ellie's dream

a public diary. an exercise towards writing more freely and frequently. aiming not towards appreciation by others, but relief from the very phenomenon of being appreciation- motivated.

[coldenhaulifield]

Burning pile

If there's one thing I've learned about interacting with people, it's that a suggestion coming from and angry mouth is usually no different than a warning. And a warning to an angry ear is usually no different than a threat. There's so many variables in any given conversation. I wish I knew what to say and when to say it. I wish I knew how exactly to say it - in the best way possible. I know it's not a skill that I can just learn. No one always knows what to say. I still wish I did, though. That I had the words to bring conflicted people in my life at ease with each other. The words to say to someone who has strayed off their path. The words to make bullies introspect. Words for my father. Words for people I haven't yet met.

But most importantly, I wish I had the words to tell myself, when no one else's seem to be right.

[coldenhaulifield]

Pictures

The weather's been kind lately. Almost too kind. It's June and somehow it's been raining everyday for three days straight. Good for me though, wouldn't have it any other way with this bulky cast on my arm.

Anyway, I was going to click a picture of the post-rain sky today. But I didn't. I realised that the only reason I was going to click a picture of it was to post it as an Instagram story. And while I don't think there's anything inherently wrong with that..... It just didn't jibe well with me. There's probably a million pictures I've clicked just for the sake of having a story up. And I think that....devalues the pictures ? I don't know, I don't really have the right words for it. And I can't wait and think for better words either, since writing here is all about writing with spontaneity.

Don't know if this is a practice in 'mindfulness', but I like it. Makes you feel better in control of yourself.

[coldenhaulifield]

Avatar

It's probably safe to say that 5 days of self isolating in my room with a broken arm hasn't been the most fun thing I've done in my life. What I HAVE gotten from it though, is a fuckton of free time. Not like I was any short on that anyway, but well, I've more now.

I finished watching Avatar the Last Airbender last week, and it just blew my mind away. I learnt A LOT about story writing and worldbuilding from that show, here's a few of those things off the top of my head :

There really isn't anything more important to a story than its characters. Their personalities, goals, and development. Every character in ATLA had such complete character arcs and imo that's what make this series so special.

We LOVE feeling like kids again. Now this is mostly anecdotal, but shows starring kids are always so much more memorable for me. Stranger things, avatar, baby Looney tunes. They just feel so much more wholesome.

Worldbuilding can be so much fun, and it's so rewarding. Not everything in avatar was explicitly explained, you just took cues from the show and understood stuff yourself. Any new addition to the world felt natural, and non requiring of any explanation.

Any dialogue must try to reveal as much of one's personality as possible. Take sokka's first few lines of the show - "(in a cocky tone) it's not getting away from me this time. Watch and learn katara, this is how you catch a fish". Not only is this indicative of sokka's personality ( eager to impress, insecure of failure) , it subtly points towards his whole character arc. This is, a boy who failed to do something ( protect his tribe) and just wants to impress ( his father, who left).

Well that's all I can think of right now, I'd write more, but the weather seems alright and I need to go stand in my balcony to get some fresh air. Also, I never imagined it'd be this hard putting on clothes with one hand, but I guess I'll have to get used to it now.

[coldenhaulifield]

a letter from anxiety

Hello friend.

I hope you remember me. It’s been quite a while since I last visited you. I’ve missed you. I guess that’s why I’m writing this.

If by any chance you’ve forgotten me or who I am, let me remind you:

I’m the old, familiar sting in your chest. The reason you have those scars on your left wrist.

I’m your very reflection staring right back at you when your TV screen turns black. All the eyes staring at you when you enter the room - judging you from tip to toe. I’m your lover’s judgement, your mother’s expectations, your body’s asymmetry.

I’m all the thoughts which occur to you after the clock strikes two. All the enlarged pores on your skin- reminding you of your imperfections. I’m The harbinger of your depression, the match that starts the fire of your midnight panic attack.

