nessnote

and it comes over me again, that stupid fluttering, the mind running ahead of itself, tripping on its own feet, thinking of him without wanting to think, no, not wanting at all, it just happens, unasked, as if the thought of him has a life of its own crawling under my skin, and i don’t know why, god, i don’t know why because nothing has happened, nothing ever has, nothing ever will perhaps, and yet the memory (if you can call it memory) of that eye contact, that tiny flicker, no more than light glancing off glass, keeps returning, circling, an orbit i didn’t choose, spinning me, spinning me, and i’m so tired of being spun. and then i hear myself, my voice, or what tries to be my voice when he’s around, that stuttering, collapsing thing that isn’t mine, never mine, and i hate it, i hate how the words fall out of me like broken steps, scrambling over each other, nonsense spilling everywhere, a whole stream of rubbish i don’t even mean, like my tongue and brain have stopped speaking to each other, and i know i must sound ridiculous, i know he must have heard something, must have thought something, what? i don’t know, i don’t want to know. and why him, why him of all people, why this sudden ache in the ribs, the little shameful thrill in the chest, the sinking feeling too, heavy as wet wool, because i want him, yes, i admit it to myself like an idiot, i want him, and wanting feels like walking into the sea without knowing how to swim, each step a bit heavier, each thought dragging behind me, a long tired tail of oh god oh god don’t look at me but also why won’t he look at me. and this is the part that stings, the stupid bit of truth lodged in the throat, i am me. hopelessly, embarrassingly, unmistakably me. the girl who thinks too much and speaks too little or too much at the wrong time, the girl whose hands shake and whose sentences break halfway, the girl who cannot for the life of her believe that someone like him who is calm, self-contained, perfect, would turn to look, at someone like me, always tangled in my own head, a messy drawer of thoughts i keep failing to close. and i don’t know if he notices me, i don’t know if i’m just another passing face in the corridor, one more shadow brushing past his shoulder, and the thought should free me but instead it tightens, because how pathetic is it, this whole silent storm over someone who has never heard my voice properly, never seen my real expression, not the clumsy one i wear when my nerves eat me alive. but still it goes on inside me, this confusion that spreads like ink in water, staining everything it touches, and i keep asking myself why why why, but the question folds into itself like all the others do, collapsing before i can answer, and i am left holding nothing except the breath he never asked from me and the wanting i can’t seem to stop.

meri aukat ke andar vali ड्रिंक्स

ameero vali ड्रिंक्स

chud gya

i ache with longing to befriend a crow.

DEADASS

anyways, KAL EXAM H

jisko dukh batao vo competition karne lag jata h bhai. you are attempting to share something about yourself and watch the conversation immediately get redirected into their thing. first of all, i’m not someone who talks about myself often. i’ve always been the listener friend and i don’t mind it (in fact, most of the time, i prefer it.) but on the occasions when i do choose to speak, it’s so fucking disheartening to have the moment taken over so quickly. what i dislike is not that they are sharing something. but it's the inability to listen before doing so. “this happened to you? let me tell you something even bigger.”

finally. (dost ne dilaya)

chutiya toh hu mai

goodnight.

i keep thinking there’s no symmetry between us. if i am the worn-out wick of a candle that still smokes after dying, he’s the star that refuses to burn out even after centuries. i am the chipped rim of a clay cup, always trembling on the edge of someone’s table; he is the goblet carved from a single flawless crystal, catching every stray light and turning it divine. i am the echo in a narrow alley, fading before it even learns its own shape; he is the cathedral bell that shakes entire towns into listening. i am the footnote no one reads, curled at the bottom of the page; he is the thesis argument scholars defend to their last breath. i am the compass that quivers, unsure of north; he is the pole star that does not move, that others arrange their lives around. i am the draft of a poem smudged by rain; he is the manuscript guarded by centuries of hands. i am the fleeting shadow on a sundial at dusk; he is the orbit of planets that mathematicians trust. i am the fallen feather from a bird no one names; he is the whole migration, written across the sky in a geometry only gods understand. i am the lukewarm tea forgotten at the bedside, gathering dust; he is the first monsoon rain that makes entire cities lean out of their windows. i am the faint radio static at 3 a.m.; he is the symphony premiering in a hall of chandeliers. i am the wilted marigold garland after the festival; he is the sunlit field where the flowers are still learning to bloom. i am the equation that never balances; he is the proof that closes the book. i am the dull pebble children kick on their way to school; he is the stone that anchors an entire temple. i am the unconvincing prayer whispered out of habit; he is the miracle that makes believers out of cynics. i am the sigh trapped in a lover’s unfinished sentence; he is the proclamation carved into marble and guarded by sphinxes. and yet, in the embarrassing geography of my chest, i move toward him as if gravity itself prefers him and i am only following its pull. everytime i look at him, a part of me kneels.

i keep thinking there’s no symmetry between us. if i am the worn-out wick of a candle that still smokes after dying, he’s the star that refuses to burn out even after centuries. i am the chipped rim of a clay cup, always trembling on the edge of someone’s table; he is the goblet carved from a single flawless crystal, catching every stray light and turning it divine. i am the echo in a narrow alley, fading before it even learns its own shape; he is the cathedral bell that shakes entire towns into listening. i am the footnote no one reads, curled at the bottom of the page; he is the thesis argument scholars defend to their last breath. i am the compass that quivers, unsure of north; he is the pole star that does not move, that others arrange their lives around. i am the draft of a poem smudged by rain; he is the manuscript guarded by centuries of hands. i am the fleeting shadow on a sundial at dusk; he is the orbit of planets that mathematicians trust. i am the fallen feather from a bird no one names; he is the whole migration, written across the sky in a geometry only gods understand. i am the lukewarm tea forgotten at the bedside, gathering dust; he is the first monsoon rain that makes entire cities lean out of their windows. i am the faint radio static at 3 a.m.; he is the symphony premiering in a hall of chandeliers. i am the wilted marigold garland after the festival; he is the sunlit field where the flowers are still learning to bloom. i am the equation that never balances; he is the proof that closes the book. i am the dull pebble children kick on their way to school; he is the stone that anchors an entire temple. i am the unconvincing prayer whispered out of habit; he is the miracle that makes believers out of cynics. i am the sigh trapped in a lover’s unfinished sentence; he is the proclamation carved into marble and guarded by sphinxes. and yet, in the embarrassing geography of my chest, i move toward him as if gravity itself prefers him and i am only following its pull. everytime i look at him, a part of me kneels.