There’s no word in the language you speak
for a yearning untethered to the real.

I crave a touch I’ve long known but never felt,
eyes I’ve memorized but never looked into.
I miss a person who dwells only in the realms of imagination;
woven half from lightning and half from pain,
set ablaze by sheer force of desire.

I am haunted by the ghosts of the living,
spirits passing through my open arms;
I try to hold specters, and grasp at air.
I bury my fears in a wooden casket lined with velvet kisses.

I’m nostalgic about ideas that are lodged between the mind and the tongue.
I romanticize nightmares, mistaking them for dreams.
I share my secrets with the wind,
hoping you’d be able to decipher its whisper
and hear my voice, calling out to you.

I’m dripping with sentiment for objects that lack sentience.
I see your face in the clouds, etched on the dark side of the moon.
The stars lie underneath our feet.
The sky is red and I am blue.

Where do these waves of passionate longing come from?
They contort my heart, fill my lungs, and choke my throat with alien emotions,
so inexplicably familiar.
I trace your name over and over against my brain,
a name my tongue has never pronounced into being.

My heart is both broken and whole,
full to the brim with feelings unfathomable
to creatures of the flesh.
Fissures adorn each corner of my chest
you illuminate every crack with your smile.

Though I’m sure of my uncertainty,
in no doubt about my confusions,
tell me, dearest stranger,
how can you feel everything at once
about nothing at all?



What an irony that problems are like bootstraps, unravelled by asking questions —problematising the obvious problem. What an irony that we comprehend reality by moving as further away from it as possible. What an irony that we philosophise pain.

What an irony that humans, distinguished from other animals by fact of society, are perhaps the only creatures plagued with loneliness. What an irony that our brain is capable of comprehending itself.

What an irony that our perception of colour comes from a lack of it; that we can’t comprehend the high of pleasure without knowing the low of its absence; what an irony that we’re rational beings living in a highly irrational world; that fire sustains and also destroys; what an irony that we’re caged in a free country; that we hand power to our oppressors and call it ‘choice’; what an irony that words rejuvenate me while I write but cripple me when I speak; that my eloquence disguises a paralysing inability to communicate; what an irony that I try to find logic in such absurd contradictions.

They warned us that life was a bittersweet symphony. Irony tastes like rust, when mixed with life-giving breath. The same kind of chemistry at play, as when you first learnt of love. What an irony that it soon turned to hatred.

The Bulletin of Despair

Breaking News: I am unhappy.

A young woman who goes by various names, depending on how numb her mind is at that moment, is reportedly suffering from crippling depression. The reasons for her illness are unclear at this moment but experts are of the opinion that her madness began with a careless proclamation of non-emotion, that developed into a black spot in her heart, that slowly spread outward because of neglect, eventually damaging her whole system.

Twelve Reasons Why I Didn’t Leave My Bed This Morning: No. 9 Will Shock You!

Witnesses confirm that she has lost sense of time and place, and lays languid for hours on end, ignorant that the day has past. She assumes that night-time is a result of the aforementioned darkness leaking from her soul. What can we say? The Kids Are NOT Alright.

Today’s Top Story: Due to lack of interest, tomorrow has been cancelled.

In a surprising twist to the ongoing saga of sadness in her life, an anonymous source has revealed that she is now facing paralysis (physical, mental, emotional, intellectual, social) due to an unfortunate incident earlier this year. This unfortunate incident was not just an event, but also — a person and more persons after. They all had the same, soft face and the same, cold eyes.

Extra! Extra!

Read all about why everything sucks and nothing matters and how nobody cares, and how the right amount of existential nihilism can win you coolness brownie points that you can cash in for hours of meaningless conversation!

This Young Girl Used To Hate Herself. You Won’t Believe What Happened Next!

We are now receiving reports that she has purchased some sort of ancient device in a last ditch attempt to cure herself. Experts call this device a ‘pen’. Unbelievable! This device seems to be helping with her recovery. A truly unexpected development in this thoroughly uninteresting case.

