Inside Out: Myself

someone i thrive & yearn to be? someone i'm secretly jealous of? someone i wish i was, any day? it’s me. tomorrow’s me. the one who knows where i’ve been, but doesn't wanna stay there. the one who still stumbles today, but laughs it away, dusts it off and fixes their playlist. the one who's always rewriting his own blueprint, while the world keeps assuming it knows his plan. i don't wanna be anyone else. just me. with more healing, less fear. more softness, less shame. more ‘i got this’, less ‘what if’. i’ll meet him soon. and when i do, i hope he smiles and says: “told you we’d make it.”

"ஒரு நொடி எங்கு போகிறாய் என மறந்தால், மருநொடி எங்கே வேணாலும் போகலாம்." oblivion. something a mere mortal mistakes for enlightenment. not just being carefree. not just going crazy. it’s softer than that. weirder than that. the ways to reach it? uncharted. you don’t need a mountain. or a meltdown. humans keep chasing landscapes, but the shift was always insideous. like the third bite of a crispy grilled cheese—when it finally hits right. like that one frozen watermelon chunk that makes your teeth lose all faith in warmth. like a baby biting a lemon, frozen in perplex while someone’s camera captures “first contact.” it’s not that you belong here. but you definitely wouldn’t go back there. it’s not heaven. it’s not hell. it’s… a Saturday evening. no Friday fatigue. no Sunday dread. just now. bare and ridiculous and weirdly enough.

imagine this. a two-storey compact bungalow. 3BHK on each floor. one’s hers. one’s mine. we never really settled who moves in first—so we just keep switching stories for the sake of drama. the terrace? corners lit only. asbestos roof overhead like it’s 2016 forever. grapevines over our heads. suspended swing chairs. bean bags dumped in the middle. our kids and spouses sipping on evening beverages like it’s a Netflix original. board games & crosswords turning into full-blown wars. every. single. evening. and the kitchen politics? immaculate. she cooks? I eat. I cook? she eats. no plates washed. no questions asked. we fight every morning for who gets the newspaper first— but God forbid it’s the Sunday Express. no one wants that. and music? one floor’s on 2010 Arijit Singh & Taylor Swift. another floor’s on Metro Boomin & AR Rahman. but once Santhosh Narayan comes on? peace treaty. truce signed. vibe matched. we hate the same neighbours. we gossip about soap operas like they o...

she’s not just a girl. she’s someone I’d choose, when I’m way too tired to even choose myself. she’s my weighted pink blanket. warmth with gravity - comfort that doesn’t ask for permission. she’s my black & yellow G-Shock. stubborn, loud, and ticking beside me even when time feels off. she’s my sugarless espresso. bitter, brave, never trying to impress - but still exactly what I need to stay awake. she’s my flat coke. indifferent, quiet, not perfect - but still the first thing I reach for. she’s the typo I refuse to fix. the sentence I keep because it sounds better the way it is. she’s the playlist I never put on shuffle. I already know what I want to hear, and it’s always her voice. she’s the fight I pick just to hear her argue back. because even her anger sounds like home. she’s the reason I check my phone in silence. and smirk like an idiot with no audience. she makes reality feel better than fables. like magic that actually pays rent. she’s not just a girl. she’s the error I wo...

killing yourself alone isn’t suicide. sometimes it’s just not taking your ibuprofen when your head’s ringing like a broken temple bell. sometimes it's not checking the weather because the rain doesn’t matter to you and neither do yourself. it’s replying “lmaooo I'm dead” and then staring at the wall for 3 hours straight, having quite a wish you were. it’s being so tired you forget your body needs you. being so numb that pain feels like a break from the silence. people think it’s overdramatic. they think you need to be saved. to be replenished. to "appear alive". but honestly? you’re not even asking for that. you just want the day to end without having to explain why it felt like drowning in a sea of plain sight. this isn’t a breakdown. this is maintenance. this is functioning. this is survival dressed up as laziness. this is fucking tuesday, mate.

what if heaven and hell are just consequential states of mind you attain for your actions at the moment, and not some mythological terrain for deceased souls to loiter about? let me get you through this: you steal peace from someone who trusted you? hell. you stood by someone when they didn’t even ask? heaven . nobody’s dying to find out anymore. you already know. your mind knows when it’s burning and when it’s weightless. and that’s that. no horns. no harps. just you, replaying your own decisions at 3:00AM like it’s your favourite artist's new album release. 🍃