Inside Out: Myself

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. 🍃

it’s only up to a point that you are raised. what happens after that? you grow up. and no one really tells you when that happens. maybe it's the night you realize no one's gonna check on you if whether you got home safe. maybe it's the morning your coffee tastes more like survival than comfort. but it happens. suddenly, you’re not being told what to do. you’re just expected to know. how to feel. how to stay calm. how to move on. how to 'be okay'. and you start seeing people for what and who they are. not heroes. not villains. just people. flawed. tired. trying. your parents become stories you understand backwards. your friends become mirrors, and some of them crack. and you? you become quieter.  not because you’ve got nothing to say, but because you’ve figured out and learned what’s worth saying. growing up isn’t some grand revelation. it’s subtle. might even be boring. it’s bills. it’s boundaries. it’s choosing peace over proving a point. it’s crying without needin...

you’re my favourite outfit, i’d wear you on me all day. you’re my favourite book, i’ll never be tired to read you all night. you’re my favourite song, i’d play you on loop until the world gets sick of us. you’re my favourite place, i’d keep coming back to you even when i’m lost in myself. you’re my favourite poem, not the rhyming kind—just the kind that feels like something. you’re my favourite meal, and i ain’t worried about calories when it’s you. you’re my favourite silence, the one that doesn't need filling. you’re my favourite chaos, the kind i’d choose even on my sanest days. you’re my favourite mistake, and i’d still make you again—eyes open, heart first. and maybe i’m too much sometimes, but you? you’re just enough in all the right ways. not perfect. not polished. but real. and that’s all i’ve ever wanted— not a fantasy. not a forever. just someone i’d pick again even when everything else changes. even when i’m nothing like who i used to be. i’d still pick you. i’d still we...