I’m your singularity. All your unattainable ambitions. The mediocre marks on your science test.

I’m the stutter before your sentence. The impairment in your speech - the very verification of your undersupply of self esteem.

I’m what visits you when you least expect me. When you’re in crowded malls or busy restaurants; or when you’re all alone in your kitchen reading a book. I’m sly in my approach. I’m destructive with my attack.

But all this is nothing but a mere introduction of me. For you are familiar with my prowess, and know that its feats cannot be captured through meagre words. You know that well.

And how can I not mention our nights together? For we’ve spent many a grand times in companionship, wherein I’ve had a hold of your chest and you’ve soaked your pillow covers wet with tears of misery , behind doors locked. Knowing that not a single soul out there will come to your rescue - that your muffled wails will remain unheard by the world , your chest will find comfort in no one’s arms, and your fears and doubts will linger still.

Oh have I not missed that, friend.

I hope this letter was a reminder good enough to make you take a trip down the memory lane. I hope you remember me now, friend.

Know that I’ll be knocking on your door soon. Know that I’m longing to reside in your head again.

Expect me.

——–

With love,

Your anxiety.

-Harshiv Chhabra

[coldenhaulifield]

has* it slid 😔

[coldenhaulifield]

The elephant in the (class)room

It is indeed right to say that school teachers are rather gifted individuals. Gifted to a certain degree, at least. For they do possess a multitude of skills required to run a classroom under an educational setting. But there is one skill in the world which is probably held only by their kind. The one thing which they all seem to do so well since time immemorial. And that is, detecting boners. If you happen to be reading this excerpt as a male and have ever had both a proper functioning phallus and a teacher (with the essential distance and layers between the two) at a point of time in your life, I am sure you will relate. There is a scene which one and all may be able to recall. It's yourself, sitting at your desk in your classroom as the lecture goes on. The day is rather humid (god, this country!) and you and your fellow classmates probably show a few signs of perspiration on your foreheads. Your wooden chair is rather under made for someone your size and makes squeaky noises as you try and adjust yourself. The relief arriving from the overhead fan is never enough. And then suddenly, in this already a mess of a situation, it happens. Your manhood decides to take a stretch. But well, no issues right ? After all, it's something you deal with on an everyday basis anyway. Erections come and go; that's the way of the universe. But this is where things get serious. The lecturer goes as far as to turn around and ask aloud : "So who will come and solve this on the blackboard now ?" and for reasons unknown to mankind, your erection intensifies. You're tense now. Surely someone will volunteer and go and solve the damn sum on their own, right? But no hands go up. Instead, you grip your thighs in tension. The educator is scouting through the kids like a dog sniffing butts. You realize you're breathing heavier now. The skin on your face becomes pink and green and hot and cold and altogether extremely unbearable. Finally, the man picks someone and beckons them. It's you. Erection intensifies. One may be wondering how these respectful creatures always end up picking the ones with the best (or worst) of boners. And to be completely honest, this mystery remains unsolved to even the most accomplished scholars in the world. It could be that perhaps their ears caught the slight rustle in your pants as your joystick made the apparent shift. Or maybe , they sensed the change of blood flow towards the little dragon and wanted to screw you around for it. Or maybe still, they have invisible dick informant angels who whisper the news into their ears as the kids get their mojo on. But all these are just educated guesses. The real answers do remain unknown still. And now, returning to the elephant in the room (and in your pants) , where do you go from here ? "What would Jesus do" you ask yourself. Should you get up and go forth like a man (while at the same time embarrassingly putting your magnificent bulge of manly to the classroom's display) or shall you decline and sit and tell him that you don't know the answer? (even though the question is a rather simple one). You sit as multiple thoughts and plausible scenarios whizz through your head. Your expression is awkward. The air couldn't be hotter. Your mate across the hall giggles. He knows. Eventually after a rushed analysis of very unpleasant situations and scenarios you choose to tell him that you don't know how to do it. Your mate's giggling harder and at home your parents wail in agony. The professor looks down on you and then asks an appearingly smarter, less hornier person to come forth and solve the necessary. You curse your dick. A good seven and a half seconds after all's said and done , you lose your erection.

