Name: Aisling
Works: Finding Me I bleed gold on my guitar
Find me on AO3 for Marvel fanfiction!

Love Begins
trying on a metaphor
Mike Driver

if i look back, i am lost

Discoholic đȘ©

Andulka
hello vonnie
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ç„æ„ / Permanent Vacation

shark vs the universe
taylor price
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

JVL
todays bird

Janaina Medeiros
h
Monterey Bay Aquarium

JBB: An Artblog!
sheepfilms
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

seen from Germany

seen from Brazil
seen from Iraq
seen from United States
seen from United States
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seen from United States
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seen from United States

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seen from United States
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@aisling-writes
Name: Aisling
Works: Finding Me I bleed gold on my guitar
Find me on AO3 for Marvel fanfiction!
16. You're... Leaving
Time remaining: One week
âSo, are you ready to go?â
You give a sheepish laughter and shrug, quickly looking elsewhere. The white chairs, the grey ceilings and the holy altar. Perhaps if they see that youâre distracted, theyâll get distracted too.
Eureka! It works.
The Aunty, clad in a heavy chiffon salwar- kameez, ruffles your hair and talks to the next, her long black hair swishing with her every dancing step.
Youâve evaded her and sheâs forgotten you. But at what cost? To what extent?
A huge bubble of emotion threatens to spill, but you push it back inside and lock it under key. Not now, not yet. Youâll deal with it later.
Besides, youâve always had a penchant for procrastination. If you can keep away from assignments and messy rooms, so can emotions wait.
Yes, later.
That sounds nice.
Why the real villain of Chhota Bheem was King Indravarma: A meta-analysis of who he really was.
Alternative Title: An episode where I go nuts and have zero backing behind my essay.
(A note to the readers: This essay does not take into account the existence of the Mighty Little Bheem show. The matter at discussion is purely based on the Chhota Bheem show only.)
Most Indian Children born in the late 2000s can easily recognize the musical ensemble of the theme song of Pogoâs crowned jewel: Chhota Bheem. Eyes were glued to the television and clock ticks were memorised for when the show would start because Chhota Bheem to them was not just an animated show; it was an expression, a memory, a piece of childhood, if you will.
And yet, while watching the show through an âadultâ lens, Chhota Bheem leaves a bitter taste in the mouth.
Why?
The answer, I personally believe, is of two aspects. One would be the obvious irritation in how King Indravarma ruled the land, and the other is about how Chhota Bheem was a Mary-Sue and how the show perhaps needed to be styled around Kalia, his imperfections and his character arc. (But thatâs for another time.)
Letâs focus on the topic at hand: King Indravarma. He was, bluntly put, a stupid King.
Imagine a King as such in the real world. A King who had no strong Military, who constantly relied on a 10-year-old for any trivial matter whether it was an external threat to the kingdom instead of sending out an army, did not invest in new technology for the betterment of his people and used it for personal gain. The list can go on and on.
The argument presented here is that King Indravarma as a villain is not a bad evil person but rather how his aloofness was the one reason his kingdom suffered. Being a âvillainâ does not always necessitate violence and crude language; all it requires is to bring harm to others. And King Indravarma, indirectly, does that.
----------------
âStupidity is a more dangerous enemy of the good than malice. Dietrich Bonhoeffer ----------------
On the other hand, we can theorize that King Indravarma was merely âactingâ to be stupid and always had ulterior motives behind his every move. This argument is also proven along the way when I dissect his character in this essay.
In fact, this essay reaches a conclusion that King Indravarma was a strategist who wasâŠ. stupid. A perfect balance. (But not for Dholakpur.)
--
2.
It must have been a mistake that the fates made; Alas, all I am is an old soul stuck in a body fueled with vigour and life. Aware that the life that I long for is not all that I dream it to be, And yet, I canât help but feed the old soul with romantics, Of notions, Of wishes, The what-I-could-have-Beenâs had I been born decades earlier. The yellowed-out album pages slither itâs tendrils up to me, And slowly suck the joy of living in my age. Iâm but a withering soul in a sprite-ful body, My mouth canât swallow the bitter chew of the present. âIâm not meant to be here,â I cry out, but the winds swallow my whispered tears. Am I the only soul that feels such a heavy burden on the heart, or is it a universal empathy shared? Whatever the answer, it makes not an iota of a difference, because the life I long for is out of reach. And yet, one must trudge on, And hope that the remnants of the past still stay rooted in the now; That when the winds of change blow our way, I donât feel any more out of place than I must, And move on with life with soulful bliss Of knowing that Iâve made a rickety heaven in my broken haven.Â
Part 2 of I bleed gold on my guitar
1.
