Underpants For Miss Sussie...

I now realise why I have always loved the sea, why I always felt this pull.

'Cause it always listens. You don't need to say a word...all you need to do is just sit there, just be...and the sea takes in all your sorrows, your pain, and worries and drowns them in its vast blueness...it just accepts everything you throw in. No wonder then, every time I am close to the sea, I want to drown.

*****
Thanks to the mid-night conversation with a dear friend, I have decided I won't crib henceforth...a BIG resolution. It's going to be a little difficult sticking to this one...but I'mma gonna try (So many people around me are going to be happy! Heh).

And while I am at it, I am gonna throw in "Don't sweat about smaller stuff" too.

You can tell me how awesome I am already.

*****
I am now singing this.

If you watched the video too, thanks :) I feel much better now.

Escaping Life...

A friend once asked me if I think I'll ever find my happily ever-after. Without thinking I said no, maybe not. I am such a miserable soul I said, I am always pining after something, sulking, brooding. I wonder if I'll ever be happy.

I have been thinking about it. As the 27th inches closer, I have been thinking about a lot of things. These days what gives me a fright is that very thought of happiness. Will I ever be in that place where I'll be happy? Where I can feel my soul satisfied? I am not satisfied. Something's missing, a lot many things actually. I want them all. I wonder if I'll ever get them. Am I being greedy? No. I just do not want to settle.

And deep down, I believe, or atleast want to, that I'll find it. The elusive pot at the end of the rainbow. Somewhere, something tells me I'll find my own slice of inner peace. Maybe it's that bottomless well of optimism that's pushing me through. Maybe I really will. I don't know.

For now, I think I am going to believe that I will. Maybe if I believe, I really will. 

It's Easier Waiting Than...

I don't know if he has written to you after that. I sometimes imagine he did write you letters, many letters, but chickened out at the last minute and stowed them away in the bottom drawer where he also hides all those ghosts. You know what a chicken he is when it comes to these sort of things, don't you now? Maybe he even did send those letters to you and maybe they just got lost somewhere on the way. I am sure they'll reach you one day and you'll come running happily to me and read them aloud and we'll both smile and be happy for each other.

In the mean time, I know it's painful to wait, painful to check your mailbox everyday and not find anything in there, painful to hope when even hope has given up on you, but, won't you make yourself a nice hot cup of tea and just wait?

Maybe, maybe he's just waiting for the right words?

Just Have Something In There...

“I want a soul mate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. And if you can do that, I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow. I will nibble your mukluks with my own teeth. I will do your windows. I will care about your feelings. Just have something in there.” - Henry Rollins

Where Did That Word Disappear?

Go on, I dare you. I can see you looking at me the way you are, just like that. What are you going to do with it then? Yes I’m challenging you; look at me standing here, I’m not budging, it’s your move. I’m an elven Liv Tyler steeling against a wraith—if you want me, you can come and claim me. I’m not even packing Hobbit over here, I’m just waiting casually for you to cross whatever obstacle you see in your path. See, I’m tired of touching your thigh just this way, or placing my hand over yours just so; I want you to romance me.

Now you know I’m not one for gender stereotypes, I’ve asked guys out in the past and I’ll do it again. I’ve paid for their drinks and their dinners and I don’t care. I’ve changed their light globes. I’ve been strong for them when they’ve been emotional. I don’t like it when people say women are so-and-so or men are so-and-so, but goddamn it I am tired of this realism. I don’t want to be politically correct any more, I just want you to romance me. I am empowered, educated, and aware, and now, just for a moment, I want to be the princess you think is worth slaying dragons over.

I want you, once you’re done awkwardly avoiding catching my eye, once you’re done pretending you don’t notice me, once you’re done with insecurely waiting for me to make the first move, to ask me out. I don’t want you to text me or email me. I want you to say it to my face. I want you say it in a moment that will catch me completely off guard, and I want you to stumble over your words and I want you to blush, and I want to do the exact same as I accept.

