Let me make a home
     out of you. Show
me which step to your
     heart creaks along
the way, let me
     see the dust that has
gathered in the
     corners; in the rooms
abandoned. Tell
     me of the hour in
which the sun shines through
     the window and through
the cracks of the doors
     half-opened, and
spills onto the
     living room floor – a
golden pool of
     light that brightens up
the walls. Show me
     which secrets are
locked in the bedroom
     drawers. What hides
among skeletons
     in the closet;
what creatures we
     must fight in the dead
of night beneath
     your bed. Let me
join you in hiding
     places. And then, at
eve, underneath the
     blankets, on your side
of the bed, whisper
     to me what you
wish to dream of,
     let me hold you in
the cold.

In frame: depth // most recent drawing! 




Thrice faster,
My heart and pulse
Seem to beat.
Warm blankets 
Pulled over my 
Head suffocates
Me in the
Darkness and I 
Lie wide awake with
The strange noises 
Of eve.

Until dawn comes, and 
It with you 
In the morn, and 
You sprinke stardust on 
My pillow – an arm 
Beneath my head – and take
Me with you to another universe.

You breathe 
In a rhythm that makes me think
Of lullabies and 
The melody 
Rises and falls incessantly until I 
Close my eyes –
calm, now, unafraid –

And drift off to dream.

In frame: love makes the flowers bloom // most recent drawing! 

2018: Pause/Restart


Blinded by the sudden glitz of Christmas lights hanging on every surface possible and shivering in the cold of the gusts of November winds, and in a blink, breathing in the smoke of firecrackers from the third-floor balcony as the clock struck midnight, one thought makes itself clear to me: time has gone by too swiftly. 

Or not. Maybe I’ve made the mistake of thinking that hours pass by in a blink, absorbed in a book, my phone, in a meal, in getting to one destination after the other; too busy typing and sleeping the day away to fully appreciate it. To look up, and just see. I’m my fifteen-year-old self’s promise of what I should never be.

I could turn a blind eye to the truth and say that it’s my New Year’s resolution to regain wonder; to go back to the girl that started this site who saw stories in every person and every moment that passed; who thought of herself as a storybook character; who thought it was only she who appreciated life and existence the way she could. I could, despite knowing I’d only be able to regain an echo of who I was. I can’t turn back time, or change the circumstances that made me abandon writing to focus on my life for a while – and I need to do those to be able to reclaim who I was back. 

I could, but I shouldn’t. It’s time for me to explore this new self that seems to have emerged without me knowing. It’s time for me to go and lose myself in the chaos of discovery, until I grow into the full consciousness of who I am, and who I am to be. It’s time for me to be aware of every precious second that passes. 

It’s time to make the most out of it. 

It’s 2018. Time is an illusion, but I’d gladly be under it to be able to start on a clean slate.

brand new eyes


People aren’t books, I’ve learned. You can’t bookmark your favorite pieces to return to whenever you’re feeling lonely; when the nights get too cold and youneed something familiar to keep you warm,you can’t reopen their spines and wear out their pages and call that obsession love. – Pavana पवन

Guilt. That’s the first thing I feel whenever I read that passage, saved in my phone for me to pore over again and again. 

I treat people like books. I’m there to crack them open and learn every word, and to revel in my favorite passages right after. I bookmark pages, and use pens and highlighters on the sentences that appeal to me the most.

I pretty much just ignore the parts that I don’t like. They don’t matter, not that much. I reread my favorite books sometimes, and skip over the conflict and the heartbreak to the happily-ever-afters and happiness. 

It was only when I reversed the situation in my head that I became aware of how backwards that was; how harmful – to love people only for their good sides; only for their parts that are in your favor or of use to you.

You can easily become disillusioned as to who they really are. 

You tolerate their bad sides, and you either become a push-over, or put them under the impression that what they’re experiencing is love, instead of the cherry-picking that it actually is.

You love a person wholly, with acceptance and compromise. 

This is why you can’t take two types of people seriously: the ones who profess their love for you after a short time, and the ones who do after a long one. Odds are that the former’s only seen the best you could offer, with no idea of what’s actually under your cover. The latter, meanwhile, could just be returning to their favorite passages about you to reread on a cold night. 

I’m guilty of being both. And, God, there is so much more to learn; so much that the people I’ve loved should have deserved.

The Thing About Healing Is – 


I. It’s a process – a slow, dragging one; making you think it isn’t happening in the first place. For a fresh wound to bleed and sting, clot, turn into a scab you literally itch to scratch, and then a scar, to blend onto your skin perfectly, takes hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Sometimes it’s even the most superficial of cuts that take the longest.
Healing isn’t magical. It doesn’t make injuries and lesions instantly disappear. It can only transform what already exists. 

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send to: all 


I thought, back then, that suicide would be a great finale act to end the magic show of life. Drive a sword down your throat; the audience watching in horror and wonder. Stepping inside a box, closing it, and once it’s reopened, the whole world will wonder how you’re gone. 
Now you see me. Now you don’t. Leave them in an illusion; have a cruel play on their feelings.

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