Father’s Day. 

Father’s are figures of strength, a sense of resilience to keep the family together and the epitome of responsibility. I really believed that. When I was younger, being closer to my father was easier. He always seemed to be home more often, less strict and he is good with playing games. 

That was a time obliviousness clouded the future implications my father’s choices would have on the family. 

(More time at home is equivalent to less work, which means less money. So on and so forth.)

But when you grow up and that imagination has been proven flawed, it is difficult to reconcile what my father is, to me. And then, the questions come. 

Does a single mistake, even though it doesn’t seem like he regrets anything so far, enough to reduce everything else he did for me? 

He loved us, does he still love us despite the choices he chose to make? 

Did he really love us? 

Why does he not see the consequences of his actions? 

When he grows older and comes back to me for money, would I give? 

Is it ever an obligation to give your parents monetary allowance when you start work? 

Even when you know the money will be spent on ridiculous choices you never agreed with? 

What happens when you become an adult and your values go against your parents? 

When is the time you are able to speak up against your parents, as an equal? Is it age, holding a job, what is it? 

Does that time ever come? 

Is there even a time for that? 

The questions come and go. They make me recognise that I am not entirely okay with the current situation. It frustrates me that no straight answers exist and even I, am lost in my questioning and confusion. Never knew how annoying advertisements can be until I fund myself in this place. 

At this point, now, what is there to even celebrate anymore? 

That figure in my life, has gone. Beyond recognition. 

Too Familiar. 

This is too familiar a narrative to the point of choked up tears and a sense of shame. Perhaps we are bent on reliving the phrase that we always tend to hurt the ones we love, simply because the phrase has to exist for a reason. Perhaps we are all just cruel. 

Maybe it is how love is really just about choice, that makes everything sharper at the edges and scarier. 

Because we all know that years of relationships mean nothing in the end. The moment you choose to have out and to search for the greener grass on sides you have yet to visit, the love evaporates and ceases to exist. 

(Of course it depends on the intentions of the relationship in the first place, the reasons for leaving, the level of honesty and how the hurt is being discovered. Every relationship is different, and that’s why we may fail in so many ways with no one with a clear answer to share with.)

Suddenly you are free and the other person is free falling. You look at this face of years loved and feel nothing. To go from sparks to nothingness is a darkness in itself; never to realise how you found yourself in this place. The hands you yearned for are now let go off, with your own arms hugging another body, another soul so similarly but different enough for excitement. The crying face that used to break your heart and keep you up for days, now merely stains you with guilt that you can shrug off. Not think about. Not care about. 

After all, that love is no longer your burden to bear. Yes, it has become a burden, a bane and a burnt out flame of used to bes. 

And the entire process starts again. Never-ending. (Marriage is not a destination nor a remedy. Just a hope for stronger commitment and a legal bond that will hopefully strengthen resolve.) 

How do you say you love, only to turn your back on them when someone comes along? When you choose to hurt them deliberately? 

This has always puzzled me, though this narrative is too familiar for comfort. 

At this point in my life, I have found an answer that will keep morphing as I live but I hold on to for comfort now. 

I think this happens, because the choice of love was simply not strong enough for you to resist fulfilling your own desires (that probably weren’t communicated or swept under the carpet). Because your fear of disappointment, your being afraid of the consequences, laziness in not saying that you didn’t want to work on this anymore, was greater than “us”. 

You felt you were more important, than the other person you fawned over and wanted to protect with your life. But really, you wanted to protect yourself first and only when that was fulfilled did you open up your arms for someone else. 

Is that love though? No one knows the answer, but this question is worth thinking over. 

And would the problem be solved, if it was ever that simple, if two people came together only to love the other person more. 

Has that always been what we are all searching for? 

On a separate note, have we all thought about and are aware that love changes the way a person grows and someone being in a relationship, you might have contributed to the change that started to drive you away? 

How do you love a changing person? How does anybody love you? 

How do you love yourself? 

My heart is tired of hurting for other people, and I am tired of all this unanswerable questions. 

Speakers’ Corner. 

