Ed Sheeran, JioGarden, November 19, 2017.

I wore red lipstick and a red dress and a lotion that made my bare arms and legs shimmer in the dim-lit darkness; kajal and mascara and a band that declared me a superstar. 

I stood in line for six hours, with determination and confidence I had forgotten I could possess, and also with my three most favourite brownies from Theobroma (for the record, these are the millionaire, the red velvet, and the cookie, in that order, although I am convinced each time I have it that I like the cookie brownie more in theory than in taste). 

I joked, laughed and danced with strangers, with the college kids with lamer puns and greater fanaticism than even I; and the girl who'd come here all by herself from Delhi, who was awkward in a way that would have been very familiar to my near-friendless fourteen year old self, whose story I wanted to hear and write. 

I enjoyed the opening act, Lauv, as one enjoys all music that is not noise, and sang along to the one song I knew (I like me better). Things were fine. 

And then he came on stage, and it all changed. 

_________

I've been looking for perspective everywhere. I've talked to older people and younger people and peers and colleagues; parents and counsellors and myself; strangers on Tinder and my best friends. I've looked for it in books and in memes; in the ocean waves and in city lights. 

I did not expect to find it at a concert.

I should have, though. I went to the concert because I love Ed Sheeran; I love Ed Sheeran the way I do partly because I have the most mainstream taste on the planet, but mostly because, no matter what he sings, Ed can pull from within me the feelings I need, and banish the mental clutter I really don't need. His words are specific, his songs situational, and yet, whether I'm homesick or heartbroken or just lost deep within myself, he can pull me out - paint me that larger picture I can never quite capture by myself, make me understand, acknowledge, absorb all those comforting things I know in theory, but cannot feel in practice. 

He can make it okay for things not to be okay (which, let's face it, is how things usually are). 

_________

He sang Castle on the Hill, and Tenerife Sea, and Thinking Out Loud, and Perfect. Shape of You and Eraser and Galway Girl and A-Team. You Need Me, I Don't Need You. 

And somehow, in all the singing along and dancing and feeling and hugging and holding hands, somehow, magically, miraculously, inexplicably, he turned lead into gold. 

Somehow, standing there, squashed between the balustrade and the heaving masses, I was no longer a lost, overemotional, fucked up twenty something questioning every aspect of her life to the point of perpetual misery. I was a kid, an adult, a complete person; not a daughter or an ex or a sister or a friend, not an employee or a lawyer or intelligent or dumb, not a good writer or a bad one. Not a label or a generational stereotype; just...a person, with all the complexity and simplicity that involves. 

Yes, I was young and lost and confused and at least a little bit fucked up. Yes, I was old and had lost so many years, months, minutes to useless endeavours, time and energy and optimism I'd never get back. Yes, I had said and done awful things, and had awful things said and done to me. 

But that was okay. This was life, and we didn't get to type out a draft and review it thrice before finally deciding on a version we could look back on and regret. We had to do the drafting and the reviewing and the looking and the regretting all at the same time, and more often than not, nothing was so unbearably irreversible that we couldn't find a way to live with it. Awful things happened and would happen, but it was okay to be overwhelmingly, unreservedly, guiltlessly happy around the awfulness. 

And it was okay for things not to be okay. At least for tonight. 

~Sam 

Heartbreak and Other Clichés

Hello!

It's been a very long time since I've written anything that could possible classify as "writing", and to change that, I have decided to do a series on heartbreak. It is apparently the easiest thing to write about, and I hope it will act as a gateway to more frequent writing. I'll start with reposting a slightly edited version of something I wrote recently for this platform that lets you write open letters about your emotions, real or fictional.


To: The One Who Gave Up

Your shoulder was of the perfect height. I know I said your hands were my favourite part of you, but I was wrong- it’s been your shoulders, always. You were too tall for us to fit together perfectly, the length of our torsos a bar to our experimentation. For the perfect hug, I had to stand on a stair. Your hands were so large they made even my giants feel insignificant, feel so deliciously small for perhaps the first time in my adult life. Your lush hair had dandruff; your lips were too pouty for mine to feel secure in their stern thinness; your feet were the most calloused I have ever seen. Your arms, your hands around me, on me, on my waist, in my hair; our fingers wrapped around each other like we couldn’t ever possibly get close enough- that was heaven, yes, but your shoulders- your shoulders were perfect. To lean on when I was sad and lonely and couldn’t, wouldn’t, hold myself up. To melt into just because I wanted to, because  they were mine and I could, because you said you were mine, god damn you, you said you were mine. For a year and a month and four days, you were mine. To nestle against in the cold, into the love in the heart I was sure, so sure, so naively certain, was strong enough. Because you said we’d try. Because I believed you. Because if mine was, why couldn’t yours be?

