A caffeinated blog

Eclectic tastes and capricious passions. Spends her coffee dates alone.

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“Who are you?”, he asked.

“A three page love letter in a world of relationship updates”, She replied.

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❤

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How foolish we are to give ourselves away so insistently to those who never asked for us. How foolish it is To think that we can own a person; that they are ours and ours alone. I am yours As you are mine. Not at all.

/reg// how foolish I was

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//eulogy for my lover(s) that didn’t reside// Six weeks since the last draft, I decided to rewrite what I felt was the remains of you being in me. Like the way you would spoon me around, your cold fingers on my spine, your lips pressed against my neck, it’s a little funny how we never kissed, you know, you didn’t ask and I was never the asking kind. It’s been almost four years since I called you at midnight and you said you couldn’t talk, you said you were with someone and asked me not to call anymore. I swear I haven’t cried for anyone since. We’re still on talking terms and sometimes, just sometimes at four in the morning when I wake up from a bad, bad dream, I wish you were there. You told me about how you learnt to love basketball and math, how you admire the German way of life. I remembered you told me how the process is more important than the outcome, in the single ever conversation that we ever had. You tell me you’ve changed, you’re clean now. You’ve left alcohol like you’d left home, but I don’t tell you how your words reek of dishonesty. I found you in the wit of some other lover, trying to fit in your shoes, but he’s still here, and you’re long gone, and I can’t, I can’t sleep tonight. Your voice plays in my head like a kodaline song that I can’t seem to get rid off. Love, I still have specimen of your handwriting in the pages of my scrapbook that I left at home, you’re too terrifying to be carried along, and I can’t sleep with you in my mind. You’re not one, you’re many. I remember you, because I write about you. I imprint you in my palms like I intend to forget the things I care about the most, only I don’t. I don’t forget things easily, you know, like how your eyes would never focus on mine, or how you would stand below my balcony on days we both would wake up late, or how easy falling out of love is. And love, I wouldn’t forget how you didn’t reside but left your residue in me.

/reg// you didn’t reside but left your residue in me (via ex-pli-cit)

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//eulogy for my lover(s) that didn’t reside// Six weeks since the last draft, I decided to rewrite what I felt was the remains of you being in me. Like the way you would spoon me around, your cold fingers on my spine, your lips pressed against my neck, it’s a little funny how we never kissed, you know, you didn’t ask and I was never the asking kind. It’s been almost four years since I called you at midnight and you said you couldn’t talk, you said you were with someone and asked me not to call anymore. I swear I haven’t cried for anyone since. We’re still on talking terms and sometimes, just sometimes at four in the morning when I wake up from a bad, bad dream, I wish you were there. You told me about how you learnt to love basketball and math, how you admire the German way of life. I remembered you told me how the process is more important than the outcome, in the single ever conversation that we ever had. You tell me you’ve changed, you’re clean now. You’ve left alcohol like you’d left home, but I don’t tell you how your words reek of dishonesty. I found you in the wit of some other lover, trying to fit in your shoes, but he’s still here, and you’re long gone, and I can’t, I can’t sleep tonight. Your voice plays in my head like a kodaline song that I can’t seem to get rid off. Love, I still have specimen of your handwriting in the pages of my scrapbook that I left at home, you’re too terrifying to be carried along, and I can’t sleep with you in my mind. You’re not one, you’re many. I remember you, because I write about you. I imprint you in my palms like I intend to forget the things I care about the most, only I don’t. I don’t forget things easily, you know, like how your eyes would never focus on mine, or how you would stand below my balcony on days we both would wake up late, or how easy falling out of love is. And love, I wouldn’t forget how you didn’t reside but left your residue in me.

/reg// you didn’t reside but left your residue in me

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Closing my eyes, memorising the times spent in this now-feels-like-a-cage, I ask myself, “Should I run away?” “Why should you? And to whom will you?,” It was an instant yet thoughtful question from the brain. Staring blankly at my palms with heart beats dancing, I let the red mind answer. “You know why you’re running! For your happiness. What else but the smile would matter in the end?” says the heart softly but determinately. “So, you’re telling me happiness gonna feed you bread and cover you from those mouths that call you a runner? I see,” smirked the brain. Standing up, I hesitated a bit. A loud sound silenced them both. The brain was unable to speak and the dancing of the beats came to an end. Speechless, sighed the soul.