[coldenhaulifield]

shinin'

It's like, you know ? Like I've a Ferrari for a brain but with bicycle brakes. Makes stuff really hard and all, to tell you the truth. Like one second your mind's chilling in a five star in China and the other it's playing black jack with a couple of chain smoking hookers in a shady London bar, you know ? It's crazy, I tell you. But it does have some good to it I guess. I mean, my mother used to say that I 'shine' and all. It's really hard to explain what shining really is, you know? But I'll still try my best and all. It's like seeing things that others can't really see, or well, seeing them much before they would, at least. Like, you don't necessarily 'see' them either, you just feel them. Sometimes. Like, this one time there was this group of old women and all, having tea and wearing hats and all, you know ? Like old women do. And for some reason, I found myself there in close proximity to the said flock and all. And like, they were all talking real loud and laughing alot, right ? Now to another bystander the overhearing may have sounded pretty generic and all, but oh I saw through it all. Muriel didn't really like it when Edith commented about her new red sweater, about it being pretty 'homemade' looking and all, I'm guessing it must have been store bought and stuff, really. Also, Anna's mood shifted to red when Mary told everyone she got green tea for a 'pleasant' change today, but still, she just smiled and complimented Mary's concerned innovativeness. Cora doesn't really like hats, but she still wears them to fit in anyway. I mean , I felt it and all, really. But then I saw a kitten nearby; real cute with an orange coat and white whiskers, and it was meowing and everything.

So I went.

---------------------

-Also I speak too fast and can't sleep before 3.

[coldenhaulifield]

boggart(?)

I finished smoking the god-knows-what given to me by the gypsy woman and after an interval of what seemed like a lifetime of earthquakes, green ghosts, talking heads, and other things defying gravity and logic, I was there.

The place seemed like a dark expanse which stretched to infinity. Under my feet was water; barely making it to the height of my heels. In front of me, a child, about a year old, sat calmly on what seemed like an old arm chair from my childhood. A bright white spotlight fell from nowhere on the boy, marking him the prime subject of this seemingly nothing of a world. A prince of null.

The water beneath my feet swished slowly as I closed in on the distance between me and the prince. With each step closer, I saw him better. It was like meeting someone who you used to be close with, but due to years of separation and no contact, forgot the name of. His eyes were familiar and dark, just as his hair. His ears protruded out extensively and were asymmetric, like a baby from the stone age. The lower part of his face was dominated by the beauty of his carefully constructed lips, which were pink as a fruit and shaped long and perfect. It was exactly how you'd imagine the mouth of a prince to be. Shaped only to address crowds with words of virtue. Words that ought to be heard by soldiers before they left their wives and their children and went to war. Surely something this pristine couldn't have been the boggart, right? Boggarts were meant to be demonic and scary, not pure and innocent, like this boy.

As I got close, I ran my hand through his hair and bent down to the level of his head. In his eyes I saw a certain earnestness, which all babies somehow seemed to radiate. The boy appeared to be screaming love constantly, even though he wasn't screaming at all. I brought my hand down from his head to his plumpy right cheek, which felt cold to my hand. And then, in the passing of a terror-filled second, he revealed his set of filthy crocodile teeth, spotted with blood. His eyes shape shifted from baby like, to the ones of the devil. He had no eyeballs. His skin turned to a dark purple with flaky black spots. And before I could have pulled my hand back from the devil prince's now scorching hot cheek, I was bitten. It didn't hurt, and I only remember what happened in the short while afterwards in bits and pieces, like a dream that longs to stick with you, but is only half remembered eventually. Or better put, a half remembered nightmare.