Speakers’ Corner 

A board kept empty 

To always appear spacious 

For alternate views 

And space to breathe

But really, 

It serves as a warning for

Thoughts that beg to differ 

A statement of all thoughts that came


Vanished, perished and condemned 

Behind bars we can never see 

Stifled and silent suffocation 

To never speak

Just there. 

There is a crack. Right there. Small and insignificant, but a beginning. A cut at the edge of my heart. Squint to look, or simply turn away. It is not massive enough for an emergency. No need to panic, no use for SOS. People only choose to save when another’s broken. There is a crack, but only a crack. I feel it inside me. Pick at it. Trace it with fearful fingers. Measure it every day; has it become bigger? Should I be concerned now? Or am I just too sensitive? Sensitive… what a dirty word. Sensitive. The word hurled at you when they fail to feel. So I pick at it. Say something. But you don’t believe me, do you? So I pick at it. Make it bigger. Talk about what you are scared of. Name it. But you don’t believe me. You look at me just like the rest – that I am crazy, too much emotions and different. Is this tough love? Let it hurt good once and heal itself. A scar is bravery, a crack is weakness. 

But don’t we get the love we deserve? 

I knew that this would happen. No matter how many times you said it would never. Despite all your protests and non-apologies. Beyond your dismissals, shallow kisses and surface smiles. 

Reaching out requires trust and vulnerability. To deny, is only a privilege you have. Because it is still as real as it was before I said it. 

There is a crack. 

Can you see? 

Numbers, accumulation, nothing. 

Numbers mean nothing. 

Numbers just represent an accumulation of whatever you are trying to count. However, there is no value in merely counting. 

It is possibly one of the weakest points to substantiate something. 

You may be old, but if you have never learnt from lessons and experienced anything fully, there is no wisdom. 

I may work at my craft, but if I have no heart and constantly cut corners, there is no true art created. 

We may be dating for years on end, but if there is always tipping of toes and no intimacy of any level, there is nothing to hold on to. 

Numbers are not good enough reasons to hold on to lacking love, unreasonable pride and boastful bullying. 

So let your years speak through life experiences and the way you carry yourself. So let your work speak for themselves. So let your hearts beat and carry you forward. 


Always know what you want, and earn that. 

Lost in Conversation. 

Thoughts come and go, pile up and overwhelm you as they collapse. 

I might not really prefer this way of living, but I find it hard to imagine a life without my mind talking to me all the time. Guess I have learnt to live with this, and make the best of it. 

It also helps that I have learnt how to game my own system when I really need to. 

However, I wonder if this makes me a difficult person to live with. To make conversation with, to listen to my considerations, to pick up from what I offer from one moment to another, to fully understand how many perspectives I have on a single situation itself. 

Sometimes this is almost invisible, other times, it is a neon sign flashing in my mind. But of course, invisible does not mean it disappears fully. It still is visible, simply hidden well. 

It happens most often with people I fully trust. After all, I am comfortable enough to just voice thoughts out as they come and have them sound back to me in the safe space of our friendship. 

And having so many things to translate from my mind to my body to you, it is difficult when you do not listen without distractions. 

Or when you do not share your opinions. 

I mean, here I am so vulnerable yet you look away, mouth mute and numb. Do you not trust me enough, are my thoughts too fast, too fierce, or have years of closeness left nothing in between  us for you to say anymore? 

And in your silence, my mind blows up and I collapse yet again. An endless death. 


The flame sits on my tongue. My words stinging and my breath sharp. 

The flame sits in my chest. My pride swells and my heart quickens.

The flame sits in my abdomen. My impulses uncontrollable and my gut is on fire. 

The flame sits in my pelvis. My desire wild and my hips loose. 

The flame sits in my thighs. My control stiffens and my quadriceps tense. 

The flame sits on my knees. My age a reminder and my joints softly creaking. 

The flame sits in my calves. My instincts serve flight and my legs tighten. 

The flame sits on my feet. My groundedness strengthens and my being settles. 

The flame rises back again into my chest. But gently, gently. 

The flame sits on my shoulders. My burdens melt and my torso relaxes. 

The flame sits in my arms. My desperation quietens and the need to reach out softens. 

The flame sits in my palm. My future calm and my fingers rest. 

Breathe. Eyes close. My mind follows the body; the flame. 

I swallow the flame, and let it ignite.