Pseudo Writer

When did you start breathing so evenly, and how do you sleep so well these days? When did your heart start feeling so light, and how did your smile become so genuine? Maybe you are through that tunnel, one that you had to travel alone. And yet you weren't alone, were you? How could you be so lucky? Those lone walks under the scorching sun, that you had convinced yourself you liked; who was waiting for you in the room hoping you would be back safely? That long night when you were ready to drown in despair as you usually did; who hugged you and reminded you that you were never alone in this? And when your world had crumbled, when you were numbingly afraid to get up; who gave you a place to get yourself together? Who saved you from yourself? All the times you thought you were alone, there was always a hand, wasn't there? You were the one scared to hold it; afraid it will suddenly pull back. And I don't blame you for the hesitation. Because after all, dear friend, in the most ...

The walk between the woods, is a lonely path, and yet, somehow, I belong. Below the canopy lives peace, which I desperately seek. Oh, how I long. A museum of all I never had, I leave my belongings, my longings I keep. Haste I close the doors, on all that gives me joy. Oh, how I weep. Longing.  And belonging. And oh, this peculiar heart. Longing. And belonging. So close, and yet so far apart. -Sushant Kumar Das 

Knowing the door will open someday, does not take away the feeling of being trapped. And that's okay I think. It's something you have to make peace with. But now that I am looking into your desperate eyes, it seems life hasn't been very kind to you. And from the dents in your wall I almost missed, I see you haven't been kind to yourself either. So I ask you this. Where did it all go wrong? Or was it ever really right? Maybe you never had a chance anyway. But before I give into your every preconception, I will ask you just one favour. Look at yourself. How long has it been? How far have you made it with no chance at all? I know things are not working out, maybe it is the worst time of all. But look at the people standing beside you, ready to pick you up when you fall. Oh. So you were expecting someone else? Well you have who you need, not who you want. And I hope you are not dumb enough to criticise what you have and yearn for what you can't. I know telling you this ...

It's 3:30 a.m. You are sitting in front of your laptop. Trying to complete some project that you cannot focus on. You are reminiscing about easier times. You realise it's getting sad, so you decide to change the vibe. You go into the kitchen, play some old party songs and start making Maggi while doing a horrible yet honest dance. You have one of the best times you have had in a while. But when the voices subside and the Maggi is over, you realise that the fan above you is way too loud. It is the only barrier between you and absolute silence.  And not for the first time do you feel that hollowness. That something is missing. That all it will take is a weak gush of wind for everything to crumble. The road outside is well lit. The streetlamps are colouring the ground yellow. Moonlight is filling up the corners that streetlamps cannot reach. This series of spotlights; so bright, yet so thirsty. Searching for someone. On an empty stage. And it seems perfect. Every bit of it. It is ...

And here I am. This blank screen with a blinking cursor. Asking myself, what will you write now? And I don't know. I can write for everything and everyone, and I can shout at anyone who thinks I can't. But here I am, playing a game of stare with the flickering cursor and losing. So how do I shout at myself? I had heard what grief gives you. It was supposed to give you more, wasn't it? More to miss someone?  More to love someone? More to think about?  More to write about? If grief was nothing but love persevering, then where is it? And where am I? If it is all I can think about, then why can't I pen it down? Why is it easier  to channel someone else's grief? Why is it that all of me is not in me, and parts of others are most of me?

When I say the words 'Haunted House', what comes to your mind? An iron gate, too easy to go past, and an old man asking you not to. Bats flying at the slightest whispers, and crickets chirping like they always do. The sunlight never reaching its rooms, still shadows seemingly ruling these places. An interconnected net of spider webs, existing but in the tiniest of spaces. Maybe the ghost lives in the attic, waiting to pounce on the wannabe explorers. Or maybe it's a safe-house for Deatheaters, who are trying to escape the powerful Aurors. And that makes complete sense, but hear me out once. There is this house across my street, which looks perfectly normal at first glance. But the family lost the father last year, and this fact seems to live in its nuance. I had known these people for over 18 years, and something, I feel, is just not right. The people I knew have dissolved in shadows, and the house is filled with a lot of quiet. The sons talk a lot less to each other, and t...