Everything was hazy. I was in the backseat of our old Toyota. In front of me, Maa was riding shotgun and Baba was driving. The radio was playing old Hindi songs, which Baba loved listening to wherever it rained, which it was now. Maa turned back to check on me and my elder sister, who sat close to me. She looked at me and smiled, almost like a child herself. "How's my baby?" She said.

(Where are we,maa ?)

was what I wanted to say. But there were no words. It was almost as if someone took the chords out of my throat, as it felt weak and every attempt to speak only resulted in childish mumbles of "Aa" and "Buh". It was then when I realized that my viewpoint was considerably low, and raised a hand for self inspection. It was a baby's hand, soft and plump. A stream of fear shaped like a snake slithered through my spine. I gasped. Why was I in this body? Who was the boy who bit me? Was he really the boggart ? Why did he look familiar? Why am I back in the past?

I raised both my hands and inspected my ears. It took a while to do so, since my fingers were weak and incapable of fine movement. I ran my indexes along the top edges of my ears. The left ear was shaped different and displayed a slumped curve on the top. I then remembered that all my life, I've have had the same ears, asymmetric and sticking out like a stone man. The baby was I. And now I was the baby, again. I raised my hands in terrified confusion. Maa looked at me and laughed, she thought I was playing. Dee told dad about it. He laughed too. It killed me.

What happened afterwards is the the part I barely remember. All I remember is the outcome. There was a truck. A hitting of brakes. Screeching of tyres. Screams of my mother. Glass and steel penetrating flesh. Blood. The sound of an ambulance. Three deaths. One orphaned prince.

I woke up, drenched in sweat in the gypsy woman's caravan. I looked at her old, wise face and without saying a word, handed her a crisp note of five hundred. The woman had earned it.

I left the caravan and fired up the engine of my Volkswagen. It was raining and the clouds were dark and let out an occasional cry in the form of thunder. I drove and thought about all the things I've left unsaid to my family. Was my father never to hear he's the man I aim to be ? Will he never know how grateful I am for how he managed to send me to college, even when his pocket wasn't allowing him to? Will my mother never hear from me how much I adore her cooking? And in this city far away, crowded with restaraunts from all over the world, it's her bread pakodas I crave the most ? Would I never tell my sister that in all those arguments and childish fights it was only her attention that I seeked ? Will my family never know what they mean to me ?

As I reached my apartment and killed the engine, I saw in my phone that the clock had struck ten. I unlocked the door and rushed to the kitchen for a glass of water. I checked my phone again. ten seven. Surely mother would be up still, right? She never sleeps till eleven anyway. Those TV shows of her's, they keep her up. I thought about giving her a call.

After a couple of rings or more, she picked up. Her voice was sweet as ever, although this was the first time I noticed her age in it. She was nearing sixty now, and that worried me. Still , I ignored that fact and talked to my mother. She deserved to know that her son, in this city far away from her, loves her beyond the realms of heaven and hell and would do anything for her.

(I love you, maa.)

was what I tried to say. But there were no words. Even as an adult, I couldn't have spoken my mind. My mouth, chiseled to address crowds with words of virtue, couldn't give some words of love to my own mother. Almost as if someone took the chords out of my throat. Almost like a grown up child.

We ended up talking about the weather and the progress of my studies. I enquired about Baba's health and my sister's new job.

At ten fifteen, I went to bed.

- Harshiv Chhabra

[coldenhaulifield]

good morning, good bye

Sat down last night to create art, God knows you made something.

There’s paint on your cheeks, charcoal on the side of your palms. The room’s a whiff of oil and you’re smoking your cigarettes. As you stare into the canvas in front of you, I see in you a sense of self-assuredness, of satisfaction. It’s something about the way you’re standing, your feet slightly apart, your arms comfortably crossing your bosom - thumbs poking out, the first ray of this morning gently kissing your face as it graces the room from the window right beside you. But mostly, it’s in the way you smile.