13 Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Romanticise Pain

Once again, the young girl whose descent into oblivion we were tracking across this 24/7, no sleep, no food, no life news cycle (sponsored by caffeine and capitalism) has fallen off the wagon. The pen-cure she purchased was deemed to be outdated for this economy. She tried other forms of pain medication but failed to account for addiction. Unfortunately, we’ve hit the point of no return.

In Memoriam of Who I Once Was, Before I Met You

Eternal rest grant unto my mind. I have wept your eyes out of mine. I have locked your secrets in a lair. Left your clothes neatly ironed on a chair. If this advanced obituary seems to rhyme, it’s unintentional, but it may make sense in time. What I’m trying but spectacularly failing to say is this — I readied myself, took aim at your heart and yet it was a miss. What an odd ending to a good piece, they’ll say, “Oh, no.” But I’ve already broken the fourth wall, curtain call, it’s been a great show. I didn’t realise how tiring it was to be me. But I aired my pain on a wall for all to see. I tried, I cried, I tried. And somewhere along the tears and fears, I died.

R.I.P. to my sanity. A tribute of love from no one.

Twelve Step Program for Anguish Recovery

Step One.

Bottle it up. Place it in a box. Wrap it neatly. Put a bow on it. Iron it out. Smooth out the wrinkles on your forehead. Ship off your silly little worries.

Step Two.

Take a chill-pill twice a day, after meals, with water. This pain medication is to be taken only “as needed”. Overdose may be fatal.

Step Three.

Don’t look him it in the eye. Doing this may cause lasting damage to your retina and mind. Side effects include tears, inexplicable pain and hallucinations.

Step Four.

Distraction may take many forms. Solid. Liquid. Gaseous. Some combination of the three. It may also waltz into your life and sweep you off your feet, upsetting any balance you may have previously established. Try not to fall.

Step Five.

Remember to breathe. Your brain may shut down, accidentally switching between voluntary and involuntary actions. Do not be surprised, therefore, if your feet and hands move independently of your will, and if your heart slips into your digestive tract and melts in the acid. Remember to breathe.

Step Six.

There is no line between reality and fiction, but a perfect semicircle, which contains 32 perfect pearls. Shield your gaze from the dazzle of these gems, lest you slip into a one-way dimension. Return is impossible from here, unless you’re willing to sacrifice parts of your soul. Maim yourself and return, incomplete.

Step Seven.

Use No More Tears shampoo to wash the smell of despair from your hair. Live out your rock star fantasies as you discipline your unruly mane in the shower. Don’t fret if you see more hair in the drain than on your head.

Step Eight.

Prepare to work and persevere like the eponymous tortoise from the very first tale you heard. But prepare to lose, because in the real world, the slow and steady is no match for fast-paced cunning. Prepare anyway, because the old adage says it’s more effective than any cure.

Step Nine.

They tell you not to fly too close to the sun because your wings of wax could melt. They don’t tell you that the ocean will catch you. Learning to swim is a useful skill; but drowning has its own reward. The bottom of the sea is its own kind of ground. Teach yourself to find it and stand firm.

Step Ten.

Memory loss is a normal side-effect. On rare or frequent occasions (the science is unclear) you may also experience poorly timed relapses into the past. These reactions are commonly called ‘flashbacks’ and may occur in randomised sequence. May cause unpleasant sensations. Sleeping is a quick fix but not a permanent cure to this predicament.

Step Eleven.

In some cases, melodies can help organise your confusion. Best experienced alone, a raspy voice crooning of his/her loss can alleviate your own personal pain. Your angst may seem dissimilar at first, but it will strike a chord with every successive beat. After-effects of this cure include ear worms.

Step Twelve.

Paralysis of the mind is the leading cause of brain death among impressionable minds such as yours. This affliction has no perfect solution. Some experts offer vague resolutions like “This too shall pass”, falsely assuming that movement is possible and that time is linear. The reality of the situation is that the world is simultaneously shifting in several directions, while you stay immobile. The reason for this unfortunate inertia is a tightly balled fist, holding on to the aforementioned flashbacks. Your hands are bound shut by some vague memory of a smile. Some suggest unclenching your grip. This experienced griever suggests you squeeze harder. Crush the memories that have tethered you to the ground against the warm lines of fate on your palms. Let them dissolve into your skin, becoming part of who you are.

