Life's Tough,

What good is helping people when the only things you get acknowledged for is your mistakes? Mistakes, made because you are just human, and all you were trying to do was help?

Weirdly enough, this is one of my comfort songs.

(turn the music on before reading, you'll get me better)

I listen to it as i imagine him singing it to me.

Holding me carefully, not too little or i might fall apart, not too much or i might break. We sway slowly side to side, in each other's arms, just for a moment passing by, as i shed all my unseen tears. I imagine that he cares, he cares that he never cared for me like i did for him. I imagine him singing this to my poor soul, telling me that he'd only make me cry, because it would make more sense than my idea of "us". We sway with the wind brushing our sorrows away, somehow my sorrow held onto my heart for him and took it away as well. So as long as this song fills the room, we're the only two that exist, only two that matter. And as long as this plays, it matters to him that i never mattered to him as he did to me. He knows, he shows, he sees, he's sorry.

But the song ends, and so does this pitiful fantasy. Reality comes rushing in...

I had him on my mind , ingrained in my brain. I made playlists for him in hopes the melodies might convey a fraction of my affection. I saved posts that i would send him if he was ever mine. I wrote him poems, which were some of my best works. I had a whole digital diary of him, secret albums of pictures of him, especially of ones which i took, if he could see himself through my eyes, him smiling wide with glistening eyes, maybe he would also want to capture and safeguard every nuisance of his beauty; and also, there is that folder of pictures my friends took of us together in one frame, accidentally of course.

I thought of being near him all the time, i thought of his wellbeing, i wished for him to know how perfect he was. Is. And he doesn't know any of this. I had him written all over my life for about an year, and he will have no idea how deep it goes.

He never led me on, he never did anything that would "make" me feel something about him nor did he drop hints that he felt something, he didn't have to, i guess, because i was never delusional, just utterly smitten...

(but then, what business did those eyes have, meeting mine??)

One day, i gave in to this agony and said to him that i liked him, and he said it was ok, i was his friend, this won't change anything. He was the nicest about it. But I still wonder, what if I would have said so much more, only if he could hear so much more... if he could, I'd tell him,

how like is something i did to a stranger at the airport who i talked to for a few minutes,

how like doesn't do justice to the gravity with which i was falling,

how like is what my mouth says, while my heart goes on to describe his beautiful piscine eyes, as the deepest ocean I'd drown in,

how like is what i wished it was, because it wasn't love of course, something less, something very one sided, but something so true.

If only i could tell him, i missed him when he was out of sight or even when he was right in front of my eyes, i fell for his laugh and his smile and his eyes and his lips and his hair and his hands and how he treated everyone respectfully, and his brain, and how he was so in love with his family, and how he was just a beautiful human being...

If i told him, i felt the familiarity of falling the first day i met him, if i told him i never wanted to be just friends, if i told him i would cherish him in every way he deserves...

Would it have made a difference? Would our story have a different ending?

I like to think

no.

I still don't know how to be that for someone else what he was to me.

Was? .... Is?....

no.

For the sake of my damn heart and the amount of love overflowing from it, it should not be an "is".

Was.

"Was" is where it should belong.

So I'll listen to "cry" again and imagine him singing again as we sway back and forth and I'll imagine i cry my unseen tears and pretend that

this is what my closure is.

Sometimes the scenarios i make up in my head amaze me.

They are so beautiul, so dreamy, so perfect, so much *needed*, it makes my heart ache from the thought that they can never come true, not ever in the exact same dreamy manner as they do in my mind. I would never find that perrffectt person and never will those deliberate- indeliberate touches and talks and gazes and moments happen...

It leaves me longing and hopeless, I guess my expectations from life , at moments, become too far-fetched.

The only way out, to turn them into reality, is to-

write down the scenario,

develop a story that is actually comprehensible (paiinnnn),

write a novel,

knock doors of publishing houses,

get it published,

work to make it a bestseller,

become a filmwriter and director,

find a producer,

get external validation for script and find rest of the crew ;))

find the perfect music that goes with my fantasy,

find the handpicked perfect cast,

and make it into a adaptation movie.

(excuse the inaccuracy my process. i am not well acquainted with all this, at least not in this universe, but that is just how i imagine)

Then all my dreams *might* come true. Is it too much? or a bare neccesity for my dream to reality journey, i will never know i guess...

(this also totaly disrupts my path of pursuing STEM career, leaving another dilemma at my hand. Life just wouldnt stop being so *REAL*, now, would it ? :I Now my options are a) Reincarnation, b) discover multiverse and travel to the universe where i did write a novel and make a movie about it, by myself, and watch that.... arghh the things we do for the love of love )

this was just a thought, no self-emotions were hurt in this post (ok, maybe a few) (excruciating pain right in middle of heart, a major headache here and there.)

The Artist

What are we here for

If not

To become the spectators 

Of the cosmic artwork

Unfolding before our eyes

The cosmic artwork

Of a blue sky

With rose strokes across

As the sun's about to die

Over the far horizon

Only to be born again

The next present

With a new light

The cosmic artwork

Of the birds singing, 

On birth of light 

Each sunrise, of the clouds

Swaying and changing hues

The cosmic artwork

Of each little life itself

The chaos seemingly random

Binding us all with one life

Of the artist itself.

The cosmic artwork

That created nature,

The mother herself

For she's the artist of 

the cosmic art,

Her eyes glittered in awe

Of her own self.

.

.

Me and The Mirror

I was happy. I looked in the mirror, I looked beautiful. I was happier. I was sad, I looked into the mirror, I cried. I looked miserable. I didn't want to, so, I faked a smile and it turned real. I was happy again. I was angry. I looked in the mirror, my ego was hurt. I broke the mirror. Now all I see, are the broken pieces of the world and me. (4.6.19)

Yup, thinking the whole goddamn universe is what we crazy people do at night. Ideas, like the stars, that shine bright in our minds when it is dark.

What keeps you awake at the middle of the night? Coffee? Nah! Anxiety? No also. Random YT videos? Close. Writing ideas blossoming out of nowhere? Yup!!! Just imagining things, and constructing something at the back of my mind.

aw hell yeah !!

“Shoutout to myself because after everything I’ve been through, I still have a good heart”

— Unknown

Such beautiful lines .... Had to share them

Lets sit out and watch the rain pour. I'll look at you and envy the rain drops that fall on your face, so delicate, sparkling like stars. Tracing down your face like my fingers wish to.