In your painting I see a city. Probably our very own, this city of seven million - drawn from a bird’s eye view. Perhaps this is how you choose to pay your tributes before you pack your bags. Your painted testimonial to the streets that made you. You never liked the rain here much. Yet it seeped into your shoes. Just like the city - into your heart.

I see you as you turn towards me. Stubbing your cigarette against the wall, acknowledging my presence. I see your eyes light up, as you come forward and hug me, almost instantly. ‘We’ll do just fine.’ - I hear you say.

Again, in your eyes - ease. And in your admiration, I wonder, how do you do it ?

Your silvery voice oozes into my ears and flows into my veins, calming me down like an elixir. I look into your hazel eyes and find myself falling into an abyss of iridescent. One that’s nonchalant. Unaffected. As if issues of mobs and kings and gods were never big enough to move you. As if you could breathe in lightning , hold it in your lungs, and exhale fields of cherry blossom. As if you could pick up a sewing needle and weave together the cosmic brokenness of the world. Make it whole again.

You don’t have much time now, I know.

I see you, as you’re about to leave. The hold of your arms comforts me no more. You’re looking away, into your painting now. Releasing one final sigh as you stop gazing it. You’re walking away. And with each step, a chill. It’s as if the morning sun isn’t enough to warm this room. As if the sun won't save me from this icy feeling. Unlike you.

Sat down last night to make art, God knows you created history.

-Harshiv Chhabra

[coldenhaulifield]

kite kindda runner

A memory:

It was almost time for sundown in Kabul. The sunrays painted the sky with hues of orange and tangerine. Hassan led the way as we walked through the woods , making our way to the hill situated just south to its edge ; both of us with a bunch of paper airplanes in hand. It was time to fly them up and see whose stays up longer , getting more airtime. This was how we spent most of our Saturday evenings.

I remember walking just a few steps behind him. The countless browned leaves that fell and adorned the forest floor crackled at our feet as we trekked our way through. The woods are quite a sight at this hour. Hassan believed that if you did nothing but kept still and took deeper breaths , you could hear the forest talking to itself. How the chirruping of a swallow may invoke the gibbering of a monkey , or how the constant chirping of a cricket makes a nearby toad hop up in search for its noisy prey. And if you came just at the right time (which was hours from now , in the shade of the night.) you could even hear the unified silence. The whole of the woods and its constituent beings making not a sound in what seemed like sort of a mutual agreement. Nothing but complete and raw silence.

I saw Hassan turn his head back in my direction. The wood's branched roof sieved the rays of the falling sun and the resulting poles of sunlight kissed and un-kissed his already perfect face , as he continued walking still. The sun revealed exactly how brown his eyes were and his wheat-ish face glowed golden. He squinched his eyes as he put to display the funniest but yet the most innocent toothless smile one's younger brother can exhibit. He just had his right upper canine fall out. He looked me in the eye for a moment and then asked :

"Say bhai Jan , how do your planes always stay up longer than mine ?"

"Because I know the right way to throw them." I said.

"Is there really one ?" he looked surprised.

"Yes, of course. You just have to find the right launching angle by analyzing the wind , using your tongue. Only then will your plane have a long safar." I said.

"Oh , I see." he said , believing me.

And this is what Hassan was like ; always in belief of everything I said , devoid of any doubt. Sometimes his guileless devotion scared me. You can't help but fear the person who holds you in such confidence. A haunting ghost of responsibility whispered things into my ear , most of which I chose to ignore. After all , he's had it easier than me. Though younger , Hassan had always been better at grasping new things than me. No matter what grade I achieved in my previous class , Hassan always outshined me when his time came. The local mullah loved him too ; saw in him something earnest and pure. And apart from that , he even was the best kite runner in town. And if you've ever been to Kabul , you'd know us Afghans here take our kites seriously. Whereas I couldn't run or fight a kite for my life's sake.

