A Vintage Print

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."