The only way out is in.

Number Twelve, Grim Old Place

Hello Sir. Welcome to my humble abode. I call this my Alcove of Insanity, but this carefully put together flophouse has been known by other names across time. The first guest I invited here called it my Den of Delirium. The one I locked in for a really long time called it my Cave of Craziness. As you can see, I have a type. I only invite guests who can suitably alliterate my absurdity. Welcome. Make yourself at home. Feet off the table, please.

I beg your pardon, you want to hear about the infamous prisoner? What a harsh term you use. Kind shrinks would call it Stockholm Syndrome. The Hospitality industry labels him a guest. I call it love. You say potato, I say potahto. What’s in a name?

But yes, the one you speak of has remained here for a long time. I can smell him in every nook and cranny of my cranium. You see, once someone makes your head their home, you can never quite forget what they smell like. Does biology have anything to do with it? I suppose the mind can be trained to forget but the body is a brutal betrayer. It remembers. Memories can be pulled out of scars like books from a well stocked library. I have every conceivable encyclopedia written about him in the library I built here, the Library of Lunacy.

I don’t understand why people call this an obsession. Or worse, accuse me of overly romanticizing a bland reality. I swear I’m not lying, I only locked him up in here because he was perfect in every conceivable dimension where love existed. The first time I saw him, it was as they say- something out of a movie. Not in the way you’re thinking, no. The path to love is never so formulaic. It was a movie in the way my eyes first perceived him. Like a director training a film lens, I saw him from a distance. Long shot. But a clear focus on him, just him. Everything else was background noise. Unimportant mise-en-scène. And then, with each step I took towards this object of focus, sharper details began to emerge. His gait. His smile that greeted me from afar. His gaze that fixed me in my spot, so that I was momentarily unable to move. And then as we stood facing each other, I heard a thunder rumble, even though it was a clear, sunny day. I looked into his eyes and I knew. I knew that I had known him already. I knew that he knew the million thoughts racing through my head at that precise moment and I knew that he was able to keep up with every single one of them.

The Door of Delusion was shut. The condominium of pandemonium had been locked for years. But he smiled a slow, languid smile, taking his time to stretch his mouth while he drank in every detail about me. No one had looked at me that way. No one had ever knocked on the door. He did. He politely asked if he could enter. If there was room for a wandering traveler like himself at my Madness Motel. How could I turn such a sweet request down? He strode in before I could even comprehend his presence, his being, how fate could place someone like him in my path – me, a mere mortal, an unworthy creature. Surely there must be a mistake. Are you sure you want to rest here? There are better lodgings down the road. Better reviews, better management. Everything here is just a mess, I’m so sorry. I’m severely understaffed and inexperienced.

It’s lovely, he said. The most charming little inn I’ve ever encountered, he said. He checked in. He never left.

We’re closed for business now, good sir. It’s a lot of work looking after the ghosts of your past. He’s a very demanding guest. Well, he’s more of a tenant now, considering he lives here all the time. As you can see, the place has fallen into disrepair once more. I cannot maintain it, it’s too expensive and I make no profits off his rent.

What went wrong, you ask? I don’t know, sir. It was as though the thunder I heard when we first met was a forewarning to the inevitable storm. I was too caught up in the illusion of the sunny weather, I thought the sonic blast signalling my doom was a mistake.

Anyway, sorry for this digression. It’s important to understand the history of this Hotel. I hope it’s clear now. He’s no prisoner. He’s merely a squatter. I’m not keeping him here against his will, he stays here despite the damages he’s caused me. I’ve lost everything trying to keep this patron happy. Athithi Devo Bhava. I worship my most valued guest at the Temple of Twaddle and Tripe. Would you like to see him?

