Pages Of My Diary

Tipu and Grandma

And this is what I’m getting in DMs… bhai, this is too much😂😂

I have a headache and all I want right now is someone to tell me a little story in that soft, sleepy voice. But apparently, everyone decided that this exact moment was the perfect time to become busy. Fine, I’ll just lie here with my headache and wait for my soft voice storyteller to finish being unnecessarily important. Clearly, my suffering was scheduled at the worst possible time...

Second Sight A quiet curse, this second sight to watch the paint peel from the brow. They drink the play, applaud the cue, while I observe the hidden wire. A rehearsed laugh. A tilted chin. The little ledger beneath the tongue. Each gentle word demands a price, some debt concealed in velvet warmth. They wear their grace like heavy wool, to pad the ribs and hide the rot. I see the grain beneath the gloss. I know the ghost before it speaks. And that is the terror not knowing too much, but knowing and saying nothing. To share a room with paper gods, to watch them pray to their own reflection, then wander home through crowded darkness, carrying the strange hunger of having seen too many faces and finding, among all of them, not one that forgot to act...

Strangers, stories, and questionable conversations AnoMessBot.t.me?start=ML5Bjis

Are you trying to fall asleep, or just waiting for your mind to finally run out of things to say?

It hits in the middle of an ordinary day, usually for no reason at all. You’re pouring a cup of tea, or you're on a call, or staring at a blank wall while the world is busy moving around you, and this sudden, suffocating realization drops into your chest: I am the one driving this life, and I keep steering it into the ditch. It’s an exhausting thought, mostly because of the quiet panic behind it. You look at where you are, and you try to trace the steps backward to figure out where the map tore. Was there a specific morning I decided to ruin things, or did I just drift here one careless choice at a time? You start calling yourself dumb because it’s the easiest label to grab. It feels like everyone else got an instruction manual for adulthood, for relationships, for timing, for career, for knowing when to stay and when to run. Meanwhile, you feel like you’re blindly throwing darts in a pitch black room, hitting all the wrong targets, and then acting surprised when things shatter. And then comes the part that scares you even more: the numbness. You watch things slip through your fingers and you just shrug. You let bad situations linger because trying to fix them feels heavier than just enduring them. You tell yourself, “I just don't care anymore.” But that’s a lie, isn’t it? If you truly didn’t care, it wouldn’t keep you frozen. If you were truly indifferent, there wouldn’t be this hollow ache in your gut every time you realize another month has slipped by without you getting it right. The truth is worse: you care so much that it has burned you out. The apathy is just a shield. It’s the voice in your head saying, If I pretend this doesn’t matter, then my failures won’t hurt as much when they inevitably arrive. The real terror isn't just that you messed up yesterday. It’s the dread of tomorrow. You look ahead and wonder: Is this all I am going to be? Just a walking graveyard of bad decisions? A collection of wrong turns, half-lived moments, and memories I wish I could scrub clean? It makes you feel like a spectator in your own skin, watching yourself make the move you know will hurt later, yet feeling powerless to stop your own hands from moving. The truth is, nobody rings a bell when you finally start getting life right. There is no sudden clarity waiting at the end of this week, or this year. You just carry the weight of every wrong turn you’ve ever made, sit with the quiet mess you’ve built, and wonder if tomorrow you’ll have the courage to choose differently or if you’ll just keep watching yourself make the same mistakes, hoping the fire feels a little cooler this time...

🖊...

I Was Waiting for One Comment So today I opened my laptop. Not normally. Obviously. I unscrewed it, removed things, exposed its entire internal life and started taking photographs like I was documenting a crime scene. Then I sent those photos to her. And waited. Not for help. Not for advice. Not even for concern. I was waiting for one comment. Just one. “Oh my baby, you are so talented.” That's all. I had just opened a laptop that probably cost more than my emotional stability. There were screws everywhere, wires everywhere, tiny mysterious components whose names I didn't know, and I was sitting there with a screwdriver looking like a surgeon who had skipped medical school. Surely she would see the photographs and think, “My God... what a man.” Nothing. Not a word. And honestly, I was disappointed. Because what is the point of having a relationship if I can't dismantle expensive electronics and receive unconditional admiration? I didn't need a technician. I needed appreciation. I wanted her to look at that motherboard and forget that it's a motherboard. I wanted her to look at those screws and see potential. I wanted her to look at me and think, “That's my baby. He has absolutely no idea what he's doing, but look at that confidence.” Instead, silence. Meanwhile, I'm sitting beside a half disassembled laptop wondering whether I'm repairing it or simply giving it a more adventurous life. At one point I had so many screws lying around that even I wasn't sure which ones belonged to the laptop anymore. But I continued. Because that's what talented people do. They make questionable decisions with confidence. And honestly, I don't think I was asking for too much. If your man opens an entire laptop, exposes its organs, takes pictures of everything and sends them to you... you don't need to understand electronics. You just need to say: “Oh my baby, you're so talented.” And apparently, even after everything we've been through my talent remained unappreciated...

