Saturday, 16 January 2016


There are people who have real problems, but they don't want to draw any attention to themselves. They deal with it themselves, quietly. And they do just fine in their life. Then there are people who ignore the problem staring right back in the face, until it goes away. Those are my favorite kind of people. Then there are people, who like to make an issue out of every thing. Those are the least favorite kind, or are competing for the spot
''Couldn't be worse''

''My life is a mess''

''Oh you don't know how much problems i have at the moment''

No, I don't but l do have a solution for you. Why don't you leave the planet, Please. GOD.

People are weird.

Part of human nature is that no one is ever satisfied with his life, they will always have a problem. They will always ask for more. People, they never learn. But that's okay to some extent, as long as they don't keep whining about it.

I have met people who have this super ability to hoard as much stress as they can gather. For instance, the conversation didn't go the way they planned it, or there is a class test tomorrow, or say the apple didn't turn out to be that red. It's like they wait for the moment. As if they haven't ever seen a moment of joy in their life, or they think the joy isn't for them. Their level of pessimism deserves a medal.

Every one has problems in life but not everyone creates an issue out of it. Not everyone chooses to tell the whole world how upset they are, or what kind of miserable lemons their lives are throwing at them. Talking about a problem isn't a bad thing as long as there is a ''problem''.

Being friends with such people costs a big fortune; peace of your mind, being on the top of the list. Not only you feel like you are obligated to soothe them, for you are guilty of committing the very crime of choosing to be friends with them in the first place, but also you have to be there for them to listen, or you are not doing much of a duty of a friend.

And as you set up your mind to save your friend the misery of dying under a stress that's not even a big deal, you jump in the pool to pull them out but you get attacked by a shark instead. Next thing you know your friend doesn't want to get out of water, one way or the other, but you have got your brain half eaten, but that's your fault, and since your friend has got other things to worry about, other very important things that matter, why give them the headache that your brain is bleeding? that poor soul has enough tragedies to live through.

Well, well, they survive. Turns out they have an extra compartment for useful stuff like that. While you, on the other hand, you don't know how much of a problem it is if they spelled 'their as there' in their language assignment and their whole life is falling apart. You just, don't know.

There is no ending to their misery, because they don't wanna get out of it. It's what they live for. They will always seek more and they will always find it.

Wednesday, 13 January 2016


Damn it, every time, like every single time, you screw up, and the poor pinky toe has to face the outcome. And trust me, it really really, oh boy, really hurts. Every time you are careless, like every time. Point is, why the poor pinky? perks of being the smallest or perks of being the last one?

Recently, I could relate myself to this poor little toe, for, I happen to be the "last one".

I don't know, but all my life I have known that the youngest ones are the most awed by parents, they are more of a spotlight, so there comes the stubborn attitude of them. Weirdly, that isn't my case. My case, well, like I said I am the pinky toe.

My parents wanted, at least, one doctor in the family, but the older three, well let's just say they flew away, the reactions were fine because, because there was still some hope, because there was "one last chance''. And that one last chance happens to be, well, I'll let you do the math.

Now I have no problem being a doctor, if someone else could do the study part for me, cause that's not in my damn nature, that hard work, that burden, that pressure, God I can't take it. but I can't possibly explain that to them or anyone out there because they think I can.

You know, the older ones really get to get away with stuff, and even if they do get caught, guess who gets trapped in the curfew with them, yeah you. It really matters what kind of impression the older ones are leaving because that's the standard you are going to be judged on. Now if you are not as good as they are, boy, you have signed up for the taunts for life, and if they happen to be the pain in the ass, which, for instance, you thought, was a good thing, because you are not as purely evil as they are, so your parents must be proud, eh, no, because the older one is a devil, it leaves your parents in a constant fear that the younger one might follow suit.

Being the youngest isn't always fun, I guess. When the time comes to face the music, you'd really wish there was someone after you.

Someone who could take the journey to fulfill your parents dreams, or someone you could shout on after being yelled at by the older party. Someone you get to be bossy on too, but that's how it is.

Still there is some beauty of it, a lot of beauty, in fact. At least, you don't have to worry about the company. The maturity, the reality, you see it beforehand, well that is positive. I must admit your siblings do put some sense into you and save you quite an embarrassment at times, for they had already embarrassed themselves. There is a charm to it. And yeah, its way better than being the middle child. Poor them.

Friday, 8 January 2016


She wanted to be an artist, but nobody cared, because she could do better than that, as they thought. Deep inside she had guilt, she felt like she owed their family at least this much, to give up her dream and be something they wanted to see her becoming. Deep deep inside that dream was sparking a flame, but she kept resisting it until it turned into the lava of tears and fuming desires. Pursuing her dream could be mean to everyone, after all what they had done for her, that was nothing compared to this. After all, she could always be an artist, she had herself convinced.

After rotting herself for years, trying to live someone else's dream, constantly reminding herself, how much this means to them, how much they mean to her, she created a perfect daughter, a perfect sister, a perfect everything but a perfect herself.

She got a degree, made her family proud but till then, that artist was long gone, long buried under the ashes of her dreams, that artist was now no more. Everyone was proud of her, her father, her mother, her siblings. They knew what she gained, they never knew what she lost.

She lost herself, she lost her dream, she lost who she was meant to be. Because it didn't matter to anyone. She was perfectly normal. She led a life, but she never "lived" a life.

She gained everyone's consent and that made her happy, so she kept ignoring that perplexed feeling, not knowing what it was, she spent her entire life like that. She missed that artist sometimes but it didn't hurt as much as it did once.

In her death bed, she realized what she had lost, she recognized that feeling, coming back with much more pain, this time, she realized she had murdered someone, an artist. She had killed herself, long time ago. Tears drained the shine of her eyes.

Long after she was gone, her parents talked about her proudly, gushing how pleased they were, of her, they never knew what that artist meant to her because she never told them what her dream was. They never found out she had a dream too.!


In the sky rose the screams, The shrill wails roared, A drop landed on the soil, Another, And another, A blotch appeared, As if...