I spend a lot of time searching for who I am. I peel back the skin, look for hints in the muscles and clues in the tendons to tell me what I am made of. Atomic particles of identity, specks of personality, and shadows of wants dance like fireflies in the night, beckoning me to catch them, to cage them, to put them in a tangible place, a body to call home. I don’t know enough of settling or stability to tell you who I am. I can’t recall the last sunset that made me feel like I was part of a bigger world or the first time I got excited over a job or what color I would be if I wasn’t a person. I’ve lived an undefinable life. No labels, no limits, no lines. But I think that’s okay. I am still finding out what it means to be human, and I think that’s just as good as knowing who, if anyone, is waiting for me at the end of the day.
—  An Odyssey to Someone
Complex Stories

April 18th, 2017 02:05 AM

A second at a time, we are knitting stories. Or somebody is knitting for us. Or it’s there waiting for us for the right second. But it’s happening all the time. Stories weaving through and around us like a cobweb. It’s a non-linearly aligned collection of indefinite lines lingering around us in the loop of time. Without this collection we are a dead rubber. So this is inevitable, and we must live with it. 

There is a possibility of a pattern in these stories because they come one-after-another and mostly they are a result of the what-happened-earlier. But the process of deciphering the pattern is excruciatingly tough; the reasoning and logic lies in the subconscious which in itself can’t be accessed by normally-functioning brains. And when we try, we fail, because we can’t thrive the required patience to understand what’s going on with us and why. We just give up when we are on the cusp of our answers. Giving up leads to stress and thoughts like,”What the fuck is happening with my life?”,”Why does it happen to me only?” and then, over-thinking creeps in and we bid adieu to our senses. 

I believe that each story occurs for a reason. There is a hidden cause in it, or sometimes it is too obvious to be seen. The web, of course, is complex but life survives on reasoning and pattern, and who understands it leads a peaceful life. But like life, even peace is mortal. If it goes, it comes back sooner than we expected. So one should not get disheartened and puzzled by the present because there’s always something to look forward to: a future. And about your future, you don’t know shit. You don’t know what pattern unfolds tomorrow.  

If you see closely, there’s a heavy exchange and intersection of seemingly independent stories in our lives. What’s occurring right now can take a detour on the arrival of twist-in-the-tale. And then the current pattern changes to something you couldn’t think of, or could get the time to think of. So, basically you are helpless with what’s happening to you. One, because it’s happening very fast. Second, you have no control over it. So let it be! Let life run its course for you because you are not smart enough to run it for yourself.

And why so?

Because, out of greed and to be in comfort zones, all we would do is only good to us. And too much sweetness can be fatal in all respects. A life without crisis has no excitement and purpose. When it gets too easy for us, it means we are not doing well. Hurdles keep us in check and we stay grounded. 

But this doesn’t mean that we have to stop dreaming. Dreams are the only place where we find solace, and if they are built preciously and carefully then they might one day find some space in the pattern of our stories. They might lock in with our presents to make a brighter future for us and ultimately that is what one wants: a bloody secure future. But nobody is willing to pay the cost of the present. That’s where we behave unfairly to our stories and this reluctance of the acceptance of present hurts us more than it could have.

So let us behave simply to these complex stories of ours… 

Let the stories weave themselves around us. And by the time they do so, let’s not forget to work for our dreams, because they surely deserve a place in our future.   

Sometimes I wonder, 
if I was born into a world a little bit to the right. 

That somewhere, 
there is another world,
with another me,
who’s had the chance to do things right.
The chance to be who they choose to be,
and not what they must become to survive.

My only regret is - 
that you are unable to see this best version of myself. 

That you must only know me as I am here; 
a soul out of place, 
a little too different to truly thrive.

A me who is unworthy of what you have sacrificed. 
A me who is undeserving of you and your love.

My only hope is - 
that one day,
you will be able to see this best version of me. 

(and maybe we will both be worthy)

—  i wasn’t built for this world, but maybe i was built for you // e.q.
Conversations With a Dear Old Friend - Time Circle

Isn’t it a lovely thing
To see a generation spin
Into control, waltz with your past
Ah, I’m tired now
I’d like to sit down
You follow, stamping down a path
Blindly thinking, it’s your own
But I’m tired now
I’d like to sit down
I don’t need to show you my footprints
Lining up exactly where you stand
You don’t need to see we’re the same
Hand wave, Everything’s new for you
Earth brimming with froth of stardust
And you don’t want to hear how old
the stars are
Or that they’ll outlast your life gust


No one warns you that growing up doesn’t necessarily happen when it does for everyone else. That 18 is insignificant, and 21 a blur. Your first heartbreak, moving out; they’re landmarks, but not always life changing. It’s in the unsuspecting moments when it hits you, like realizing your parents will one day move out of your childhood home and all the growing you have done there will be left. Suddenly the weight of that reality is brought to your foresight and your life flashes before your eyes….yeah, they don’t prepare you for shit like that.
—  I’m twenty four and this night feels like hell

I think about the delicate fabric of existence far too often

The things I cannot see, hold, touch

The things I can

Some people, I notice everything

Others I seem to not even regard

How does that happen

When I step back and observe what I overlooked

Tripping on the beginning

Or shake my head because I’ve learned too much

A cycle never ending

When I look up at the stars,
they look back at me. It seems we are both the same; made of stardust and shimmering hope.
—  When the Stars Look Back at Me// A.S.