Tuesday, March 6, 2012


Two or three years ago, this would have been a blog made up of love-posts. A blog about a boy. Any boy - does it really matter who? It doesn't because all the boys in my past are the sum of who I was in the past. I met a boy and turned myself into him, and then I did cartwheels backwards to please myself, certain I was pleasing him. When I look back at these boys, archived, notes from the past...I see the different people I was.

I used to write about sad love almost as an obsession. Everything was on the precipice of heartbreak. The world was an oyster of adoration. Every morning had to be steeped in the goodwill of passion, else I would be angry. I was angry all the time. For a long time I feared if I was not in love like that - psychotically, obsessively, drowning myself in the other's shadow and spit, I would not be able to write. But here I am. I am proving that that Me, the sum of the boys of my past, was wrong. I am proving her wrong daily, as I pluck words like ripe fruit from branches that come towards me in peace.

Today the sun has risen milkily above my door, and a peacock shatters the quiet with its voice, an unfortunate characteristic. Every single other bird in the village has woken sleepily. They haunt the tree outside my room. I cannot see them, they are sounds. Ghost birds of the waking hours. I have ink on my fingers and red on my toes. I have a manuscript 165 pages long and nothing left to say. Today is going to be a beautiful day. 


  1. It's difficult to write without deep feelings for something or someone.. However a Good artist manages to develop a self motivating feeling, fit for its purpose..

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