Hope

...is important.
You always said that.

Keep the faith, is what you said ; right?

oh and
"I'll fight against destiny and win"



But what when one just can't do it anymore? What then?
What when one complete outdoes his own self, and another step doesn't seem like 'just' a step but as burdened as hell. Then what?

Why didn't you tell me what to do when one loses hope in faith.

Bring that hope back? Believe in yourself , life is a struggle, happiness is just a pursue blah blah blah and all the jazz?
Till when?

Of Masks and an Evil Twin.

I don't know about you but I think when we are happy or sad you are everything jealous, spiteful, depressed, eccentric, and so on.

I believe everyone has more than one face, but I can't speak for everyone only myself.

I feel I passed though my 18 years as a wallpaper flower. Seen, but unnoticed at the same time.

At home at college. I see wrong I know right, but as a wallpaper flower you would lack the courage, spirit, and heart to correct it.

I can't look in the mirror
Because when I do I see an enclosed, spiteful, hateful, and envious girl.

Enclosed I hide the truth I bear the lies. You make me laugh you think you know me? Do you know I hate you? Do you know I fear you? Do you know that I would give up everything to be you and yet you whine on the most ridiculous things, you naive fool.

Spiteful spiting any love that comes my way.Everything looks fake
so don't give me your I love you's or you friendly hugs because it makes me tremble it makes me weep. I can no longer accept love. I fear love because I don't understand it, what is this four-letter word?

Hateful hating myself for the lack of courage to fight for what I want, what is right, and what is needed when it is right in front of my face. All the forced back words and swallowed tears I begin to hate it all.

Envious jealous of everyone who seems to have real happiness but like I would be able to recognize that.

When you see me you will know why I am the wallpaper flower. I am not Emo, gothic, or running around mourning for the world. I smile, I laugh, I play, I live. My perfect cover.

Fragile as glass.
All I have is hope and dreams
but I know it is only my refuge in the night in my slumber
I live the way I want to without you.


I fear of being alone and even though I hate you please don't leave me.

I miss you.

I want to pick up a pen and paper, no not pen; a pencil. So, I want to pick up a pencil and write what I want my life to be some years hence, and achieve it by hook or crook.
And I want to pick up an eraser and erase every moment I shared with people who left with unsaid words. They never deserved so much of me. I am angry and extremely extremely ... void.
Human beings just use each other.
Emotionally. Physically. And when their work is done, they move ahead.
And I forgive them. Because I call them victims of circumstances; But my forgiveness ain't gonna be so easy now on.


Yes, you said it right my dear prospective Chief Minister , " People who have ambitions do not get effected by emotions"
No, I will not give up on compassion. No, I am not begging for stability in life.

I'm very very angry with myself and them.
I'm scared. Of life. Of people.
I'm scarred.
I'm a hopeless dreamer.
I'm void.
I'm not feeling right.
I'm just a little ashamed to be all of this. This is not what I want to feel.

I'm miss you Shivani. Badly. Please come back wherever you are. Please.


Too much usage of 'I' because its MY life. And I am the most important person in my life.

MY Shoes

If this is how it has to be; this is how it will be.



I was quite a weird kid.I had a habit of losing stuff. I was indeed one of those completely careless ones, I used to take my dad to buy me new pencils every weekend ; the fanciest ones there, purposely leave my water bottles and tiffin box in school to be able to demand for a new one, drop things out of my balcony with the intention of not wanting to see them ever the list can be endless. Whenever it happened due to my own fault , I rarely showed any guilt . I just ordered for a new one. As if it was my right to get the exact same thing back again. Though I never played with dolls, I had one with blue eyes, if not less I made my parents buy the same doll 7-8 times over a span of maybe a year and a half, everytime I saw any single defect in them I wanted a brand new one. ( And No, even if it seems like I wasn't one of those spoilt kids :P , my parents were the extremely strict ones, maybe just my mother. Papa could be manipulated by tantrums and tears, daughters have that advantage )
However this isn't the real story.

When I was 7 or 8. We used to have Yoga class in school twice a week. We used to leave our shoes in the classroom and go to the Yoga room in the basement. One of those days, I just carelessly opened my shoes , as usual ; without placing them under my chair. When we returned after class, my shoes weren't in place. In fact they were nowhere to be found. The first thing I did was ( No I didn't cry) I went to the classteacher, then to the lost and found. Just about everywhere, frantically looking for my shoes. Which was infact rather surprising for them, because it wasn't the first time that I had lost something. A month back I had lost my shoes and I happily walked back home with just my socks on. ( Yes because that time I wanted new shoes , my old ones were...well ...old? ) I started checking everyone's shoes.
Size 5.
Now there is a thing all of us have, the eye to recognize something you own, even if 50 other people have the exact same thing.