I don’t know when I realized you’d given up. Was it the moment you told me – I’m too scared, I can’t, we should end things– or was it in the months before, when we stopped being anything but the bare bones of a relationship, no substance, just two people going through the motions of acting like they were in love? Was it when I forgot you so much that my neck strained with how much it had to tilt to look up at you, forgot what had once become second nature? Was it when we ran out of things to say to each other, because you were never there, and so much had happened, so much kept happening, but you were never there, until my brain forgot you mattered enough to share things with, until I drew a perfect blank those rare occasions when I did see your face? Was it when I tried anyway, when I told you I was probably depressed and you said okay, let’s head back, like that was an interesting anecdote to end our meeting with? Or had you always, in some part of you, given up on us, every set of holidays, every time I told myself I was overreacting, every time I made your excuses for you – he’s busy, he’s tired, he’ll text back eventually, he means well, he loves you,  he’ll be here tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

Did you know I always wanted my first open letter to be something fun and quirky; never about a guy? That I never wanted someone whose actions I had to defend and justify and rationalize and excuse? That I wanted someone who felt about me, the way I felt about you? Did you know, when you promised me a future, when you promised me we’d try, that family and age and time and distance wouldn’t get in our way- did you know then, how easy it would be for you to change your mind? To say- yes, I know I said that, but now that I’m actually here, it turns out I’m too scared. Did you know that you would always, always choose yourself over us, choose to cut your losses, because god forbid that you commit to anything more than an indifferent might as well? Did you know, when you were being infuriated by my use of the shrug emoji, that you would personify it in our relationship? Hey, so what about the future? – ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. 

But I believed you anyway. When you said you loved me, I believed you. When you said we didn’t have an expiry date, I believed you. When you said we would try, I fucking believed you. For months, you fed me lies, and I don’t care if you believed them then too, because I believed you and you lied. You were different, so different with me; so considerate, when you were there; so warm; so vulnerable, that I believed you weren’t the jackass they all thought you were. That you were more. That you were mine. That you always would be. That you’d at least try, that you meant what you were saying. That only some insurmountable, unimaginable obstacle would keep me from being yours, and you from being mine.

I suppose I just never imagined that obstacle would be you.

I suppose I was a fool, for not recognizing the problem when even you told me how hollow your apologies sounded when they were spoken for the same mistake for the fifth time. A fool, for believing you’d put us before you, when every little inconvenience had you putting me in second place. A fool, for believing the sweet nothings you so intensely whispered in your sweet, accented voice into my silly little ears. A fool, for letting you swallow me up, a fool for believing you’d been swallowed up too. A fool, for going back repeatedly and smiling over the good times; a fool for ignoring all the bad signs. A fool, for thinking you knew what you meant when you said you loved me- when it should’ve been clear, from the very first time, when you said it and shattered us in the same breath, it should’ve been clear as crystal that you had no idea what you were talking about.

A fool, because I believed what you said, but it turns out you never did.

I’m trying not to do that anymore, trying not to be a fool anymore. To be rational– so strange, that feels, like trying on an alien outfit. To feel the future stretch out without it being bound to you- to forget that I wanted it bound with you, uncertain and terrifying and unfathomably difficult, but with you. I’m trying to write again, because I put you over that as well, because I was so happy wrapped up in you that I had no sad poems to write anymore. I’m trying to remember what it feels like to be a whole in myself again.

My friends offer me their long-distance shoulders. They offer me blankets and hugs and love and listening ears and all the things you stopped giving me a while ago. And I’m trying. But how do I lean into someone who isn’t you? How do I fit my head into the crook of a shoulder which will never be tall enough? How do I forget you?

~Sam

What Am I Doing?

