Vellichor & Verse

Love is overrated, guys. Not to hate on people who've found it, But fuck that. Most of us don't find it, So why glorify it to the point we would do anything for it? Spend so much of our time and money to look perfect just so someone would look our way. Nah, fuck that. Someone I loved once told me, "People should only date if they're serious about it." "If that isn't the person you see yourself in a marriage with, don't talk to them." Man, what a self assured bitch. Answer me this, people of the world, Is it human nature to be so accurate? To know with certainty what we want, and who we want, and then find out there is no one person who is them all and break our own heart over again? Keep this clear- I am not saying to love someone who hurts you is the thing to do. I am saying, instead of pursuing a perfect love, go after experiences. I've never danced in the rain with a lover, But I've done it with my best friend. I've never gone on dates or been asked out for a dance, But I've done it with a stranger. If you wait for a perfect person to come along, settle down. It's gonna take some time, hon. Instead, go after experiences. Of a hot air balloon, a lake at sunset, a field at midnight. I have said it once and I say it again Love is for everyone. Do not confine it.

A tightly knit ball of crochet thread Is pretty much all I am right now. I'm blue, The aqua-turquoise kind And a little low quality, if I'm being honest here. Really, I should be happy. Cause of that sudden popularity of crochet right now, Me and my kind really have a real chance of being chosen. We're stocked near the middle of the shop right now, Instead of the back. Arranged by the shopkeeper In the perfect rainbow To show off our range. I, unfortunately, am not technically in the front. More of at the very back of the very middle, If you get my drift. Cause, thing is, when we were stocking, A little accident caused my seal to rupture, And there I went spinning off, The blue of my soul unfurling as I went Seeing all the world for the very first time, Watching the beautiful mid-morning rush of people around me- Until a bunch of them stepped on my thread and well. Suffice it to say I've never felt such pain before. That is when the shopkeeper noticed me, Finally When I was all dirty and ruined and unspooled. She was in a hurry, Dirty and ruined and unspooled herself, But even with her anger and irritation (and, I suspect, pay) She wound me back up, and dumped me promptly Back on the shelf. (Near the back end though, For the ones desperate enough to buy me.) I'll tell you right now- Those few seconds for which I Was unspooled was the best of my impossible little life. It was also, perhaps with design, the worst of my impossible little life. No matter how much the shopkeeper tries, And no matter how much anyone wishes so, I can never be as spooled as I was originally. I am gone, do you understand? The very thing that I am made for is what destroyed me. Simply because I did it at the wrong time. I mean, not only that, but because I Let myself be unspooled in the first place. Anyway, I'm an old yarn now. Sat on the bench so long, and watched all my peers go They became bags, and totes, and sweaters, and cardigans. And I remained a wrongly-wrapped ball of crochet thread. I tell the youngsters now, The ones who have multiple colors, Who start from purple and end in red and have pink in the middle. I tell them, from my fading blue, Of why one must never unspool. Because once you do, you can never be wrapped as tight again. (And if you do open up your heart to someone, Be sure they know how to crochet. Cause otherwise, you'd have a heart full of tangled wool, And your own sad self left to deal with it.)

I feel like we've all heard of the parallel lines-transversal lines poem by now. Of how its a tragedy 'cause parallel lines never meet; but also a tragedy for how transversal lines only meet once in their lifetime. I mean, looking down at my math work, all I'm seeing here is that we have more than two lines in our lives. I have the lines not only of people, but of abstract things, and of feelings, and of the future and past being written with every moment that passes. Its the way those interact that causes me particular pain. (But you know me, almost everything can be a tragedy with my writing.) The time I received news of winning a much sought after award was when I was with a good friend, who broke off the friendship (forever, in her words) just a few days later. And the moment I got into one the top universities in the country is also the time life decided to play a cruel twist by having bureaucracy come between my goals. You get it, don't you? I know you do. Life's a lil bitch. Not the point of this, but an important addition. The ACTUAL point, here, is that math is dumb. And that there are more lines in your life than there are stars in the sky. There's no need to be feeling anxious or sad over the loss or gain or cutting of any one of those lines, Because there's always one beyond the next page waiting to appear.