/reg// Running away from Happiness

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Choose. Make the call. Pen over keyboard. Brush over Photoshop. Strings over EDM. There is a reason Mother Nature exists. The mind will seek freshness only when it is challenged. An over-vibrant screen and clacking keys will only get you so far. There is a reason I’m writing this on paper. My brain is suffering a serious case of creative rust. I haven’t picked up the guitar in three months. I’ve literally forgotten how to write with a pen. My eyes have forgotten the last time they read the printed word. Don't’ give in to the machines. Your heart is slowly turning to tin, and your feelings will soon be a grand calculation of likes, comments, and shares. Step out into the wild a bit. Have you seen the filters nature uses? They’re so crazy that a small black mirror will eventually appear dull to you. End the domination of the technology which was built to make your life easier. Only easier. Never addicted. Rise. Run. Play. Read. Sing. Laugh. Paint. Read. Swim. LIVE.

/reg// LIVE

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Who gets to determine when the old ends and the new begins? It’s not a day on a calendar, not a birthday, not a new year. It’s an event. Big or small. Something that changes us. Ideally, it gives us hope.

Grey’s Anatomy

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This magic you have cast On me, Has left me gasping For reality, For a sense Of understanding Of the ways of the world. Your spell has left me Feeling your fragrance, Seeing your voice Float in the air, Feel your sight on me, And smell your touch As it outlines my scars! Oh you wicked witch, My enchantress, A sorceress in your Own right, Like they say in words Full of wisdom and fame… You make my name Sound like a chant To summon some dark force. Destroy me In your embrace, Engulf my world In the flames of your love. I’ll die a thousand deaths Every single time I drink The sweet venom From your lips.

/reg// is this how it's supposed to feel?

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If you think about it, aren’t we all that’s wrong with the universe? We keep tearing each other apart. Then we hand back the torn out pieces, pretending to be the savior. It’s a vicious cycle, that’s all. We keep loving the wrong people, and so do they. We stop making sense and we blame it on the weather. Or better yet, on love. We keep ruining each other, word by word. We destroy each other every night and cry when we find our ashes on the ground. So now you know, We were the fault, and you still wonder how did it all go wrong. And I bet, right now, you are messed up and lonely, too. My darling, it’s only fair.

/reg// we were the fault

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I am a sadist. But before you take up your sticks to come and beat me to death, let me clarify— I am no criminal who likes inflicting pain on a person. No, I am too fragile a body for that. I am a sadist who revels in sorrow. Unlike joy with all the radiance around, sorrow is lonely. And sorrow is real. Pain attracts me. It abides by a raw, uninhibited feeling of helplessness and that makes it all the more beautiful to feel. A person in pain is vulnerable. And vulnerability is a weakness. Say a few kind words to a man who is suffering and he will flood you with bouts of gratitude. I am no fan of kindness. It makes me sick. For, those who are kind are the ones who have sinned. It is in grief that a man is his own real self. You get to see a being devoid of the thousand masks that he sports. Unlike joy, grief tears everything apart. And in the devastation, that follows, I get to see a naked man; a picture of his real self that he so carefully hides. This face of his has a lot to say and these are not all words of sugar. Sadism is often, a shunned form of art. And that is amusing. For, most of the artists out there are exponents of this form. Do they not absorb the melancholia around them and turn them into countless tales of valor? A poet watches the death of a man and writes about the soul escaping into a beautiful abyss of nothingness. But does he really know if it does? What if, death is but the end with no beginning to look up to? You are all afraid of realism. And honesty is an over-rated disaster. As much as you love talking about how the truth sets you free, it does not. I have been a victim. The glory of truth lies inside the pages of those paperback fantasies that do not exist. That is where it begins. And that is where it ends. And away from all these sweet tales of joy marred with lies, I revel in sorrow. Sorrow is lonely. And sorrow is real.

