What is it like to have your heart broken by yourself? Nivedita said this to me two years or so back, that I wear my heart around in my sleeves - it's too easy for me to let anyone walk into my heart, step and waltz on it without a promise. She never said it was something bad. She just said she was worried that it would put me into a lot of hurt and pain one too many times. And she was true. She still is. But did I stop carrying my heart around in my sleeves? No, I didn't. I have just raised myself up to be someone who believes that the world will be a better place with more happiness and love in it rather than hatred and hard feelings. And, today here I am, 20 years old dreamer who walks around with her heart in her sleeves. Today, here I am, a giddy, light headed 20 year old girl who gets her heart broken one too many times. Most days, I don't have any complaints for myself about the way I am. But sometimes, I like to question - why does it have to be only me w...
When I feel fidgety enough, I tuck my hand deep in my pocket and make loops on my earphones. I thread an end to another, trying to make sense of the conversations happening around me. It rarely helps. But I do it nonetheless. With some conversations, you can't help but be fixated with trying to escape them, or put them to an end. I have had quite some afternoons filled with monologues tiring enough to make me feel at edge. Trying to place things in order. Trying to weigh my words and actions in a way that I can weaken the projection of the forthcoming pain. Trying to make it through today so that when I see tomorrow, I have a little less to feel sad about. Some of these monologues have left me with more ache than I anticipated. Some of these monologues make me feel like I have been on this bus for too long. Some of these monologues and a handful of other afternoons I spend being the listener in conversations, I make loops on my earphones that take a little too long to undo. B...
Here's a little rundown of bits and pieces from my memory at 22 years of age because I am suddenly pathetically hit by the lack of it. We were pea-sized, first grade kids when Aabha and I first met. We drifted apart for a few more years before she came back to our school from Pokhara. I was the first kid who recognized her from four years back when she was playing alone at the swings in our schoolyard. She had changed her name, her hair was different, our skin and bones had grown a lot. I just walked up to her quietly, sat on the swing next to her and asked her if she was the kid who had transferred somewhere from our school before. She was. Looking back at this now, it makes my heart fuzzy just thinking about how vivid this memory is inside my brain. I could probably even tell you what direction the wind was blowing in at that moment. And as someone who struggles with memory gaps, this feels like a huge feat, really. I am glad that Aabha and I are still pretty much the same as we ...
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