scars

My skin is delicate and I did not take the time to care for it, for a very long time. I have many scars. Some are silly (shoebites from heels I wouldn't wear now), some mean more (a six and half inch scar below my navel from when my daughter was born, an accident from a few years ago). Some scars i carry with me, not knowing how they were made.

It took me years to understand that my body is not meant to be perfect. It took me years to realise that the scars are how my body tells the story of my life. It is how I carry the memories with me. It is how I know my body is more than a physical thing.

When she was born, I did not get to hold her before life could touch her body and change it. Her vaccination immediately after birth had already left a wound on her arm, which would turn into a scar. It took me time to realise that she is not meant to be perfect, either. She looks at the scar tissue on my arm, and sees a moon in it.

I want to tell her that nothing I will ever give to her will come close to being as precious as the body she has. 

good english, bad writer

dear people who write and post poetry online.

please. please refrain from using "u", "v" and other such sms-ese in your poetry. it makes my head hurt.

please read up on when the <'s> is used. you could do it when you were pausing between writing your poetry next time.

thank you. 

who goes there?

If all things have a limit and a length,
A final moment and a nevermore,
Then who shall let us know upon whose house We have unwittingly now sealed the door?


not the first time i have turned around and walked out, without the realisation that i will never go back. and most times, if i have not left already, i am thinking of the moment when i can. because to leave is to be liberated, sometimes. because to leave can be a deeply humbling experience - the people whose lives seemed to revolve around mine, will go on. every day, those doors which were so familiar to me, will open and shut and will not wait for my footsteps. and me - the hours will follow each other, the days will change and life will take its course. every day, i wake up and i know that all i have to do is get through that one day. it is a strangely peaceful thought. 

The corporate escape artist

Is someone who comes into work at 9.30 a.m. because he won’t get parking space for his car otherwise. His motivations for coming early, like his motivations for most things in life, are driven by time and practicality. He is a dedicated employee to his employer and a reasonably nice colleague to his colleagues. He does not really need to walk around, even within his office. He does not really need to talk to many people either.

His back turned to the world at large, the corporate escape artist looks at his laptop screen with a love he probably reserved for the eyes of his first girlfriend. Because his laptop screen is, like the eyes of that girl, a portal into a world he can get lost in. Here, he has made travel bookings and plans for a vacation he has not had since his honeymoon. He has bought the trekking gear he will use someday. Most importantly, he has resigned from his job. The corporate escape artist sees things beyond the sight his spectacles show him.

for a 26 year old, the ideal situation is to be in a cafe off the crowded roads, reading murakami or faiz ahmed faiz. her hair piled up on her head so the breeze cools the back of her neck. she could be drinking anything at all -  she would not think about it as much as natalie did in "delicacy". maybe a cigarette would sit on an ashtray nearby, smoke curling out of it. she probably is listening to music. she probably isnt, if the place is quiet enough.

why must this 26 year old live the life of a character in some french movie? because she can and because she doesnt need to be anywhere else.