What am I doing?
I open up your chat window
And stare at it quietly
Praying, craving, wishing, hoping
You'll say something
(SAY SOMETHING)
I scream at you internally
Not a flicker of emotion crossing my face.

What am I doing?
I eat a slice of pizza
I really don't need
While I flick through your pictures
Again- nothing new, but old is still gold
There's the funny one, the cute one, the hot one
Same things, same place, same order
Nothing has changed.

What am I doing?
I chat with your friend,
Your mom, your dad, your girlfriend
All the while glowering at your picture
Waiting for you to say something
A link, a rant, a picture, a hi
I'll take anything
Just say something.


~Emo Sam Part III

If Only

If only we could detach body parts.
My hand could go unlock the door while my eyes read,
My hair stir in the breeze while my forehead furrowed.
I could put my uterus aside, let it vent its fury alone,
Throw out those awful cramps and let my body relax.
Send my legs out for a hike while my eyes slept,
Make that brain sit in the corner and think about what it did wrong.
Quiet that stuttering heart in the palm of my hand,
Soothing it, shushing it until it calmed.
I could be healthier,happier, more productive even.
But best of all- I could get away from myself.

~Sam

Because I spent half this morning thinking about the tee-shirt you sleep in.

The title is a reference to a song by Birdy, every single word of which is resonating with me right now, which is a situation I'm not too pleased with. Can you please just go away, feelings? This is not working out for me. I need a break. Go away, go party in Hawaii or something. Lust after some hot lifeguard. Just stop feeling so much, god, stop being so aware of him every moment of every day, stop thinking about what he might be doing, stop looking at his facebook profile, the same pictures over and over again, stop thinking about that god-awful smirk of his, stop it, stop it, stop it.
And if you can't stop, at least get some decent writing out of it, what the hell is this crap? Just quote some nice song by someone else, and that's it, you're done expressing yourself? Come up with something original, jeez. Write a bit of angsty poetry. A future classic about the hardships of love, or whatever in the hell this is. Obsession, I think, would be a better description than love. [Would also make a better story.] Love is so different. Right? So much purer. So much less moony, or at least I hope so- unless the mooning is reciprocated, in which case, all is okay. Love has to be reciprocated, right? You can't just fall in love with the twirl of someone's hair, the poise of his hands and feet (did you even know feet could be poised?), the intensity and laughter of his gaze. Can you? Can you be in love with someone who isn't even here, in whose life you don't even feature, except maybe some extra who moved across the screen that one time in that one scene? Can you be in love with someone who exists more in your mind than in your life?
Oh shut up, you aren't in love with him. A week of vacation, when your mind isn't desperately trying to get away from thinking about work and other things actually relevant to your life, and you'll be over him like a frog over a puddle.
At least I hope you will. Don't fall into that puddle, frog. Don't let the pretty shimmering entice you into it. That light is deceptive. That puddle is not good for you. Jump over it, and hop away as fast as you can. Or better yet- jump over it, and forget it ever existed in the first place.
Is this writing good enough to make up for all of the feelings? I certainly hope so, because it's all I got right now.

I shall stop talking to myself now.
Goodnight folks. (Ha, like I'm sleeping.)

Love or whatever,
~Sam

PS: This is our 300th post! Yay! 

Two minute "poetry"

I remember a scene from St. Clare's
Or was it Malory Towers?
One of those Enid Blyton books.
Where a character, a French girl,
Wants to get out of class
And decides to fake a stomach ache-
Only to point to her heart instead.
Or maybe it was the opposite,
And she mistook stomach for heart.
Either way, the point stands-
That there is such an odd connection between the two.
Butterflies in your stomach
Usually signify trouble for that racing heart,
And nothing causes nausea as bad as impending heartache.
My heart will miss my family when I leave
And my eyes will cry and my throat will be sore
But it's my stomach which will be the first to get troubled.

It's my stomach which has become the first to get troubled.

~Sam

Peace and Poignance

Things are so poignant sometimes.
Simple things, daily things.
The leaf lying on the grey road,
Unremarkable, old,
And yet I want to take a picture.
The tilted bench against the brick house,
The grown puppy teetering around the door.
Nothing new.
All routine sights,
And yet, I want to capture them all.