One could even tell that he was Baba's more favoured son. After all , Baba loved kites. They say when he was younger , no one ran kites better than him. Every kite that got its string cut in the annual competition , Baba would catch before it even hit the ground. He just seemed to know where it would land , as if he was one with the wind itself. And even now as he's older , he hasn't let his enthusiasm for kites die. He's co-sponsoring the tournament this year after all.

I remember how he used to hug Hassan longer and how he praised him in front of his friends and business partners. How he got to sit on his lap and listen to his stories more often. I remember. Surely I could have allowed myself to a bit of leisure at the expense of his every now and then , right ? Looking back at it now , perhaps this was how I sought equivalence. For I was only taking from him some of what I had none.

We walked the rest of the path without uttering a word. The leaves crackled and the crickets chirped. You could hear the forest now , and Hassan and I knew that this chatter need not be broken by ours. So we kept quiet.

Eventually , we made our way out of the woods and on top of the hill. We sat there on the edge of the cliff , flying airplanes into the downing sun and over our beloved city.

As I launched planes that seemed to glide forever , Hassan gazed at me in awe. Having a hard time with the mentioned himself, he said :

"Say Amir Jan , I think I should give you a new title."

" Haha , and what would that be ? " I smirked as I replied.

"The Sultan of Paper airplanes." he said. The sense of admiration in his words undeniably pleased me.

"Well now , that would be fitting won't it?"

Hassan nodded in agreement and displayed his toothless smile again.

" Maybe you'll be as good as me someday , Hassan. If you work on your angle , that is. " I said.

" I will try my best , bhai jan." he said as he stuck his tongue out and launched his last one into the wind. It flew for a good five-seven seconds , until it didn't. Not because Hassan wasn't throwing them right or because he didn't analyze the wind correct, but because I needle-poked holes into the underside of his planes prior to every plane gliding session we took. I remember wondering whether I was being a bit harsh on my little brother ; for the joy of watching one that you made go with the wind really was something.

But then again , being The Sultan of paper airplanes felt pretty nice , to be honest.

-Harshiv Chhabra

[coldenhaulifield]

simple man

John's a simple man. And like all men simple, he drinks to remember and smokes to forget. And tonight we see him remembering. The scene finds him sitting, all huddled up in the absolute corner of his 11th storey apartment . This location is asylum to him. The only placement where he feels safe, where he knows no one can access his back to deliver another fatal stab. It arouses the illusion of protection for him - one that he very desperately requires. This very corner is his safe zone.

We see that his right hand displays the holding of a half-full bottle of whiskey. Or half- empty , as he sees it. The liquor is his only friend as of now, and he makes sure there aren't any deficiencies in him as its companion - spending as much time with the mentioned as possible. Drinking to Oblivion.

John's in a state of loathing. And the worst kind too - the loathing of oneself. The more the vicious liquid that pours down his throat, the more he remembers. We find him thinking about old friends. The ones he lost to meaningless feuds and unnecessary jokes. He thinks about the lovers of the past , with whom he parted ways on reasons which he finds to be either moronic or unremembered now. He rues the decisions that he had made regarding them. The walls that he built to protect himself now seem to him to be capable only of isolation, not security.

We see John rushing to his dressing. He's got the eyes of antipathy and a pounding heart that feels like it could burst any second now. He very slowly closes in on the distance between him and his dressing mirror , the bottle of whiskey still in his clutch. He takes a closer look at his face. The wrinkles only made him seem older than he really is, but he doesn't care. There is another element on his face which requires his better inspection, one that he so passionately despises - his tongue.

"There you are." he says as he sticks the organ out his mouth for self display. In the moment his aggressive aura radiates an almost evil intent and a self harming resolve. He stares at it to his displeasure for a few good seconds until it takes over him - the monster. John smashes the bottle of whiskey into the mirror in a resentful rage.