Or you could just skip all the formalities and just kiss me. When we’re laughing the way we do, you should just kiss me. It doesn’t need to be in the rain or with fireworks exploding in the background. It can be at the bar or in a crowded street or anywhere, I don’t care—just kiss me you fool. And let’s both be gleefully embarrassed afterwards and hold hands in silence for a moment while we both digest the euphoria of our first kiss.

I want you to not let anything stand in your way. I want you to come for me, to sweep me off my feet with a simple look. I want you to want me in this grand, clichéd way, but without doing any of those grand cliché things. We can just watch a movie and drink some wine, as long as you let me snuggle into your side while we do it. And then, because you listen to me when we’re talking and you’re getting to know me so well, I want you to let me have the last slice of pizza, or the last bite of cake (but I’ll insist that we share it anyway, because I’ll know you are romancing me).

You should be impulsive when you’re romancing me. You shouldn’t wait the requisite 3 days to call or text me, you should just do it when it hits you. When your desire for me, to see me, to smell me, to hear my voice is so compelling there’s nothing else for you to do. I want you to be constantly thinking about me, and to do innocuous little things that to me, are loaded with meaning because they reflect the ways in which you are learning me. I want you to be reckless and passionate and I want you to let me be reckless and passionate too. I want you to disengage your baggage for me, and I want you to romance me like you’ve never romanced before.

And when you’re romancing me, I want you to challenge me and argue with me about my opinions. I want you to romance me in this dangerous haphazard way which screams of imperfection—which makes everything all the more romantic, because it’s so wildly flawed, and present and LOUD. I want you to look at me like the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen when I’m at my worst, and I want you to embrace all the sides of me as you get to know them, as part of some ineffable creature you can’t untangle. I want you to romance me because when you think about it, you really can’t see any other way.

From, Thought Catalog.

Making Mirrors...

Heh...

Tea...

Weekend Meditation by Dana Velden (from the Kitchn)

Making a cup of tea, a proper cup involving loose Assam and a strainer and gently warmed milk, is a start. So you go to the kitchen and put the kettle on and pull down the old white pot with the bright flower decal on one side. You start to feel the comfort of your task, the purpose of it filling up some of the empty space that sadness has carved into your heart. There's a reason for ritual, you discover, as you pour in a little hot water to warm the pot and then encircle it with your chilled hands: the repetition, the body memory, the soothing rhythm of things happening in a certain order and with intention. 

The tea is hot and milky and for a while it is enough. But soon you realize that even though what you are experiencing is sadness and loss, there is also a request, a whisper, for celebration. A tiny acknowledgment that life and appetite must ultimately prevail. So you go to the pantry and find a crinkly package of butter cookies, just three little star-shaped ones with red candy centers, and a clementine. And a pretty plate to put them on because the request for beauty is somehow penetrating, sunbeam-like, the fog of sadness. 

The clementine is, of course, a little too cheery but you gamely dig your thumb into the peel for you know that this is your responsibility now, to turn towards the brightness. The clementine answers you with a gruff, almost rude, spray of juice, sticky and fragrant. Suddenly you find yourself surrendering to it, to this little orange dictator that demands your attention and appreciation. And of course it is sweet and fills your mouth with joy. 

The tea cools, and the clementine detritus curls on the table before you like the skin that a dragon would shed. You listen to the sounds of home, the tick of the clock, the refrigerator's hum. A few random and practical thoughts pop into your awareness: are there enough quarters for the laundry, will the package make it to Milwaukee on time, do hummingbirds migrate? 

Slowly life gathers around you, urging you to get up from the table and start back into the busy doings of the day. You resist, lingering in the sorrow for a while longer, for that's where you last saw your old friend, the one whose passing has brought on this little one person tea party. Eventually you realize that sorrow isn't done with you yet, that it will be your companion for a while longer. So you rise from the table to sweep up the dragon's skin and wash up the dishes, a clutch of tears caught in the back of your throat.

But it's OK, it's alright. You're human and you're built for this.

HT: Divya :)