Here he is, see how the room automatically lights up when he walks in? I don’t know who designed it that way, I really must commend the decorator when I find out who she is. What is it? You can’t see him? Ah, this is advanced technology sir. You see, he is like a mirage. He only appears when you are dying of thirst in an arid desert and are desperately craving respite from the unforgiving heat. You can only see him if you truly believe he exists. So, close your eyes, take a deep breath and believe. Wholeheartedly. Without a shred of doubt – know it, he’s real. He lives here. Inside my House of Hallucinations.

I don’t know why you still can’t see him. I swear he is right in front of me. Look at him, that’s not a face you’d ever forget. No, I’m not making this up for attention. I told you, he only shows himself to those who are willing to believe.

You’re leaving already sir? I’m sorry you couldn’t experience our main attraction. Some other time, perhaps. Visit during Happy Hours. He can be viewed most clearly then. After sundown, he usually retreats into the shadows. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this short tour of Hotel Hysteria. Please come again and give us a good review on Yelp!



I am trapped. My head is filled with echoes of an alien voice, calling out to me in six hundred different directions. My fingers are stiff, my muscles have forgotten their choreographed routine with which I’d rhythmically tap out sentences. How can I ease out the idea that’s congealed in my knuckles? I hold the pen fractions of a lifetime away from paper. I cannot connect the two, I cannot translate the gibberish cacophony in my brain into a coherent tune. I cannot write.

I lay my head to rest on a pillow of procrastination and dream of a tomorrow where I’ve made lists and checked them twice. I pull over my head a blanket of regrets, of promises made to an eight year old friend of mine who lived in my mirror. I wake up long after the morning is over and leave my bed unmade. I have got doing nothing boiled down to a routine. I cannot write.

How can I explain to you that I cannot move because I’m weighed down by several incomplete ideas? I dream of weaving tapestries of rich variety, with intricate details of many adventures with djinns and pirates in the neighborhood where I grew up. I wake up remembering only my fall from the magic carpet. Someone else slammed the brakes but only I slowed down. Now, I cannot write.

My books gather dust, and cobwebs of unfinished poems adorn the corners of my bookshelves. I begin a sentence in a fresh notebook gifted to me by a friend whose nose I hope to describe in all its sensory glory, but my ink has been dry since she set sail to foreign shores. I’m sorry, dearest friend. Of your sniffer and its powers, I cannot write.

I cannot write of him, whose letters I’ve long since burned. I know I can reach out and hold his hand in a land locked away from time, but I have forgotten the correct way to fall down the rabbit hole. I flew second to the right and straight on till morning, but I wound up right where I began. Later, I remember that I outgrew Neverland many moons ago.

I swallow coffee to rekindle the dying fires of my creative motivations. No fuel does the trick. Must I contact higher spirits? Must I breathe in the enchanted fumes of another man’s dried up imagination? My muse is locked in a cage of my own design. I gaze at his tattered frame through the bars. The key was his smile; his laughter freed us from our handcuffs. But he lies comatose in a shadowy corner, where no light can reach him. Or me. We cannot write.

I cannot express how I feel when I hear a blaring alarm jolt me awake into another dimension. I cannot talk of the knot in my stomach, the tangle of thorns I swallowed accidentally-on-purpose. How do I begin when I cannot see where I will end? The words are trapped in my throat and I spit them out in the wrong order. I fight and fight but I cannot write. I have thoughts and ideas and dreams and images in my mind but je ne peux pas écrire!

I look down at my toolbox. I’ve got 26 different devices to mend this problem. I pick all at once. A quick brown fox jumps over the lazy God of inspiration. An existential dread creeps up my skin and tattoos itself onto my fingers. The wounds are raw and I cannot write.

Six hundred and twenty three words to tell you that I have no words to offer. Six hundred and twenty three ways to say that I have absolutely nothing to say.

I cannot write.

The Fault in Our Scars

There is nothing beautiful about her pain. To find something romantic, something out of the ordinary, the least you expect is for that something to be tangible. For it to be visible enough for you to direct your opinion of beauty towards. Her pain was so completely incoherent, it couldn’t even be spelled, couldn’t be articulated, broken down, defined in any way. It was an illogical, entangled jumble at the bottom of her backpack. She plugged it in to her ears and played music. A melody without a sensible rhythm; a wail of agony cloaked in the garb of a tune. There is nothing harmonious about depression.

