Tangled in Thoughts

Today is the 21st of June, 2016. That means I'm a 21 year old only for 6 more days. Unless I die within that time, there is no forever21 tag for me. See, that's the thing about 22. There's nothing fabulous associated with it, you know. It's just two twos. It's pretty much like 21 minus the fancy tags. There are ages which come with a lot of hype. For example, 13 is your official entry into teenage. For the rest of your life till you become an adult, you're in this category called teenage and with it come tags like "rebel", "awesome", "crazy", "sweet" and a gazillion others. And then comes 18, which is when you finally become an adult. 19 is when you're an adult and yet a teenager. 19 is basically you at your most clueless. 20 is the mark of you finally feeling like an adult, since the teenager tag is lost at 20. 21 is again all sorts of awesome. You are, for all intents and purposes, an adult at 21. And there are ...

I know a girl who used to love art She used to paint and draw her heart I know a girl who used to read a lot Novels and poems and history and what not. I know a girl who used to sing and dance To every opportunity that came her way, she'd prance. I know a girl who could craft imaginative stories She would write poems and tales, all with such ease. I know a girl who was fearless and fierce In her own little ways. She had no fears. Where is she today? Today she has grown up And I don't see her in me anymore. 

Georgie, You wanted me to write a review of you. If this were a "slam book" (remember those?!) or an autograph book, I would have crafted brilliant best friends forever quotes for you. But this is my blog. So I honestly don't know what to write, man! How do I review someone who has been a such an inseparable part of my life as you? I'm clueless. Would my life have been the same without you there? No. It would have been a whole lot different, a whole less crazier, a whole less exciting. Who would have given me the green sign to mentally date Daniel Radcliffe and obsess about marrying him one day? Who would have been the first to read all my Harry Potter fan fictions if not for you? Who would I have shamelessly narrated all my dreams involving Dan to? Who would I have created an orkut fake id with?! Who would I have shared a normal (?) teenage with? Fact is, you know me in all my glory and all my ignominy. And I know you the same. If I start listing down the thing...

It’s been months since I wrote something other than academic related works. So I decided to pen down my thoughts at the moment. Maybe this is the Pink Floyd flooding my room talking, but I am attempting an introspection. And what better way for introspection than write them down, right? We tend to make assumptions of others easily. We judge, assume and then do not even try to understand people from their side. By we, I mean humans. So, today I’m turning those unwanted skills to look into myself. What about me sucks? If there is one thing I absolutely suck at, it is expressing my feelings. I am fine at expressing happiness and laughter and maybe irritation to a limited extent but I struggle at expressing delicate feelings such as love, sympathy, or even sadness. I have lost the count when I have been surprised at how easy the same is for people around me. Expressions of love come naturally to everyone except me, but how can it be? Part of the reason could be that I’ve only bee...

Do I love myself? I did. But now I have become my own worst critic. I am a bundle of all things mediocre tied loosely and untidily by a thread of insanity. This represents my life. Comfortable chaos is the way I like it. And perfection is not my niche. Maybe that’s where the average Jill in me comes from.  From the chambers and ante-chambers of my mind to my bedroom, it’s always been chaos, disarray. What could a mind spinning in chaos produce but certain clichéd thoughts? And what happens when I try to pen them down? My pen simply regurgitates those thoughts. The thoughts thought by billions before me and will be thought and articulated better by billions after me. So where do I stand in the grand scheme of things? I’m that obscure link between thinkers before and doers after me. I am that insignificant flicker of time. I am the middle child of poetic penury who came here in silence and will leave making no discernible mark. (From the archives)

ചിറകുകൾ മടക്കിവെച്ചെത്ര നാൾ? പറക്കാൻ കൂട്ട് തേടി ഇനിയെത്ര നാൾ? കൂടുവിട്ടൊരു നാൾ പറക്കും, കുഞ്ഞിക്കിളിയുടെ ശപഥം. ഇവിടം മടുത്തോ, എന്തേ ഇവിടം സുന്ദരമല്ലാഞ്ഞിട്ടോ? അല്ല, ഈ കൂടും മരങ്ങളും കാടും എന്നും  സുന്ദരം തന്നെ, കുഞ്ഞിക്കിളിക്കറിയാം. ഇവിടെ പൂമ്പാറ്റകൾ കളിക്കുന്നു, കാറ്റു വീശുന്നു. ഇവിടെന്നും വസന്തമല്ലേ? എങ്ങും സന്തോഷമില്ലേ? ഇവിടെ നിനക്ക് എന്താണ് കുറവ്, കൂട്ടുകാർ ചോദിക്കുന്നു. കുഞ്ഞിക്കിളിക്ക് പറക്കണം, അത്ര തന്നെ. ഇവിടുത്തെ മരങ്ങൾക്കും മൈതാനങ്ങൾക്കുമപ്പുറം  ഒരു ലോകമില്ലേ? അവിടെ ജീവിതം വ്യത്യസ്തമാണോ? അവിടെ കിളികൾ പറക്കാറുണ്ടോ? അതറിയാൻ  അങ്ങോട്ട്‌ പോവുകയല്ലാതെന്ത്  വഴി? കുഞ്ഞിക്കിളിക്ക് കൂടൊരു ചങ്ങലയില്ലാ ചങ്ങലയായി. പറക്കാൻ അറിയാത്ത ചിറകുകൾ  ബന്ധനങ്ങളും കുഞ്ഞിക്കിളിക്ക് പറക്കണം, അത്ര മാത്രമറിയാം. സ്നേഹത്താൽ കെട്ടിയ കൂട്ടിൽ കുഞ്ഞിക്കിളിയൊരു ഏകാകിയായ്‌ അകലങ്ങളിലേക്ക് കണ്ണും നട്ടിരുക്കുന്നൊരറ്റമൈനയായി  പുറംലോകം സ്വപ്നം കണ്ടു വളർന്ന കിളിക്ക്‌പക്ഷേ    പറക്കുവാനെന്തേ ഇന്നും മടി? കൂടുവിട്ടു  പോ...

I read poem after poem Of many and many poets Poems of all kinds; Small but beautiful; Long and elegant; Ordinary ones crafted with exquisite words; Extraordinary ones with words so modest; Haikus and epics Originals and translations Some in mother tongue and some not. I read poem after poem And I looked at the world through them. Poems taught me love and kindness They taught me lust and desire, Bitterness, anger and agony, Remorse and pleasure and pain. And the greatest of all lessons, I learnt through poems. I learnt to weigh my worth as a writer. The writer knows not what the reader finds. The writer expresses not what the reader is convinced of. The reader in me grows While the writer in me watches in silence Or is it in awe? I read poem after poem And as I do, the reader in me rejoices And as I do, the writer in me slides into obscurity.