I want to marry someone I can be friends with if we divorce. Someone who fights fair, and has no trouble owning up to shit. I’m weird with my thoughts, too blunt at times. Honesty is good, but sometimes I’m too honest and I screw up. I’m too sensitive and the slightest thing can rile me up. Door slams, oh god. If I don’t like someone’s vibe, I shut them out and there’s no place in hell that can make me open up again. That means that I’m not as forgiving as I should. I want someone who accepts that mess and tells me to get over myself and stop fucking it up. Someone who respects and honours me enough to not be afraid to tell me the truth, even at the risk of hurting me. Nothing hurts love like tiptoeing and self-censoring does.

The Martian


Find meaning. Distinguish melancholy from sadness. Go out for a walk. It doesn’t have to be a romantic walk in the park, spring at its most spectacular moment, flowers and smells and outstanding poetical imagery smoothly transferring you into another world. It doesn’t have to be a walk during which you’ll have multiple life epiphanies and discover meanings no other brain ever managed to encounter. Do not be afraid of spending quality time by yourself. Find meaning or don’t find meaning but ‘steal’ some time and give it freely and exclusively to your own self. Opt for privacy and solitude. That doesn’t make you antisocial or cause you to reject the rest of the world. But you need to breathe. And you need to be.

— Albert Camus (Notebooks 1951-1959)

A sultry winter

Dry Tree On A Beach picture

There is no living being on earth at this moment except myself. I could walk down the halls, and empty rooms would yawn mockingly at me from every side. God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of ‘parties’ with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter — they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship — but the loneliness of the soul in its’ appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Electrifying pain

As a young child I was bizarre. Curiously pedantic. Pedantically curious. I was attuned to intricate details, mesmerized by the most mundane stuff. Stubborn! Oh lord, my middle name is ‘hardheaded’. I, of course, have my biased defense of the trait; ‘ I’m incessantly curious!’ I quip.

I asked mum why I had to feel pain? She told me that pain was useful because without pain there is no sensation and then we wouldn’t be able to walk. And if we hurt ourselves really bad, we wouldn’t feel that too and we could die.


That lesson stuck with me. For every step that I take inwards in introspection, it’s as if I’m performing a surgery without anaesthesia. I’m cutting away the vines of my childhood pain and rip open the scar tissues to extract the bullets that have been slowly permeating my mind, lacing it with a young child’s fear.

Being vulnerable is like being pierced and keep from flinching. The pain becomes physical at times. I feel it run down my legs. Knot in my stomach. My chest constricted. My back tense. I let it surge through me like a gushing river. I tell myself to ignore the urge to suppress it, and to let the river of tears out. Two decades of tears and blood.

I collect memories. I hide in the pain, in plain view. I close my eyes,grit my teeth and lie down. Whenever I reach a level of consciousness within me, the accompanying pain always startles me. Though I know the drill, nothing can prepare me for the pain because the more aware I become, the stronger the current of pain that surges through me. I brace myself.

The current of pain electrifies me. In its wake I find energy. It livens me. I’m vaccinated against fear. I pain, I live, I reflect, I am free.

I loved what I saw in him. I love who he is behind the iron curtain he set up against pain. How unfortunate it was that he couldn’t see himself. I hope that one of these days he’ll reach that place within him and brace the pain to see himself. For that day, I’ll be patiently awaiting.


Speak your heart

“Speak your heart. If they don’t understand, the message was never meant for them anyway.”
Yasmin Mogahed


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