Her whole life was a long race towards nothing and away from everything. Running away from anger, running away from abuse, running away from shame, running away from anguish, running towards love and running away from love. And despite all that running, she couldn’t find a way to escape from herself.

She is a very rational human being, she insists. She dutifully types in her experience on to a search engine. The internet taught her everything; surely it held answers her tiny, pigeon holed, clearly ill brain couldn’t comprehend.

“Why do I feel worthless?” Enter. “What do you call the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that won’t go away?” Enter.  “Why do I vomit nothing at 3 am?” Enter. “Why does nobody love me?” Enter. “Is it possible to die of a broken heart?” Enter. “Why is everything and everyone I ever encounter so messed up?” Enter. “Who will cry when I die?” Enter. “Symptoms of clinical depression and/or anxiety.” Backspace.

Buzzfeed tells her she’s a type A personality. Bookmark.

She tries to find a cure. In a book. In a teacup. In a park. In  a new city. In a new continent. In her phone. In social media. In a movie. In a person. In three people. In everyone. In everything. In anything. But not herself.

As she idly scrubs a tear soaked shirt in the kitchen sink, she recalls that the first time she heard the term ‘depression’, it was when her mother described her aunt’s emotional breakdown upon losing her husband. She was nine. And for ten more years, she was convinced that the only reason one was allowed to legitimise one’s sadness in this manner was if one lost someone dear to them.

When she turned 19, she realised that death wasn’t the only way to lose someone dear.

When she fell into a swirling vortex of an unending series of destructive and harmful thoughts, someone she loved told her to quit fancying herself an Alice; this was no rabbit hole, this was her being a drama queen. Stop overthinking and over analysing. Count your blessings, name them one by one. You have food on your plate, a whole and unbroken family, a sound education, a decent number of friends and acquaintances.

“I’m tired all the time.” Jeez, stop working so much.
“I am losing weight.” You young girls eat like squirrels just to look hot.
“I throw up everything I eat.” A model’s solution for a model figure, ha?
“I am losing hair.” Try this shampoo, it changed my life!
“My head aches all the time.” You’re probably not sleeping. Or maybe you have sinusitis?
“I sleep all the time or not at all.” You young folks can’t take your eyes off your screens long enough to get some shut-eye. Who are you texting till 2 am?
“Everything hurts.” You are not depressed, maybe you’re PMSing?

The blood between her legs had to be the reason for the pain between her temples. Else, she wasn’t allowed to lay claim on an illness she was too privileged and blessed to experience. Did you know, that for every minute you whine about being low, some kid dies in Africa and some poor lady is raped in India? Sorry, she didn’t know, she apologises profusely for existing.

Her father built her a roof to shelter her from danger. Her mother tucked her in to a warm bed at night to protect her from the demons underneath her bed. They forgot they couldn’t shut the windows of her mind, they failed to slay the demons in her soul.

She lived out a quarter of a lifetime before she fell off the edge of a cliff; before she realised her fall wasn’t from slipping in his eyes but from a cold, calculated push.

She was wrong when she said her pain couldn’t be visualised. Her spread eagle, blood soaked body was a tableau of rich depth. But she was right, there was nothing beautiful about it.

Pain is a bloody corpse, lying dead on a street, full of people that pass by without a glance. Pain is me banging on your door, begging you to pick me, choose me, love me. Pain is throwing up at the stroke of the midnight hour and at the crack of dawn. Pain is bleeding and eating and over working and sleeping and staying awake and cutting and crying and binge drinking till you can’t remember your own name, but clearly seeing your pain float at the bottom of a glass. Pain is the throbbing in your skull, pain is the ache in your arms and stomach and toes. Pain is a ghost ripping your lungs out from your chest.

Pain is you looking me in the eye and telling me that my pain is not real.