They Are Having A Tickle War Like They Always Do; His Small Body Curled Into Itself, Trying To Tuck It
They are having a tickle war like they always do; his small body curled into itself, trying to tuck it within its own bounds, to not have to bear this joyful torture.
They are not people anymore, they are two shrieks of laughter. They are an odd sight to look at: a tall girl, almost a woman, and a toddler of six; an unlikely friendship that looks bizarre but radiates so much joy you cannot help but feel warm.
The girl turns into things she isn't; just for this boy, she turns into a sunny disposition, a pleasant version of herself and she has the gentlest voice. She has hands that do not hurt, she has eyes that smile and she is bubbles of laughter come to life.
The boy comes back year after year to meet his sister; they aren't really siblings, they are distant cousins but there is a lot of love here. And where there is so much love, you feel obliged to put a label. So they were brother and sister, and the oddest duo of the lot. As the years pass by, she sees her brother transform into things she resents; no longer a sweet child, he throws tantrums and uses his hands and fists like the men do. But he isn't a man yet, he is just a little boy.
He is nine and he already thinks it is okay to do things you do not like others doing; he thinks that it is okay to destroy what isn't yours because you could not have it or to scream and cry until you hand him what he asked for. These are trivial things, he is just a child after all.
She walks in on the boy destroying something that isn't his and he throws things at her, makes her mad. He takes pleasure in irritating her; she can tell; he takes her things and claims them as his and she lets him. She feels something come over her; makes her way towards him and traps him in her hold. She tickles his neck and she scratches him.
The boy is screaming and crying and she is devastated. She sees herself transform into things she thought she would never become. She sees an image of her lineage in her. Is this what we inherit?
Suddenly, she is small again. She is not herself, she is the little boy. She is nine, she is seven, she is five years old. She knows she is small so she bites the hands of those who reach out because her fists are still a little girl's fist, even though the size of the fight in her is quite big.
She doesn't recognize herself anymore.
Is this what we inherit?
No.
It runs in the family but this is where it stops.
Bless the hands that fed us, and may there be scars on those who harmed us. May we never become the things that hurt us.
She is twenty-five years old now. And there is an odd friendship in her life that no one understands, but there is a lot of love there. There is a little brother waiting for her.
More Posts from Btlk-like and Others
I want to write a poem for you
so I did this thing awhile back and it’s been a hot minute, so I’m restarting it
Reblog this post and I will stalk your tumblr and write a poem based on your aesthetic
sometimes i still think about not being here, see all the futures in which i have ceased to exist. then my brain goes into survival mode and tries to find me all the things i will definitely miss, things i will not be able to do if i am not here. and i find it really dumb. all the things i will not be able to do if i am not here? bitch try everything! if you are not here, you have ceased to exist, as in, the real world no longer contains you as a person who is real and living and breathing. you're just burnt ash or like on your way to become fossil fuel for the generations to come. but does that faze you, not being here at all? sometimes the answer is no. but then i find myself overtired, fresh out of a long shower standing in front of the mirror in my fluffy bathrobe midst a daydream, dancing shittily to silence while brushing my teeth thinking of not being here and then losing that train of thought to all of the ridiculous things i could do if whatever i am doing does not work out and i am kind of content.
Playing God
The Gods, they envy us.
We get to live and be done with it:
We get to die and leave.
There is no eternity hanging over our heads,
No forevers to roll the dice over.
We will not become Fallen Angels
Even if we forget our own morality.
We get to leave into the nothingness,
Become one with the Earth,
Get trodden in the very soil
We claimed as Ours once before and then
Turned to dust in.
We become the dust;
The dust that is to us
The same as we are to the cosmos;
We are the nothing.
Galaxies erupt and entire worlds are created,
Stars explode and black holes collide,
So why does it matter that I fell from the stairs today;
Why does it matter that I stuttered in a conversation
Or that I yelled out the wrong answer in class?
The cosmos are to us
As the Earth is to the dust specs on it;
We will be blown away and it will all still be here:
The Galaxies; the Earth within one such,
Packed with an entire Solar System,
Turning around one Sun,
They will still continue being//
In one form or another.
So why does it matter
That I will not be here
When all has been said and done,
I’d still have existed.
Dripping chaos everywhere I go.
Desi Dark Academia
Wears Chicken embroidery Kurtas with pants to give the perfect combination of modern and traditional
Long, long haired women who always wear a braid to keep it out of their way
Glasses. Simple glasses. Removing them makes you look like a different person. Fuck contact lenses, you say
Have read The Mahabharata, The Bhagvad Gita, The Ramayana multiple times and analysed it to the point you know it better than your grandmother.
The stories of Akbar Birbal are a vivid part of your childhood
STEM students with an intense knowledge of history
Historical monuments splayed in ALL cities with their own history and stories
Havelis with squatters living in them
Villages.
Being Bilingual since birth, sometimes even knowing three languages before you enter primary school.
Your mother sitting you down, oiling your hair on Saturdays and braiding it for you
Your mother's gold bangles, which she got from her mother and will eventually be yours.
Mehndi. Weddings and Festivals which leave but intricate Mehndi designs that linger on women's hands for a while. Or your mother putting Mehndi in her hair because fuck chemical colors.
Haldi. Haldi is everything.
Your family cures and recipes.
KADAAS. Bitter Kaadas with herbs and spices that your maa, amma/daadi or nani forces you to drink because they're good for your health
Chai is the first thing in the morning. Or the last one at night. The calm that washes over you when you're in the midst of a late night study session as you make yourself a cup of chai in the middle of the night. Quietly, because everyone else is asleep.
Capturing the dread that visits as your Birthdays approach.
One life people. Only one. Fucking run for it! Learn that goddamn language, read that book, draw shittily, sing off key and break some goddamn glasses. Fuck this illusion of perfection. We are here to goddamn live. Every art becomes less shitty as you work on it. Same with your life, it's all art babies. Work and get it y'all! Okay bye.
Do you think that if you love a certain thing, it is supposed to be constant throughout and it loses its charm when it stops being exactly that?
I think that the idea of loving an entity as it changes and transforms is much more endearing than going "Oh. This doesn't resemble what I initially fell for."
I think that especially with people, you have to know that they're constantly moving and they are experiencing things, and they change. To hope that something stays exactly as it was when you fell in love with it doesn't sit right with me. Haven't you changed? Do we have the right to tell something to remain stagnant when we aren't?
I think I personally have a skittish attitude towards things that remain constant; on the other hand, change feels so natural. I think I see it in this light: to be with someone or something as it changes is to get to discover more things to love, new things to love about them. I also believe that there are certain things that always remain the same. Even when the person is entirely someone different, there is always a set of habits or a preference or something specific to just this one person, that still remains constant. I find myself fascinated by the fact that even after this landslide of a change, there are moments where you can see them be the person you first go to know or how even after such an elaborate transformation, there are things that still somehow remain the same.
I think there are tiny constants even in the grandest of transformations. I quite ardently believe that people are much more endearing when they embrace their changes rather than thinking that the people who loved them when they were someone else will stop doing so as they grow into another person. I think that if the people you know do not fit the life of who you want to be or who you have become, you should let them go. So no, I do not think that anything I love owes me the grave burden of being in a state of constant; in a state of stagnancy.
-Anika
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