am scared. I don’t feel like writing all the time. I feel vacant and empty inside. As if I no longer have what I love the most. I feel sad and I suffer inside. Oh, I suffer greatly. I might not show it all the time but I spend sleepless night praying for words to come back to me. For inspiration.

This friend of mine always tells me not to wait for inspiration and look within. I always tell him, when I feel restless and frustrated, that I feel like I have been caged inside four walls. “Four walls, there is your inspiration”, my boss told me the other time we were chatting on Facebook as I told him how my words have disappeared. “You can find inspiration, anywhere you look for – books, poetry, walls, chair, table.” He’d said. Well that’s what I fail to do. I try to find inspiration in people. Ordinary people. And people don’t have inspiring and positive stories every time. They also have stories about failures and heartbreak and sadness and suffering. Like these two amazing blogs I have been visiting recently. I know both the bloggers personally and have always been a huge fan of their writings. But lately, I have been thinking that if these two have not yet been able to find publishers to bring out book, what will happen to me.

During these times, I really feel small and unworthy. Also, I want to write stories of ordinary people. What they go through everyday or what they feel. About war and poverty and hunger and the sufferings ordinary people go through. Losing loved ones, disappointments, failures. But today I wondered, is it even ethical? Selling someone else’s sorrow? And what difference does it even make? Many people have written about wars and poverty. But have these books helped to stop the war or eradicate poverty? What’s the use of writing all these stories, if they never help someone or inspire them? I have become distraught with all these questions in mind. I wonder if I need to find something else to pursue but I know that at the end of the day I always come back to writing. Writing is something I cannot leave. And I am not sure if I will ever want to leave.

Right now, I feel that I am in a crossroad. I am confused and more fickle-minded that before. I hope to come to conclusion soon. At least before it’s too late. Or even after, because in things like this, I know it’s never too late actually. I just hope to reach there one day.

A/N: Following are the blogs I was talking about. a) thinkinink b) dearest

Changing Dreams, Changing Perspective

I no longer dream of a brand new world. Or of end of poverty and hunger or long wars that has been going on for years and years. I no longer dream of big-bang success as well. And of not having to struggle or fight. Because within these past few days or weeks or months or years, I have learnt that they aren’t possible.

I learnt that a brand new world doesn’t exist. Instead, we need to learn to see the same world from a different perspective. And if poverty and hunger ends, then we will have nothing left to fight for. Fight, is a very essential part of life, I think. And so is struggle. And success comes from little steps you first take and little things you do.

I no longer want to dream of big things that seemed concrete but you aren’t pretty sure about it. Rather, I think of focusing on little things that might seem vague and cliched but explodes little joys in heart. I feel that you have to give equal effort and work hard equally whether your dreams are big or small. And while big dreams bring happiness for once, small ones bring them time and  again. Hence, I prefer smaller ones, the ones that are harder to recognize.

Today, I dream of sunrise and sunsets and full moons and starry nights. I dream of joy in the eyes of a child with a balloon or Jhirjhirey. Of colours and flavours and of murmurs of the crowdy street and warmth from feeling loved. I dream of touching people’s life not by being directly involved but by inspiring them to chase their dreams and passion. Of struggling – with myself and with the rest of the world for something I believe in. Finally, I dream of love and smiles and laughter. Of little things like having one more cup of tea in the night, or getting treats for no reason or whispering with my girls and giggling with my mom.

My dream has been limited to myself today. To the things I see, hear, taste, smell and feel. To the things that might be vague but is real to me. With every day, I feel that my dreams are transforming with myself. My dreams have become more me and I believe with time, it will be totally incorporated in me. 🙂

(Author’s Note: This post has been written as a counter-part to http://blurtingitout.wordpress.com/2011/12/04/i-have-a-dream/, writer’s no-longer in use blog)