be kind to all but take no shit

How can we be relatable to the past that we did not live? You read from Shakespeare to Austen to T. S. Eliot and contemplate. The inkling that we all are Alfred J. Prufrock-s, “measure(ing) out (my) life with coffee spoons”. So easy it seems yet so hard to understand the present, the person next to you. Why? Because you assert subtext, you over-think, over-analyse and in the end, we have subtle changes that drastically draw us apart. It is not entirely a matter of morality, not good and bad. It is rather a selfish indecision that what is bad is what is bad for you, and only you.

I am this person sometimes. I lose sanity in a split second and I do not know happiness and I’m relentlessly pursuing.
The only aspect that will change is how I perceive each person which in fact depends on the person and how much he/she lacks kindness. I don’t think I want to go back in time to undo or redo anything. It doesn’t mean I have the perfect little life. I didn’t. I’m the saddest and that makes me laugh. That’s the thing about me, I know you and myself before all of that and I know when I’m risking happiness. What do I do? I become assertive that pain is something I willingly inflict upon myself. I wasn’t a happy kid nor was I sad but I felt indifferent of the time I had bad handwriting in my mother tongue and I was to scribble in a pencil just for that subject because it was that bad, the time I was bullied and only reason I wrote exams was because I wanted to get out of everything. But I did it all, went through worst than that only to realise that real life is the bigger picture of a high school drama although you don’t know who, how or when. Over the course of time, I have a simple answer – be kind to all but take no shit. I know it’s hard but when you do not care enough, it’ll inevitably result in a little kindness for others and yourself.
Yes, love yourself. Love your mushy, annoying, intolerable self. Love your kind, sunshine of a self.
Most of all love everyone who makes an effort to stay and give you the love you’ve given.

The sun, the moon.

​Moon amidst the stars. 

Fragile, sensuous, serene 

With one frailty; 

love for paradoxes. 

Quite a dreamer Of daylight 

And saw the sun as a charmer

with beguiling chit-chats

Piercing the moon’s black soul.  

She thought it was paradise- 

A love that lingers between tacit and tactile. 

Sun cared less and burnt her a little.

Drenched the colour body and soul

Moon gave herself to the sun.

What do you know, Silly girl? A captive of heart. Half a history and words on the street.  Collecting theories, jargon, and people that reflect on your nifty, preexisting assumptions. One reason but both happiness and sorrow overwhelming you. Life is good and if there is nothing on your plate, by all means seize and add some- social media rants(public opinion/the cha-chings), who sells the soul the best, or the dream you had of somebody discerning something horrendous(a comment on dress sense?). Take a couple of photos, exclusively to be shared among many that you don’t have a photo with. One with the books, because the nice props and a humble demarcation of ‘I, an intellect, read’, or a photo of the food because basic human needs are ‘fancy’, or a photo of yourself to suggest that beauty standards are irrelevant so dazzle with the overused empowerment.

Instead of wallowing in tears she prefers to hide them. When it’s too close to pain, hurt and the crack in the voice. For a second she pictures herself in the humble vulnerability and shakes her head to wake up from the reverie. She smiles, thinks how happy the moments are. How selfish it is to drag someone into the misery of her scathing pain. She recollects all the ordinary, mundane anecdotes to change the subject- the easy way out.