Sometimes the urge to just be fills me up; Up to the brim, water in the jug. It threatens to spill, to pour, to bring about an avalanche of feelings. I can see it swallowing everything, consuming like a forest fire, an ever-burning passion; but instead of leaving in its swathes, dead leaves and insects, instead of the burned ashes of what once was, it leads to the clearing of the old and the fresh blossoming of the new.
Part 1 of I bleed gold on my guitar
15. Hypothetically
It's stupid to have butterflies making a home in your stomach for no reason.
Why, I chide my "stomach".
I know nothing about him, or who he is, or what his whole name is and yet, my winged devils are convinced that he is the right guy. Mr.Right.
It's not like I see him every day in real life (but I see him every night in my dreams, doesn't that matter?) but I know everything that is to know about him.
Hypothetically.
We lie beside each other, fingers tangled, and talk about the day. He knows how my breath hitches every time he rubs his thumb rubs my fingers or when he assures me and says that a bad day was not my fault; he knows, he knows.
Hypothetically.
I'm fine imagining how his lips against mine would hypothetically be; how his hypothetical sense of humour gets me; how his hypothetical smile rips my heart into pieces and I'm fine, I'm fine and I'm fine.
I'm fine.
Part 15 of Finding Me
I saw humans the size of my sister's old Lego toys from the height of my balcony and for a second I felt like I was powerful and could change the narrative of human life. Sadly, humans are not tantamount to legos, dear children. That's a lesson one must learn.
14. Tighter
I think it's funny how one can assume that they and them are not close but suddenly, they show you a piece of poetry that they read in a blue glossy book, shaking with excitement and them realizes that maybe, just maybe, the bond between people can grow tighter without one's notice.
Part 14 of Finding Me
13. Mind Palace
They say a mind palace is the best way to remember things. Think of your house and associate every nook with the information you want. Presto chango remember.Â
And I do.Â
 I remember the summer months lazing under the swaying fan, the black centipede inching towards the flowers while we sit on the grainy steps, my hot tears and flashes which you couldnât understand at the dining table, the funny jam commercial that we saw on the new-but-old telly.Â
They say a mind palace is the best way to remember things. But my nook and corners are filled with memories.Â
Part 13 of Finding Me
Iâm writing on Tumblr right now and I see Grammarly's push-up notifications telling me that it can write it for me, just give it prompts and cues. Even ChatGPT does the same and I've seen people use it for literary reasons like story writing.
Why? Just, why?
It scares the marbles out of me that one day I won't have a choice anymore- the choice to push aside the AI voice in literature. Because it's just a matter of time until the AI books in the market will be indistinguishable and would have the mastered human element in them. People are not going to be looking at whether one in flesh and blood wrote it or one that's living mechanically as long as it's good.
Humankind has always survived the constant changes and challenges that history provided. Whether it was fighting an animal in the wild or braving the desert climate of the Arabian Gulf, man prospered. But now the fight is between something that can be perfected. Something that humans are not. The competition that was once between man and man has now transformed into that between man and machine. And it fears me that maybe man would not be the emergent winner this time.
29 July 2023
"Do you cry in front of your mother?", the lady asked me.
It took me a second to realize that she meant me; I was busy chasing a fluttering butterfly with my eyes and making a hypothetical machine with my hands; fidgety did not cover who I was.
"I-", I trailed off. What was the right answer here anyway?
The butterfly fluttered far off, over the heads of my bald principal and his associated lackeys. Yellow and red were a contrasted splash among the white starched painted walls.
"I can't recall," I admitted finally. It was hard to come to a conclusion when you couldn't remember an incident that supported or didn't. It surprised me that my mind was blank.
The lady didn't prod on- the perks of being a psychologist, I suppose.
End of the conversation, one would think.
But it wasn't. Instead, the look my friend shared with me continued it. The lady probably forgot it or didn't. But my friend and I-
No words were passed, but a look.
A knowing I-see-you look.
I suddenly realized the presence of a hole uncovered in me. But why?
At that moment I knew that she and I were the same; we went through the same just that she knew more about it. Kindred spirits in a moment's pause, but I wasn't aware of what connected us.
She told the lady openly that she never cried because it was useless. Her mother never understood. And in all that while, her focus of attention was on me. Understand, she tried telling me. Understand.
I didn't see the butterfly anymore. The red and yellow among the white had flown away.
But.
Today, I got my answer. I saw what connected me and my friend.
My friend had foreseen what would happen in my house today. 29 July 2023. Crying was banned, a taboo. Usually, children run to their mothers and weep their hearts out in their comforting hands but I was told to stop. What's the point of crying? my mother asked.
"Do you cry in front of your mother?"
