A Vintage Print

 At 11:56 PM, you lit a cigarette. You waited for 5 hours — someone will text. There's Instagram and there's Snapchat. The WhatsApp icon with it's Chris Hemsworth Jawline-like Phone symbol isn't ringing. You have stayed up this late and you have already followed all the rules that 700 self-help books and Andrew Tate told you in his Billion Dollar accent — "The trick to impress everyone". It should have worked by now. Someone should have asked you about your dinner plans and if you like to watch rains. The girl you threw a candy bar at in highschool is getting married and she hasn't invited you - but that was before you learnt to become Alpha. You are now cool. The Heath Ledger. You have checked your phone 78 times now and your mother has called you 50 times and your dad is tired of you tiring your mother who is tired because you are tired. So you light another cigarette and you stand in your balcony and watch a dusty city rusting itself under the spit of i

To an old friend who no longers talks with me,⠀ ⠀ We were 12 when we first talked about our crushes, and 14 when we first talked about a heartbreak. Your hand cradled around my chest with the utmost honesty. There was this pain in your voice, that made me want to split open earth. I remember the way your tears rested on my shirt buttons — almost sad, almost broken. We were 6 when we would run around the society building, wearing torn capris and holed Tees. The weird games we would play — the garage walls never growing tired of our giggles as we play another game of hiding and seek at 8 p.m.⠀ ⠀ “You are too bad at hiding. I will always find you”, you'd say. I remember the taste of an afternoon lemonade being squeezed by our dusty hands after a game of cricket. You always had a way with games. You'd never lose. Your way of escaping out of the slimmest of positions — always the winning move. Perhaps, that's how you learned to run away too. ⠀ ⠀ I miss you, a lot more than I cou

   I am not the hero of this story anymore. Sometimes none of us are. The days of an unparalleled feeling of feeling shit — keep hitting me every day. Look at me, please, will you? I am 20 or 19 or 21 — damn I can not remember how long I have been alive and for how long I lived. Look at me anyway — I have accepted defeat. There's only a burden out here inside my head that wakes up with me and then can not sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep: oh I don't remember when I slept last time; who does? My generation of broken romantics and dorks and creeps and intellectuals and whatever or whoever remains — we have outlived our grief. We text when we don't want to talk; we rant about everything that merely matters and hide about everything that greatly kills; our breakfasts are shorter than our breath cycles. Always scared; no background music to elevate our emotions — a depressed damned nation of youngsters. Don't tell me to hope and dream and whatever cluster-heck of part-time motivat

Eye contacts are serial killers. They may take you to places where you never went. Like remains of home, Sips of wine or say literary sonnets. These are the places where a part of you is alive to exact revenge upon the wrongdoings you had in past and a part of you is dead forgiving someone because their wrath had taught you how not to die. Eye contacts are treat to your barren heart. You want to taste every slice of their being because it smells of dusk, dawn, marshmallows, half burnt cigar, you, him and probably us. They are the wonders that defines you and somewhat completes you and offer you the realisation that you've been empty all this while. Eye contacts are hourglass. They can snatch your embraces, kisses, bedsheets with creases, your smile and the love disguised as angst. The pleasure you can't put in words. They are actually the reason that cuts you off from the world or you can't end up being your saviour because the loneliness you carry broke the continuity

Can we be cruel to ourselves while we think what we are doing is what’s best for us?  How often do we pause for a while during our urge to attain perfection in everything we do every breathing minute Of our busy breezy lives , How often do we place our hands on our hearts And acknowledge that the pace with which it beats Is far beyond normalcy , We don’t, do we?  Until it’s too late , Until it’s time to hit that Rear brake in the last minute slashing ourselves into that state of panic Feeling that ceaseless shiver in our souls  When every sense awakens And every breathing bone screams at us In enmity with the necessity Of having to hit and hurt ourselves  Because we didn’t slow down when we had to , Because all along we didn’t pay heed to the honks Of the people trying to forewarn us  Later to be left with bruises ,That our bodies have to carry As consequences of our own negligence.  Cause we, as humans were taught that we are ought to attain perfection in everything we do Constantly p

Overthinking, along with introversion, are a lethal combination. Writing for me is like a medication to this deadly mix. Initially, writing started as an escape from my problem of overthinking. But eventually, I realised that untangling my entangled thoughts and knitting them into beautiful stories seemed more exciting than vomiting the line of thoughts on paper. I believe that there is an infinite number of possible ways in which life can exist. A single life is a series of events. Each event depicts a story. If I start to pen down each event, I will eventually end up with infinite stories. This page witnesses my futile attempt to pen down creative stories and poetries. "Life ends, but stories are what keep us alive for time immemorial."