She was wearing them. I don't know why. Maybe she left her's in the basement and couldn't find them and wore whatever was in class. Maybe I was too careless with mine and she thought they were hers. But the fact remains that She was wearing MY shoes.
The fighter cock I was, I asked her to open them. That they were mine and she had no right to wear them. That I can see a certain part of the shoe lace out and the left shoe has a thread off at the end and that inside them the 5 is slightly faint from the place I remember seeing in the morning while wearing them, explaining myself thats its time I got a new one maybe.
But she refused. She said they were hers. Her mother was a teacher in school, she got all the more benefit. I was taken to the lost and found room, and there was a size 5 shoe which I was forced to wear. I did so, but for me, at that time, that day seemed the saddest day of my life. How could someone else claim on MY shoes. And just because her mother was a teacher and they knew I have a habit of being careless, it was conclusive that I am the one mistaken again?
I went back home crying. I wasn't the kind of kid who went back home and cried about bad days and bullies. I went back home happy, so it was indeed a shock for my mom.
I was sad all day. They offered me new shoes. I refused. I wanted my old ones back. They were mine, not hers. But I knew what I had to do.
Next day, we had Yoga class I again. When they left, I put the shoes I got from the lost and found under her chair with a note inside it and took mine back.
Felt amazing. It still does when I think about it.
The note said " Nobody can take away anything which is mine. I've taken it back"
(which was followed by a little drama, but I got to keep what was mine)


Though things have changed now. Considerably.
I still hate it when something owned by me gets claims from other people. Whether or not the current possession is still with me is immaterial.
I lost it. However my reaction to was quite contradictory to what I really I am. When I like something , I don't like it that others like it too. No its not being jealous, yes It's insecurity, not because my position as the owner decreases, but because when they came and claimed it after I lost it, they did it with too much confidence. It wasn't as if I couldn't ever find it back and claim it but I didn't want them to know that I once I had it and I lost it. I knew they just wanted sheer pleasure out of my misery by asking me whatever they did ;

All I said was, "No that wasn't mine ever".

Keep it.

Life is not Unfair

... People are.

Really?

It's not always hard to be a fan, of course; when you're a little kid it's the easiest thing in the world. At a point in your life when you pretty much can't do anything - as adults will hasten to remind you, saying things like " you can't drive a car until you're older," or, "human beings can't see through walls, no matter how hard they look at them," - Superman can do absolutely anything and everything. (Actually, I've seen Superman drive a car. And I bet noone can do it better than him)And the things he can do are of particular interest, it's fair to say, to little kids. For example: when was the last time you really wanted to set something on fire by just looking at it? Or really, really wished you could fly? Not "boy, wouldn't it be great if I got a surprise upgrade to business class" fly, or "maybe I can use my frequent flyer miles to score a trip to a friend" fly, but just, you know, fly. Probably not as recently - and certainly not as devoutly - as any five-year-old boy you know.

Superman is also just plain good, and when you're still at an age when things come in lots of simple good and bad categories, he fits pretty easily into that sort of framework. Think about the movies in both of them ; where much is made of Superman never lying. When you're at an age when you're looking for moral absolutes to admire, Superman's way up there, up in the sky.

But things change; seasons pass, and tender youth gives way to bitter experience. and all the things about Superman that were so admirable then become, well, a little grating. Everything is - or at least feels - much more complicated, and the simplicity of Superman's moral code seems a bit like kid stuff at a time when it's much harder to figure out right from wrong. And Superman himself? Polite, well-behaved, always getting along with the authorities? Not particularly cool, at a time when cool matters a lot; other heroes take center stage, ones that are a little more...rock and roll.


And now, in adulthood?
I'll be honest: even though it's been some time since I've been a teenager, I still love the idea of Superman if not him.

Ever since I can go back in time, I have had my heroes. People I have looked upto. People who inspire and not make me negotiate. People who have battled with the odds, taken the lone path and succeeded, in more ways than one. Hero-worshipping has been an inherent part of me I guess, extraordinaries don't happen to people everyday nor have they to me; the very few who have made the difference have become MY heroes. Thus explaining my obsession with Superman. (I call it pure faith).

But they have also made my worst fears come true, that the closer you get to a person ; the more you know about them, something will let you down. Knowingly , unknowingly or due to my elevated expectations, they have let me down and left me dejected, taken away my hopes , my faith.