-----

Just a mood.
When your mind is scattered,
Unfocused, adrift,
A certain sadness hanging,
In the dusty shelves that comprise it.
Just a mood.
When you can wander every-any direction,
Direct your steps here,
Then there, at anyone's beck,
And call.
Just a mood.
When you're peaceful,
Not worried, not thinking,
Just looking and seeing.
At one with the world.
At once away from it.

-----

Why is it associated with sadness,
That peace,
That comes with calm,
That comes with acceptance,
That comes but so rarely in our existence?
Why is it associated with sadness,
That emptiness,
That connection,
Which comes with nature,
Which drains and nurtures?
Why is it associated with sadness,
That bliss,
That emotion,
That for which we have no name.
That for which we have no name.


~Sam

What is it about the rain that makes you remember?

Our first guest post! This is by a friend of mine (Sam's), the aforementioned Vowel-less. Enjoy yourself with this wonderful piece on the most wonderful things of all-rain and memories.

Also available on her own blog: http://doubt-thou-the-stars-are-fire.blogspot.in/2014/06/what-is-it-about-rain-that-makes-you.html
____
I am sitting by the window. It is raining and I can feel the drops of water on my face. As a drop trickles down my face and falls on my hand, memories of a time long forgotten, a childhood, not that far back yet so unreachable, flood my mind. A sudden flashback of running through the front garden and getting drenched in the rain in one of the many old British-style houses that I lived in fills my mind vividly. Then another image, of my mother shouting at me asking me to come back.
What is it about rain that always makes you sift through all those past memories that in the humdrum of daily life become repressed in your subconscious?
Hailstones! The initial excitement of listening to the exaggerated pitter-patter on the roof as tiny lumps of ice fall on the ground. Running to the front verandah to collect the ice faster than my brother. Image after image of those days, long past. Of innocence, long gone. Of hope, long forgotten. Memories.
A song comes to my mind. The song that was playing in the background when I shared an umbrella with my first crush. I can almost feel my heart thundering, the way it had thundered for those few precious stolen moments. Anticipation tugs at my heart. And a certain melancholy. A sudden yearning to go back into those days of sweet innocence, of glorious horizons and endless possibilities, of happy dreams. Falling asleep near my mother. Playing with my brother. Not knowing the feeling of apprehension. Where future is a bright happy place.
What is it about rain that makes you remember?

~Vowel-less

I dream.

Of being on the New York Times bestseller list.
Of having memes of my quotes, fangirls (boys?) of me.
Of being happy.
Of being sexy.
Of finding Him.
Of being beautiful, in love.
Of chocolate cake.
Of opening a bakery. (I can't bake, this won't happen.)
Of marrying a baker.
Of bakery-scented deodorants. (Yes, I like bakeries.)
Of comfortable stilettos.
Of long, beautiful hair.
Of a beautiful house, and an even more beautiful home.
Of a world with no mosquitoes, cockroaches, rats, lizards or hate. (The rest, I can live with.)
Of flawless skin.
Of tasty health-food. (Again, not happening any time soon.)
Of a world of love.
Of a world I love.

I dream of writing something beautiful, something original, something so deep, so profound, that everyone can see its truth, everyone can feel it; that no one has words to express their awe, that everyone will remember always, and quote, and dwell on, and revel in. I dream of writing something that is mine.

~Sam

Though these days of course, I pretty much just dream of sleep. 

Feel.

Love. A very cliche four lettered word. They say it's the most powerful feeling. So if we don't feel it, does that mean a very essential part of life has disappeared from us?
I'm not talking about the love you have for your family and friends. I'm talking about the love that exists between two lovers.
The best songs ever written are love songs. Of course those that are in love can relate. And those who don't get so involved in the lyrics don't really care, so it doesn't bother them. Me? I listen to every note, every line. And I can't help getting completely immersed in it. Why does the singer say all things he or she does? Are the   songs about themselves, or someone that they know? Do they sing what they feel? Will I ever actually be able to feel and understand what they want to share with the world?
It's hard. Listening to music the way I do and not wonder how it is. I don't know what love is. I don't know if  I ever will. Even then, I feel so much just by listening to music. It isn't fair. I don't want to feel how much I feel, when I don't even know whether I can have it or not. I just...don't want to feel.