All those moments that lay dormant when the lady asked me bobbed up to the surface, threatening to spill out. And when I cried today, it wasn't just the day's events; it was for all the other times when my overflowing dam was forced to shut off, grating against its walls.
My friend knew.
My friend flipping knew.
12. Ephemeral
I wish to be like all those poetic souls, who see beauty in life evermore; the sunlight as the rays of heaven, the blue night as natureâs longing, who become alive in everything ephemeral, but the truth is everything is beautiful, so they live forevermore in all around them.
Part 12 of Finding Me
11. Wishes and fishes
If wishes are fishes, I say. Not because I understand the saying, but because I think of the tiny colour souls swimming in my aquarium at home, flecks of blue flashing off their shiny bodies. They wriggle through water, bubbles plopping out every second or two.
 I think anyone would like to be a fish; so funny.
Maybe even wishes wish to be a fish.
If only wishes became fishes.
Part 11 of Finding Me
10. There's a bitter taste in my mouth and I don't like it
Is it possible to feel bitter when someone youâve talked to for barely 10 minutes in your whole lifetime is leaving?
Itâs stupid, I think. Feelings.
And yet, itâs happening altogether.
A sort of admiration of a person youâve had, who youâve respected with a distance maintained in between because intimidation was the key word of the relationship you both had, and who barely knew you and you, them, and yet⊠yet to feel a small pang of something in your heartâlike a part of you that you never knew you had was influenced by them.
I was maybe 11 or 12 when I first saw him. Auditions. I got selected for the group song. He was the teacher.
Everyone was comfortable around him. Laughed, joked around. Had inside jokes. And I didnât. In fact, it was expected. Being the youngest in the whole teenagersâ group had its drawbacks. He was strict for all matters of singing. A god-like prodigy, or so it seemed. (Itâs another thing that Iâve noticed: As the years go by, the impressionable loses its allure. I wonder why. I miss that.) I suppose that strictness he showed âIâll call those who sing improperly to the frontâ stayed. But not in fear but rather, reverence. Curiosity. A wish to pluck open his brain and dissect it and swallow all the musical knowledge that he was a storehouse of.
Years went by, competitions came and went. He taught me, and I learned. He gave me the nickname âJoâ but I suppose itâs because he forgot my name. Or maybe he didnât know it before, and now he did, and yet, the name stuck.
Doesnât make an iota of a difference.
We still talked less. Maybe twice a year. A miracle if we talked more than that.
I feel like an idiot for not talking any more than I did. I couldâve. I shouldâve. Regrets are common inhabitants in my soul nowadays.
Heâs leaving in two weeks. But those two weeks arenât any added arsenal in my bag because I wonât be there due to other programs. I kind of wish I didnât have those programs anymore though.
But why?
All for a teacher who never knew was my teacher?
Stupidity, if anything.
And yet⊠I can only watch from a distance. As an onlooker, a passer-by. A person who made up more imaginative scenarios in their head about moments they would share in the harmony of music. Mentor and mentee.
But thereâs no point in telling or wishing anything anymore.
He made an impact, however small.
And I feel bitter.
Part 10 of Finding Me
9. He never hit anyone
When I was a little kid you raised your hand at me. You were drunk stupid, the smell of alcohol reeking off of you. I screamed, cowered, waiting for the imminent blow.
It never came.
For a moment, the haze of alcohol wiped away from your eyes. It shone with understanding and regret. You pushed me aside roughly, trying not to commit a mistake before things got worse. Not to bruise me physically.
And yet, internally, the deed was done.
 I was hurt.
You forgot this incident, but I never did. Ten years have passed, and yet⊠time heals no wounds.
Yesterday in school we talked of âsparing the rod and spoiling the childâ. Many were for the notion. I think, I was the only one against it. Against the motion. Against the class. Against the world. Because, if the âwould beâ strike that I was to receive from you made a dent in me, imagine the everyday nonsensical beatings I was sure to get hadnât you restrained.
I still get nightmares.
I still disassociate from that memory.
I still think that a little child was there in my position that day. Not me. Because my father dear never hits anyone.
Part 9 of Finding Me
8. Chop
I think itâs easy to stare at a mirror and then at yourself and wish to cut excess parts of you away. To take a scissor and chop off that excess excess on your body.
Chop.
Part 8 of Finding Me
7. Life's race
Today while talking on the bus, a friend told me that this was the last day of 11th grade. And my world shattered. It's one thing to know it subconsciously, living in a state of half-deluded denial and another to straight up acknowledge it.Â
It's currently the last day of Feb 2023, and I am in constant awe of how the Earth seems to spin around the sun a bit faster every day. It feels like time is slipping out of hand, like grains of sand, and I feel helpless. It's one thing to believe in the maxim 'Live in the present' and another to realize how fast life seems to run. It's a race.Â
Dear life, who are you racing against? You're the sole competitor anyway.
Alas.Â
Part 7 of Finding Me