I thought the worst thing to do is to let down your hero , but even worst is getting your heart broken by one. Someone who meant perfect in the dictionary of human beings , up there in your eyes, the heart aches to bring em down and the mind says maybe they never deserved that place.

I can ridicule everything by saying I make the wrong choice every time or that it was me who decided to give them that place in life and its completely fair if I decide to take it back. But then where does my hope in faith go? Shattered into a million pieces? Because they couldn't carry the burden of being a Hero or it'ws too juvenile and frivilous of me to expect so?

I want to go back and read " Why the World Needs Superman" But a certain part of me is way too angry and way too let down to confirm the faith again.

There are many unspoken realities that we dismiss all because we are too chicken to deal with it.But,does fantasy take over?More often than not,its just reality that strikes back at us harder than ever.
Life can't always be a bed of roses and I embrace that.
It's alright to dream,but just make sure that you're not living in a dream.That's what matters I guess.



Maybe in this real world, there are no real heroes; just a desperate need to believe in one.



"Does the World Need a Superman?"


I don't know.

Dethroned

It is lonely. Ironic, however, they wouldn't notice. They, with their complaints of starvation, devastation; they, mired in the fear of imminent extinction, shouldering the burden of sin; they, looking skyward for His guidance and shuddering at the merest thought of His presence.

But they seek comfort in each other's gaze, catching joy (however fleeting it may be) on the waves of their speech, fulfillment etched in company.

Below, the day has been long, made longer with the reluctant dimming of the afternoon, fading into evening. And as the night glimmers, He settles back, wearily, to rest.

The air chokes, humid - heavy with expectations. It's the end of another disappointment.

And He watches.

None of it's turned out, really, as He had planned.

He sees them now as they hurry, tracing paths that swirl and loop, twirling until their frantic activity blurs. Their orb glows, and He is mesmerized for the brevity of a butterfly's flutter. Enamored with their own glassy evanescence, they build towering monuments of metal, sculpting the majestic peaks and valleys of bridges, moving earth. Rivers flow under their direction, cutting and sharp; they design pictures to represent landscapes, images to replace strokes of art.

They won't remember Him for another few hours, He knows, and He wonders momentarily if they ever really remember Him at all.

They clutch trinkets, bejeweled and sparkling. Lovely. But trinkets do not build castles, cannot imitate fate.

It's not enough, now, to hope.

He sees the reflection from a woman's mirror, her vacant expression flickering, then vanishing. Vaguely, He hears the shrill shriek of a siren, desperate.

It wasn't always like this, He thinks. Before, back when He longed to coexist with His created universe, meshing mortal and eternal, when He wished to be the light of harmony - He foolishly imagined they would listen.

It hardly matters now, though, that He set out to do good, that He envisioned companions to brighten His empty existence. These companions clung to each other instead, and isolation found Him again, gaping and harsh. Nor is there any significance in the sapphire sphere He sees before him, pulsating with the life He birthed - it is no more His than it is its own, no more rare or beautiful than just another tainted perfection, torn carelessly, then haphazardly stitched back into existence.

He is all too familiar with sacrifice, knows far too well the taste of loss. And He laughs bitterly, for even He can no longer recognize the warped illusion that was once His passion, for even He has lost sight of its once-brilliant splendor.

He dares not admit they frighten him.

But they have their civilizations, complexities woven and tangled, mistakes. They have each other, but their brothers are enemies and they construct walls of mistrust, only to tear them down in fits of rage that He cannot comprehend. Justice, potent when laced with the shadows of greed, is far too powerful a temptation, and they cannot defy it - they do not try to resist.

They slaughter for pride, savoring a short-lived vengeance.

He doesn't understand.

He sees hunger written in their strained interactions, pleas for compassion. Empathy.

A girl lies under her covers, strands of hair visible around a pillow, breathing unevenly. He watches, and He knows she is broken.

In the darkness, they're weak.

They look up to Him, now, eyes gleaming, whispering a prayer before retiring - hope resting on an unshakable faith. He watches, and He sees their blindness. In the clarity, they are no more than children - bereft, searching. And just as He did, they ask for answers.

They, who can now control survival, treating life as a craft to bend to their every whim; they, who overlooked caution to pursue glory; they, who saw the end of His hopes - they are lonely.

But He can no longer call them His, and - no - He doesn't know how to help. He is lost as well, grasping, confused and despairing.

He watches the trembling of a little boy's eyelids in slumber, and He knows nothing.

In the stillness, He watches them.

Their flaws are His flaws, their errors traceable back to His hands. They are neither perfection nor harmony, but neither is He.

And there is hope etched in company.