Sometimes, distance is what keeps the love alive.

On a cold winter morning, she lay in her bed not wanting to get up.

She could hear parents talking in their room. The fact that the noise was reaching her ears meant they were not really talking but fighting.

To merely avoid the attention of her angry father, she chose to pretend to be asleep.

Her father was a loving man. Down to earth and a very modest person. She knew her father loved her. He was the one who taught her how to ride a bike, get back up whenever she fell, cleaned her wounds and nurtured her courage. He was the one who had given her some of the best advises about friends, boys and life in general. He loved her with all his heart and she knew it.

                                                 

But there was something about his anger that scared her to death. She feared for herself and her mother. More than that, she feared for her father's health. But a human cannot think about anyone else but him when he's in trouble. In rage, he would sometimes hit her. It was acceptable when she was young. 

Only now, she wasn't a young girl anymore. She was a grown up and with every hit she took, she felt her dignity being hurt.

Laying in the bed, she closed her eyes and found herself sitting on the beach. There was serene silence and the only noise was of waves crashing against the rocks. In the background, birds chirped their lovely song. This was her (imaginary) mountain top.

She did this often, imagining herself far away from house where she couldn't hear her father shout or fear his beating. She dreamed of finishing her education and running off to someplace else. She had vowed to not take up a job in the same city for it would mean she'd still be living at her parent's house.

Don't get her wrong. She loved her parents and the idea of leaving them hurt her inside. Her life with them was smooth, where she was pampered and they had their good moments where everyone sat together and laughed. They joked about random things and made fun of television characters. She was happy. But then there were moments that, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get them out of her head. 

Those occasional happy moments, no matter how much she wished, were not good enough for her to bear the pain.

She loved her father, more than anyone in this world. And only to keep that love alive, she had convinced herself that she will get out of there the first chance she got.

After all, sometimes you'd rather maintain your distance than lose the love.

Confessions

There was a time when the "Confession Pages" went viral. Millions of people confessed, about their love, revenge, guilt, loneliness, and every other emotion or situation possible. Some made stories up to get reactions, some just poured their heart out. 
Wikipedia defines, "A confession is a statement made by a person or a group of people acknowledging some personal fact that the person (or the group) would prefer to keep hidden."
Over the time, I have read 100s of confessions. But it never made sense to me, the whole concept of confessing. 
How will confessing to unknown people help you to save yourself from bullying? Or not being able to propose? Or make people acknowledge you?
Sure, it'll give your mind some peace knowing you're not alone. But do people seriously need an anonymous confession to know that? How do you differentiate between a complaint and a confession?
Every time I read a confession, I wonder how much writing that stuff down would have helped that confessor.



Nevertheless, there are some confessions that I really liked. Here they are: 

- I think everybody hates me and excludes me from everything. I think that they don’t put the effort in, truth is, I don’t put the effort into my friendships. It took losing everyone to finally realize this.

- I lack the social understanding and emotion required to function properly in this world. I cannot form relationships, I cannot feel people's pain, and I cannot feel happy. Every day I go about pretending I’m okay, but the truth is I feel nothing but hurt and regret. I’m a waste time and space because I lack the motivation required to achieve things. I simply can’t see the point anymore. Out of the millions of sperm that could have made it, all those people with the potential to be something great, I was born. And I hate myself for it. Therefore surely I deserve the quiet and comfort of death, if not because of what I've been through then surely because I've done nothing to deserve this so called “gift.” Nothing to contribute to the world I live in.

- He broke your heart, you haven't stopped crying.
You've been texting me the entire time.
I feel so bad that you're hurting like this, and I am sorry,
because I've been sleeping with him.

- I have met a few wonderful ladies in college that are now my best friends. We get along so well and now that I have these ladies in my life, I feel completed. As I have grown to know these ladies, they have let me see behind their smiles and pain. I feel so guilty because there are no secrets for them to see behind mine. I am truly a happy person. I am a child of divorce and it has been a blessing in disguise. I have four wonderful parents who would do absolutely anything for me. I feel so guilty that my life has been so easy. I am a happy person. I hate that  my dad thinks there is something under my smile like every other girl I know. There isn't. My smile is genuine, and I feel so bad because mine is the only one around.

- I haven’t had a birthday party in 18 years because i’m afraid no one will show up.

- I loved you for many years. You loved me too. I know that our break is tearing you up. But, I feel great.
I don’t have to make time for you anymore. I don’t have to constantly build you up, only to see you fold to your insecurities. I don’t have to “check in.” I am free to do what I want, when I want without you crying about it.
I don’t have to wait around for you to get your shit together.

Good riddance.

- I have different a different persona for nearly every situation. I adjust myself to however most fits the specifics of the moods of people, the environment we’re in, who is there, etc. It is never quite the same as another time, so I’m always a tad bit different. I act however best helps me, whether it be to gain favor with someone, or advance in some way, without arousing suspicion in my companions.