/reg// Pain attracts me

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How do you sleep at night? he asks. I look at those breezy eyes, smile and say: ‘I sleep fine.’ And he replies — Even after causing so much pain? — his eyes glittered with amusement. I laugh. ‘Pain is a package that comes with people.’ If you end with pain, why do you attach yourself? ‘It is important if you ask me.’ With a sad smile, he continues: Something inside you is broken. And I choose my words carefully. ‘I lost my way back home, I suppose. And I strayed too far, to feel closer to people.’ And he stands up… to leave?! The voices… they make you do it? ‘I will lie if you force me.’ Answer me. ‘Sometimes. Other times, I just like hurting. Men… they are strong. They can endure pain. And I love seeing tears. It is like exploring your favorite book, all over again.’ She budges forward… to leave?! Who are you? I smile, genuinely; ‘At times, I am the warmth; Sometimes, the coldness. If the world was sad, I would have the cure. And if the world was happy, I would know that they are lying. But it is gray, thus, I am uncertain.’ Will you hurt me, too? His words cried out for aid to cross the mountains of pain. ‘Never.’ I lie, like always. ‘I don’t sleep fine at night,’ I whisper. But he knows, he knew it all along.

/reg// I don't sleep fine at night.

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me, lonely as shit: i'm lonely as shit

anyone: hey do you want to hang out m-

me, exhausted suddenly: no

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Let this dark be, It’s my comfort, My pillow on this Bed made from the night. It helps me navigate, Explicitly allowing me to Shift into whatever skin I choose. Don’t pull me away from This blackness, Please, I request you. Because not even the grays can Save me now. Save me how? How will you, when My demons swallow your Light beams whole. Stay, Where you are, my friend, On the borderline of the Evening, neither here, Nor there. Neither dark, Nor light. Neither alive, Nor asleep. I don’t want to be saved, As this is my own doing, And I’ve grown to love This absence Of light. This abundance of The absence. Because you don’t know, My friend, I was blinded by An overdose of the light.

/reg// I don't want to be saved

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They had streaks of brown and black, his eyes. I had never seen such eyes before. Eyes with so much of depth in them. Eyes which could merge contraries, beauty and insanity. The way they looked at me and I see your eyeballs reflecting mine. The way they only wore shades in emojis. The way one of them twitched and the other one got frustrated. The way they narrowed while gazing at the sun’s warmth. The way they lifted up with your brows, when doubting. The way one of them winked and the other one obeyed not to. I really don’t know but whatever it was and however it started, all I can is that it began with his eyes. Eyes which gave me a reason to love him. Eyes which gave me a reason to pen him.

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Yesterday was a rainy day. Like all yesterdays, You were on my mind. But rainy days and yesterdays is a deadly combination, because I remember you a little more. Like how I hugged you a little tighter, on rainy days. Like how you blushed a little redder when we kissed. Like how your hand was a little warmer when I held it. Like how you loved the grey skies and rolling clouds. Like how you traced raindrops on the window. Like how the coffee tasted when we shared a cup. I wish I could bury all these memories that crowd my brain a lot more on yesterdays that are rainy days. But these are all I have, since I am here and you are not. As I lay here curled into myself, writing you letters that you can never read, I wish I could have held you longer on that last rainy day we had. But all I can do is wish and wish and wish. And remember you a little more on rainy days and yesterdays.

/reg// rainy days and yesterdays

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Here’s how it happens You go to bed. You wake up. You part your hair on the left side. You wear your watch on your right wrist, and to the world, everything seems alright. But you still feels the shards, of things that broke a long time ago, inside of your chest. And you still feel the ache, of the wounds you thought had stopped bleeding, inside your bones. Thursdays tell you, you’re not pretty. But when you sit on your sofa, with the lampshade on and the shadows dance around your neck you’re so much more than just whatever pretty means, even though you’ll never know. So this is how it happens, the things that they don’t see, creep up behind your neck in broad daylight. The things that they’ll never know, sneak up to you, in between newspaper headlines. And to the world, everything seems alright.

/reg// everything seems alright

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I’ve never felt pretty. I don’t know what it’s like to be the she in someone’s “she’s worth it goddamnit”. I simply don’t know. I’ve tried to find love in all the places I possibly could. Behind curtains and shut doors. At the bottom of drawers, underneath a pile of old photographs. In between the rhymes of unfinished poems and last line of stories. I keep knocking on love’s door and I’m not surprised when I find that love doesn’t live there anymore. You see, I have a weak memory and even though I smile from behind all these words, I’ve been fighting a battle I didn’t choose ever since I picked up a pen. And I keep losing.

/reg// I keep losing.