Beauty is not in meeting standards of society. Beauty is being urself. This is what the sky teaches us. It stays the way it wants and we find it beautiful.
Dear Diary, Today, I tried making a recipe—just like Mum. I failed. Dear Diary, Today, I tried something new. It wasn’t perfect. But I savoured the process. And, truth be told, it wasn’t half bad. We spend our lives chasing perfection— Striving to get things “just right,” Holding our breath for the best possible outcome. But somewhere along the way, we forget: There is no such thing as the best. In theory, a cricketer in a T20 match could score 720 runs— Six runs off every ball. Perfect. At least on paper. But we don’t account for no-balls, wides, strike rotations, the chaos between deliveries. Life is just like that match. Wickets fall. People leave. Wide balls happen. And sometimes, those we thought were forever Turn out to be seasonal flus— Brief, burning, gone. Nothing is permanent. And there is no universal rulebook on how to live. No perfect method. No flawless recipe. The only way to live life right Is to live it for real. To show up, imperfectl...
On the walls of delusion in my mind, There hangs a portrait of reality. I often walk past it, Sometimes stopping to give it a long, lingering stare. But only from a distance I am intrigued by its details, Yet overwhelmed by the chaos it brings. This is the world I am meant to inhabit, Yet how can I belong to it When I am truly here, Stuck between worlds? A tap on my shoulder I turn to find a version of myself, A whisper: “You don’t belong there.” Now, I stand at the edge, Caught between fighting my reality And embracing the one I long to join. I delay, but time never waits. The moment is here, I must step into the real world now, Face its chaos head-on. So I push forward, Drawing closer to the reality I’ve feared, Leaving behind a world of...
The seasons keep changing outside, but in my room, it is always late September. A strange, stretch of time: neither summer nor yet winter. Just a long inhale that never gets to be exhaled. There’s only one portal to the outside world: a tiny window. It lets in slivers of light, moments of wind, just enough to remind me that the world is still alive. Just enough to keep me informed that it moves on with or without me. What about the door, you might ask? The door is not for me to use. It’s too much of an opening. Too much air, too many possibilities. Too much exposure. If I opened it, the fragile insect that’s been growing inside me for some time, that secret, that feeble trembling being, might not survive. This insect is strange. It keeps me sane and drives me mad at the same time. I don’t know if it’s my conscience, or my soul. But I do know this, it throws a new tantrum every day. And oddly, each tantrum gives me a reason to live just one more day. It thrives in the dampness of autu...