By God kitta Kutta hai chatgpt😂😂😂 After following every step for the past 6 hours, and completely fucking my laptop

Where We Melt Come closer. Not closer like lovers who still remember where one body ends. Closer than that. Let your skin rest against mine until the space between us becomes an unnecessary thing something the night quietly takes away. I want to hold you like two candles placed too close to each other: one flame leaning into another, wax softening, edges disappearing until something warm runs down the same side and neither of us knows whose melting it is. Let your head find my chest. Let my hands find your waist as if they have forgotten the difference between holding and belonging. Hide your face against my neck. Leave your breath there. I want goosebumps to travel across your skin like little witnesses to everything we aren't saying. Let our legs tangle beneath the sheets until even sleep would have trouble separating us. I want your warmth to become indistinguishable from mine your breath arriving where mine just left, your heartbeat answering before mine has finished speaking. And if you kiss me, don't hurry. Let the kiss linger until it stops feeling like something we're doing and starts feeling like something happening to both of us. Tonight, I don't want your body beside mine. I want the borders between us to become so faint that when morning finally touches the room, we have to look at ourselves just to remember which one of us was supposed to be which...

The Day My Nephew Fired Me as His Fashion Consultant Sunday has its own rules in our house. And one of them, apparently, is that 4 p.m. is shower time. So, with the heavy heart of a man leaving behind his weekend laziness, I was about to take a shower when I saw Ivan and Ira playing. I walked over, looked at Ivan, and thought, Why not? Let’s make this interesting. I picked up my classic grey shirt and asked him, “Ivan, try this.” He took one step backwards. “No, Mama.” I took one step forward. “Come on, just try it.” He looked at the shirt. Then he looked at me. Then, with the confidence of a two year old fashion critic who has somehow already written for Vogue, he said “Cheeee.” Excuse me? CHEEEE? This is not a shirt. This is a classic grey shirt. A timeless piece. A garment that has survived my entire wardrobe. And a 2.9 year old just rejected it like I had brought him a potato sack. That was it. The battle had begun. I ran towards him. He ran towards Nani. “NO MAMA! NO! NO!” He grabbed Nani like she was his lawyer and I was the police. Normally, these twins share everything with me... food, toys, little pieces of whatever they are eating. They love me, and I love these two tiny criminals more than I can explain. But today? Today there were fashion boundaries. So I changed my strategy. I went into the room, picked up Ivan’s shirt and announced, “Fine. If you won’t wear mine, I’ll wear yours.” Suddenly, the boy found his courage. “Mama! No! Bhai shirt!” And yes, he calls himself Bhai... because apparently being Ira’s brother is a full time designation. So now it was Bhai versus Mama. He chased me around the room, shouting, “Bhai shirt! Give! Give!” Meanwhile, Nani was watching the entire situation unfold and finally said, “Don’t make him cry. Give him his shirt back.” So I surrendered. Not because I had lost. Because apparently Nani is the Supreme Court of this household. But I wasn't done. I went back into the room and picked up Ira’s skirt. Ira saw me. She was completely chill. No reaction. No protest. Nothing. But Ivan? The fashion police were back on duty. “Give! skirt!” I looked at him innocently. “Is this yours?” He immediately said, “No. Ira’s.” I paused. Ira’s? So let me understand this. This child shares his food with me. He shares his toys with me. He shares almost everything with me. But when it comes to clothes, suddenly he understands private property, ownership and intellectual boundaries. Apparently, the family has produced a fashion designer. My classic grey shirt got a “cheeee,” my fashion career was over, and Ivan went back to playing like he hadn’t just destroyed a man’s confidence. Apparently, I’m allowed to share his snacks and toys. But not his wardrobe. Fair enough. Even Bhai has boundaries...