Different groups of friends, different characters. Hyper, chill, deep, ditzy, laid-back, angry, combinations upon combinations- all mask I wear. But they are not so completely fake as a mask. Yes, they are an act. But they are also part of my personality, in some way.

These are visibly confessions, and not ranting.

Reading between the lines

Often we befriend a person, a person who changes our life for forever. In a bad or good way, that's upto you how you read between the lines.

The ones we remember are usually the ones who change it in a bad way.

It's strange that we often spend more time thinking about those who hurt us than those who heal.

Nevertheless, we think about them. About ourselves. About them and ourselves. Sometimes, it's a relief what happened, more often it's not.

"I never thought that you would ever do that
Everything we had is gone
You said you love me, said you'll never leave
Maybe I just heard you wrong" - Shayne Ward - Damaged

 

Cliche story most of the times. It starts off as friendship, over the time it becomes strong. And just when you start feeling safe around that person, life happens. One betrays the other. Not in a typical-bollywood-betrayal-way. But in a typical-this-is-life-way.

And the betrayal leaves us wounded for longer than its supposed to be okay. 

That is when you start to wonder what went wrong. Was it you? Or the other person?

Was it evident from the beginning what was gonna happen but you were too busy reading between the lines that you missed what was right in front of you. Hope, can either do good or can make you look like a complete jerk. 

And then, after wondering for a looonnngggg time you give up. The only question remains, 'Why? Why would you do this to me?' Every other question from the past renders useless. 'Why?' is the only question you want an answer to. For the time being. 

It's a long trail of questions to which you might never find an answer to, questions that haunt us and will keep doing so.

In return, it's either their silence or their wrath. How you interpret both, is on how you read between the lines.

Our whole life is about reading between the lines. All the answers are between the lines.

Deceptions.

In that great, gabled country home with its Flemish brick façade and trimmed privet, Kiara lay on a giant, soft bed beside Jose, agitated and sleepless. Her fingertips explored the distinguished line of his neck; his eyes; his cheekbones. She kissed his hair, remembering a word Jose had mentioned earlier: closure. She gathered it meant peaceful resolution of the past. The infinite possibilities of the word enthralled her, but its reality, difficult and gangly, left her disappointed. She had abandoned Dehradun and come to Delhi to be rid of her past. In that big city, she had fallen in love, and in friendship. She was in love with Sam, a man of regal stature and her boss. A perfect bachelor, he had swept Kiara off her feet. She had been head over heels for him only to realize later how he had been using her, all the while, for pleasure while his family planned a big, fat wedding with a rich tycoon’s daughter. When the world had exploded in her face, she had fled to Spain, to grow anew a skin that had been peeled by what she had secretly come to think of as ‘strange events of Delhi’.

Now she lay listening to the glacial wind hammer the leafless firework of ivy against the window and the Labradors snore outside the bedroom door. This life was entirely unlike that which she had known, but its unfamiliarity did not divest her of the affinity she continued to feel for Delhi; in fact, if anything, it seemed to solidify her resolve to return.

She tilted herself on her side, closer towards Jose, and put her head on his chest. She had started to love him and knowing this broke her heart. Shutting her eyes, she could see the buildings, and vehicles racing, she could see the deer park’s lake, the leafless trees and marigolds floating upon its dirty, chartreuse waters; she could hear the aluminium canisters rattle on Atlas cycles manned by absurdly athletic milkmen. She believed she could now go back to Delhi although it was nothing more than a catalog of her failures. Because some people were meant to shepherd you to different shores, and some people brought you back to familiar ones.

She kissed Jose, feeling grateful. He had been her shelter in the cold country. Jose woke up and kissed her. She responded quickly. His tongue moved from her mouth to her neck, travelling down her chest, her navel, hipbone, seeking scholarship of her body. But if he knew she was thinking of leaving him, of returning to India, to Delhi, what would he say? Would he hit her? Would he turn away, dress up and walk out? Or would he laugh and go back to sleep?

Perhaps Sam had been the same way, committing treacheries within kisses, and so now she passed on the deceptions she had received.

Sympathy or plastic smile?

What is it about people who can never get themselves to share the intimate things in their lives?

Have you ever wondered that there's more to a person that meets the eye? That her/his life, which seems blessed and good, is actually not that good. That the fact that no matter how much better off they are, they are still messed up in their heads.

There are 2 kinds of people.
People who choose to share their misery, confide in people and let others know that they are vulnerable and hurt.
And then there are those who can never get themselves to share anything that makes them seem weak.

Maybe it's not about what kind of a person they are. Maybe it's more about who they choose to confide in.

But how do you know in whom and when to confide? And what about the things that you are too ashamed to share? The things that give a wrong impression of things close to you, things that define you - like your friends or family or your own self.

