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Thinking about that one quote that said, "There have been one too many funerals held by now for an eden you've never seen, whose fruit you never tasted." How much more blood sacrificed in the name of a god whose face you've never seen, in the name of a book whose rules were written by men centuries ago, men whose circumstances were so different from yours. What kind of religion hands a knife to a little child and tells him to butcher his own friends? What kind of religion finds it absolutely okay for a little girl to be married so young,to carry a child whose burden she cannot take? What kind of religion tells you to kill and decimate those, whose smiles you've loved, whom you've called dear just because they don't follow that religion too? What kind of religion resricts you to love someone from a specific caste or a certain gender. Religion isn't meant to bound you. It is meant to set you free from yourself. Religion is meant to protect you, to nurture your soul-not to corrupt whatever little is left of it. Is it still religion, if the only faith you have is in whatever is left of humanity, and that it is strong enough to make you dream of a better world where religion does not end with blood.

How lovely would it be to watch the waves crash, without ever thinking of drowning in them. To watch as the nights turn into day, without ever fearing the end. To see the fire burn, it's warmth glinting in your eyes without feeling the harm it might cost you. How simple would it be to feel, to feel only, without ever thinking about how it would feel.

I'll never get to be the teenage dirtbag. Never know the thrill of smoking with your friends in a dark alley or sneaking out to go to a party at midnight. I'll never know what it is to be young and free, what it's like to be reckless and crazy. I'll never know what it's like to get my heart broken or feel the world on the tip of my fingers. I will never know what it's like to be me if I'm given the opportunity to be everything I can be.

I think about how nice it would to lie on the grass next to the flowing river, feeling the dying rays of sun seep into my skin, into my soul. I imagine lying there forever and decaying into the soil.

Nobody talks about how hard it is to lose a friend. How hard it is when I still remember what makes you cry and your favourite songs but I see you on instgram and youre smiling and I want to say I'm glad you look happy but I don't know how to say it anymore. How hard it is on me, to remember your biggest fears, to remember the sound of your laughter yet I can't see you laughing beside me anymore. How hard it is knowing that the version of me only you could've brought up is forever buried and dead.

If only I knew we would run out of time I would've made one last paper plane with you. If only I knew we running out of time, I would spend whatever was left of it watching the dying sun with you. If only I knew our time would end, I would've forced you to stay for another game, I would've made one last painting with you. If only I had time I would've made you stay, would've told you there is no reason for our friendship to break.

I inherited my father's rage and my mother's patience and no matter how far I try to run away, there is no escaping from my ownself. This feeling sits and rots inside of me till it's consumed me whole. I rage and I rage and I wait for the day this feeling will take over me.

On most days I am just a paradox. An observer to my own existence. A third person. Someone not quite there but someone's who's absence haunts my existence although that someone wasn't really present in the first place. A concept, a fleeting thought, a barely suppressed emotion. Why is it that my soul is carved hollow from a mere illusion?

I'll forever be the child on the swing set, thinking about how the dying sun swallows the sky. I'll always be the one with my heart in my throat.

I think I'd never be able to explain the meaning of certain things. Not because I don't have the words to, but because their meanings will hold no essence then. They can only be seen in the lone tear that escapes my eyes on a sleepless night, or the way I'm driven mad till my hands are shaking. They can be seen in the way I look up at the sky dazed, and a little lost or in the way I'd sit and stare into void with a silent smile, almost as if longing ,nostalgic and aware.

I'm walking through the streets, and it's summer again. I'm no more than a shell of who I once used to be. That feels like a lifetime ago. I look up and the sunlight filters through the branches just like it did four summers ago. I'm no longer me. The shell crumbles and just for a moment-once again, I'm looking at the world like I do not know, did not endure all that agony. In that one second I experience eternity.

You ever pass by a place you’ve never been, but something in you remembers it? It feels like every memory in you comes rushing back and for a second you're in a long lost dream. With the longing inside you screaming like a caged bird, you wake up- but you'll never be able to set your dreams free. And all you can do is look at the place, and think-"oh,look, I am finally here but you were never real."

Is it still goodness, if it costs you your sanity? Everyday, I try to become what the society has defined as virtuous, to do what is moral. But what if it is never enough? What if I'm never enough. A deed done is only good as long as so it is done in the favour of those who define 'good'. I ask you what is goodness reduced to when it is not in favour of you. You might be the kindest of all to exist, but are you kind enough, if you can't offer yourself the same humanity you go about preaching.

I'd like to get away from my life just to know what it'd be like to breath again.

Sometimes, I wander through the streets for as long as I can-just to feel the bliss of being unknown. All these faces blurring past do not know who I am, and for once I don't feel hideous. I feel a part of something that is greater than the feeling the eats away at my soul. I feel a part of these streets, of the wind, of life itself even if it always slips away from my grasp.

What is home if not the first place you kill yourself with your own two hands?