A glassy shard airs its way to the back of his non bottle-smashing hand. It also happens to be his second favorite smoking hand, so John doesn't care about it either. The connected shard releases a spray of crimson and the floor is decorated with blood, whiskey and glass. The very combination of which aggravates John's monster even more.

We see him scurry to the washroom and bend down to the toilet in dire desperation. " Get the fuck out !" he yells as he attempts to spit the very organ of his tongue out, to no good effect. Perhaps John's too drunk to remember that tongues can't be just spat out , or maybe he does and wants to try anyway, we'll never know. What we do know is that John has transcended to a platform higher than that of the average human. He realizes the destruction his words are capable of, that he doesn't posess the ability to use the ever so powerful tools to his good. That the words coming out of his mouth only give rise to what appears to be his very downfall. They're far too complex.

John's a simple man. And like all men simple, he cries when he regrets. And right now he is regretting.

We find him pulled away from the toilet, with his back against the opposing wall. He sits down in a pain that no words have the power to describe. A pain that is so unbearably sharp and constant that it can tear the world apart. He wipes the tears off his face with his still bleeding hand, unaware that he painted his face crimson too. John's bleeding sadness now.

We see that he pulls out his phone. A device he recognizes as amplifier of the range of his tongue. An amplifier of chaos. But right now it's a matter that doesn't concern him. He opens from his gallery a view of a picture of him and Jennifer - the only picture of them he couldn't in all his sad glory get himself to delete. He sees her posing with him outside a downtown cafe , arm in arm. He admires her purple dress and dark , long hair. Her skin seems golden to him. He misses the times he spent with her. She was the last person who made him feel like a person. Now he only is what he thinks he is- a monster.

John's a simple man , and like all of the lot , he gives up to pain. " Enough." he says as he drops his phone to the ground, with absolutely no bother at all. The device no longer serves a purpose to the man, it is only a portal back in time for him. A time he doesn't really want to go back to.

We see him lifting himself from the bathroom floor, his face shows no sign of hope or endeavor. He doesn't really want to try now. Anything , at all.

He finds his way back to his safe zone - the corner. And rearranges himself to his initial placement , as he sits down yet again.

John pulls out a spliff from the front pocket of his umbro jacket. He feels he has remembered too much now, and it was time to forget.

And forget he does.

-Harshiv Chhabra

[coldenhaulifield]

a letter from anxiety

Hello friend.

I hope you remember me. It's been quite a while since I last visited you. I've missed you. I guess that's why I'm writing this.

If by any chance you've forgotten me or who I am, let me remind you:

I'm the old, familiar sting in your chest. The reason you have those scars on your left wrist.

I'm your very reflection staring right back at you when your TV screen turns black. All the eyes staring at you when you enter the room - judging you from tip to toe. I'm your lover's judgement, your mother's expectations, your body's asymmetry.

I'm all the thoughts which occur to you after the clock strikes two. All the enlarged pores on your skin- reminding you of your imperfections. I'm The harbinger of your depression, the match that starts the fire of your midnight panic attack.

I'm your singularity. All your unattainable ambitions. The mediocre marks on your science test.

I'm the stutter before your sentence. The impairment in your speech - the very verification of your undersupply of self esteem.

I'm what visits you when you least expect me. When you're in crowded malls or busy restaurants; or when you're all alone in your kitchen reading a book. I'm sly in my approach. I'm destructive with my attack.

But all this is nothing but a mere introduction of me. For you are familiar with my prowess, and know that its feats cannot be captured through meagre words. You know that well.

And how can I not mention our nights together? For we've spent many a grand times in companionship, wherein I've had a hold of your chest and you've soaked your pillow covers wet with tears of misery , behind doors locked. Knowing that not a single soul out there will come to your rescue - that your muffled wails will remain unheard by the world , your chest will find comfort in no one's arms, and your fears and doubts will linger still.

Oh have I not missed that, friend.