What about things like being exploited by a loved one, sexual or mental harassment or both, domestic violence, drinking problems, parental problems, spouse issues?

What if the person sitting next to you, who's smiling away and making jokes is going through any of that but he is too ashamed to share? Or maybe who simply don't want you to see the bad in their loved ones.

So you see the pain of people only when they tell you. What about the ones who are not like them? The ones who don't go around telling others that they have certain issues because neither they want sympathy nor they want pity.

It's obviously true that there will be someone you will confide in. Someday. But till that someday, what if people you want to understand you, leave you for someone who chose to make themselves look weak?

I don't know which one of those two is in better place, which one is happy in the end. Sharing the things and gaining sympathy or having a smile plastered on your face? 

But that is a question I ask myself everyday.

the Devil in me

Every coin has two sides. And this is the devil side of me.
A side that every one has but no one has the guts to accept. A sin, no one wants to take responsibility for.

If I ever write my own story, it'll start like this -
"Once upon a time, a girl found out that she turned out to be a wrong person"

There possibly might not be anything that's good about me. I'm selfish, and yes I never deny that fact.
I'm arrogant. You can't just piss me off and expect me to treat you like honeycomb.
My modesty is overshadowed by my facial expressions that usually suggest that I'm showing attitude towards you.
Well honestly, your face isn't exactly what I wish to see for long. So don't be surprised if I choose to look at the ground or anywhere else in the air while talking to you.
I'm not here to please you, so don't even get the vague idea that I'm trying to impress you by bragging or lying about anything.
I'm an adult lady. Yes I get horny. And I don't make efforts to hide it or cover it. No one is a kid here and hypocrisy is not my thing.
I care about anyone and everyone, only because of the values instilled in me by my parents, not because you are very dear to me.
I am a woman of words. Unless I say anything out loud, I don't mean it. So don't even dare to think I love you if I have never said it. Chances are, I'll never say it too.
I might talk to you day and night, but no, I won't end up feeling for you. If I can not feel for you after talking so much, then you can also do the same.
Yes, a lot of guys have asked me out. They might want me for all the good or the bad reasons. But hey, there are no bad reasons. So they want me for my body. That's something to be proud of, not ashamed of. Just because they want it, doesn't mean they get it.
After all, talking to every other guy or lusting over them doesn't make a girl a whore, sleeping with everyone does.
For those who love me for my mind, very frankly, I don't get it. You people don't know me. You cannot know a person in a few months. You cannot take the worst of me. What makes you think that you love me for my mind?
Nevertheless, I still respect your feelings. It's not easy to feel for someone and to reason with it, so I won't ask for reasons. So thank you for giving a piece your heart and mind to me.
But don't get so worked up that I've had a lot of guys to ask me out and never say yes. I don't say a yes not because I'm very proud or anything, I don't say a yes because I don't feel for you, simple as that. And it won't be fair on my part if I know that you feel for me but I don't and still decide to go out with you.
I do fantasize. I do wanna smash a girl's head only because she irritates me with her high pitched voice. I do wanna spill food on a better dressed girl because she gets to look hotter than I do. I am jealous of pretty girls. Or girls without acne, with perfect hair.
I am egoistic. Very. You cannot target my self respect and expect me to not react.
My self respect is above any of you.

I might be the most arrogant bitch in the whole world, but I'm not a liar. Whatever I am, I accept.
Honesty goes a long way with me. Be a liar, be arrogant, be a pervert. But if you're honest, you are still tolerable.

Hate me all you want. And fathom the immensity of fuck I do not give.

- Girl you 'should' be afraid your parents will meet.

Alterations

The thing with happiness is, too much of that, and you get bored of it.

The thing with sadness is, too much of that, and you get used to it.

There comes a time when you know you’ve tried everything- keeping yourself busy, distracted by talking to a lot of people, flirting, socializing- but nothing seems to work. Even if it does, the extent is very little. No matter what or who, nothing except time can help you move on.

No matter how hard you try to forget certain people in your life, small things they did, typical words or places full of memories of them, life has a funny way of reminding it to you in some manner.

One small move or gesture sends you on a roller coaster ride to your past. Long walks on beach, sitting in the balcony for hours, listening to music, playing guitar, nothing helps. Their thought stays stuck in your head.

Thought of you being together.

Thought of you never thinking of growing apart.

Thought of spending a considerable amount of time with them for you to cherish for the rest of your life.

Thought that never occurred that one day everything will get fucked up.

When everything seems to be going according to plan, when things feel too good to be true, you’ve definitely missed out on something. A screw up is bound to happen.

Helplessness is all you have left.

That. Is. Life.

You wait. And wait.

You wait for a change of course in your life’s events, people or surroundings. Desperate need of vacations persist. You hate change throughout your life but this is the time when every part in your body longs for a change. A change so drastic that it will tear away the old memories and help the new ones to bloom.

And you live in a hope that the change will happen.