I hope this letter was a reminder good enough to make you take a trip down the memory lane. I hope you remember me now, friend.

Know that I'll be knocking on your door soon. Know that I'm longing to reside in your head again.

Expect me.

--------

With love,

Your anxiety.

-Harshiv Chhabra

[coldenhaulifield]

As soon as we entered the clinic we found ourselves in a rather dull lobby. Perhaps the dentist was very particular about energy conservation, or maybe today was the odd day his possibly English receptionist forgot to turn the secondary lights on. Anyway, it didn't really matter. The room was full of men and women waiting to have their teeth tended to. Ellie looked at me with a long face, she knew it was going to be quite a while until she gets to go back home to play with her Legos.

"How long until our turn, daddy?"

"Don't know, kiddo. Better go grab a book to read."

"Okay."

Ellie got up and walked to the bookshelf situated in the corner of the room. For a good five minutes I watched the girl scout through the clinic's collection. She was biting her lips, just like I did whenever I tried to focus. It's funny how they pick up the littlest quirks from you.

Soon after she chose her winner; I found her walking towards me, with the book in her hand. She had purpose in her eyes, and her auburn hair seemed unreal, thanks to just the right amount of sunshine falling on her little head through the lobby's window.

"Hold this, daddy." She handed me the book and walked towards the receptionist's counter.

"Excuse me miss. Can you please turn on the lights over there?" She asked innocently.

"Yes of course, my dear. Just a second." The receptionist said, as she proceeded to get up and turn the switches as per the little girl's request.

The room lit up.Ellie looked up to the woman and smiled. Her cheeks flush pink whenever she does that. It's a divine thing to witness, really.

Ellie returned and claimed her seat beside me once again. I returned her the book she handed me. 'Where's Waldo' , the cover read.

I watched her drum her fingers against her knee, trying her best to find the ever so secluded Waldo. There was no breaking her attention, for she was determined to find the fellow. The little girl loves a challenge, as you can see.

I wasn't a huge fan of her drumming habitude though. But you see, there were other things about her I needed to worry about. Things I'd completely forgotten about, even if only for an hour or so.

Eventually, we were called for. We went into the exam room. The dentist was old, wore round spectacles and exhibited a huge smile, as always.

"Are you ready to get your filling done, little Ellie?" The old chap welcomed her.

"Y-yes doc." She blinked a few times before she spoke, out of nervousness.

"Well then let's get you ready."

I held her hand as he went on drilling and filling holes in my girl's premolar.Her eyes were closed and her eyebrows were tense. Her hand was soft; it was the kind of hand you hold and not want to let go of. The kind you hold and tell yourself - 'I want to protect this person'. Or maybe it was just my fatherly instinct, I don't know.

All I did know was that this was my daughter, my only child. And I'm her only parent. It's hard playing both mom and dad, but oh is it not ever so rewarding. Her growth has been a lovely thing to witness, and it has changed me in ways which are phenomenal. It has made me do things I never thought I could. And feel things I didn't know I could ever feel. I'd give the world for this kid. She's worth it all.

Eventually, the cavity was filled. And I had to stop admiring my daughter's existence and take her back home.

The kid was eager to play with her Legos, really.

"Thank-h you doctoh". Her mouth was still numb.

"Haha, anytime, little one."

And so we left the dentist's office and got in our car. Little did I know that it would start raining again.I personally never liked it when it rained too much. I'm more of a summer guy. Ellie however, loved the rain. Reminiscent of her mother, Who I'd seen dance in the rain for absolutely no good reason, but because she could, and she wanted to.

Ellie didn't mention anything about the rain . This was unlike her.

"So what you're thinking about, kiddo?"

She usually spoke in great length whenever I asked her that question. This time however, she just glared out the window seat ,sitting as still as any 11 year old ever could.

"Ellie?" I reminded her of my presence, and curiosity.

"When will they start with my chemo again, daddy?"

Fuck.

-Harshiv Chhabra