Have you ever realized that the natural state of the universe is its darkness? Is its night sky. No stars, no burning planets, no passing meteors dying in any stratospheres. Just the universe as we know it existing in perfect, precious, pitch darkness. Caves, even, the really deep underground ones with air warnings and are pitch dark. Just shows that not only the night sky, even something as deep as possible within our earth has the darkness as it's natural state. I feel everything down there is more authentic, more ancient. All the creatures of the caves never had to adapt to the light, did they? Even in my room, at night, with all the lights shut off and the curtains drawn tight is when I finally feel I can breathe. The light is too much bother for me, too bright and too real. The dark is where I find freedom to weave my stories and tales. But have you ever thought about how natural the darkness is, which reminds an atom of its very beginning? Have you ever thought about how long a cave remains black before a flame is lit? Of the time and emptiness it took for a mind to settle, for all the thoughts inside that turbulent head to calm down enough to get some sleep inside that room of mine? To make it even clearer- I say that the darkness is a natural state of the universe. The light is what starts all the problems. The light is what comes and goes, is born and dies, is there then not. It just takes one moment, one spark, one switch- before all that is gone. The sky, the cave, the room- all flooded with light. Unnatural, bright, hurting light. It takes but a moment. The place where we cannot tell the passing of time, the location of a place, or the emotions on a face. Where the world seems to stop; All gone. But all hope isn't lost, you know. Light is momentary. It will eventually end. The darkness cannot.

I sit on my bed. 3 am, it too late to be night and too early to be morning, and I look out my window. (bone tired, eyes brimming with sleep, reflecting the city lights.) It's light out. not by the moon, not by a sunrise or streetlamps, but by the shine of the city lights glowing from outside. (just like fireflies, blinking but never going out, feeling sometimes just alive.) My groggy brain processes a thought. of 'why the hell are people also up at this time' of 'man, is everyone also this busy?' and especially of 'it's crazy that all that light is from singular, awake, alive, humans'. (the ones who are still working, partying with friends and family, people with whole lives.) I feel happy. that I'm not alone, that the moon isn't the only one shining so bright for me, and that I'm not the only one living a whole ass life. (not the only one living. not the only one surviving. not the only one crying. not the only one screaming. not the only one smiling.)

I'm so tired. Tired of the same old way life seems to go on. The way we keep marching, and summer turns to winter, and winter turns to summer, and back again without a break. C'mon man, there's been too many life shaking things recently and its somehow unbearable the way the earth doesn't stop. The way it keeps moving, no matter what. Not only the earth, though, I'll admit. Its unbearable the way I don't stop. The way I keep moving, no matter what. There's always something, a flower on a lone branch, a good mark, a dropped 10 rupee coin I picked up, or a smile from a stranger I don't know. Its sickening, honestly. The way I'm so eager to go on, so eager to push forward after the tiniest of scraps of a happy world are thrown towards me. Do I not have any self respect? I know, it'll be just enough to save me. Just enough that I don't give up and don't jump off that stupid 20-storey building But never enough for fulfillment. I can do it, I know. But really, must I? Really, is there all there is? A flower, but not to pluck. A good mark, but not a grade. A chai, but not enough sugar. A dance, but not a date. A look, but not a chat. A sky, but no stars. Close my eyes, But it says a lot due to the fact I keep walking. Can't I ever rest and bring the world to a stop around me? Don't you think everyone needs a break? A pause from life, with time itself stopping for you? But it seems I am nothing more than a soldier. Not even the sole one, just another of the masses, marching on in endless agony towards the end. So many fields of endless daisies around this army. Fields of poppies and jasmines and forget-me-nots. But we don't have time to see them do we? No, we never seem to.

Sitting in a room hearing snatches of conversations from other people's lives. It's happy hearing this, to see everyone's living something nice This comforts me, I think, to see everyone has a safety net to fall back on, some friends who'll make sure to soften your fall And there I think, should my life also be lived this way? I've always feeled too much, always took things to heart. Its a quality of mine, one i unfortunately can't turn in I'm learning though, that I can promise you Because it's better to not live it than to be falling down through. Should life be lived like this? Hearing shouts of laughter from outside. Should you listen to your friends laugh, instead of laughing with them? Should you bake a cake, but not enjoy it, Or host a party, but not engage with it? Should you put up a barrier between them to make sure you aren't hurt? Or should you go rough and have a tumble? (God, that fucking hurt) I'm not sure what to do, or even if I could do it. Unsure as always, what else is there to it?

When you tell someone your feelings, They're supposed to say its not okay. Or they're supposed to say you'll be fine, Or even that I'm really insane. When you tell someone your feelings, You expect a response. (But expectations are what made everything wrong In the first place.) When you tell someone your feelings, You hope they understand. You hope they carried a little cup, To hold some of that sand But when the one you trust the most Just watches it all flow, And sees it slip into the cracks Of your very being (Then why do you not say anything?) When the one you trust the most Doesn't come to hold you, (Why do I feel Like this will happen Infinite times more?) People just seem inherently dissapointing these days, But I never thought you would be one to do the same. Again, my fault, I suppose. Expecting is the problem, yes? Then I shall not expect at all. But where then would my self worth go? Down to the deep chasms of 'I don't fucking know' It seems, according to you. So, okay. It seems I must resolve this on my own, Drown in the sand and the honey that only I have grown. Thank you for your time. I shall do better next. Be your successful self. I hope you're happy in your own hell.

Human hands, these small, worthless, twindly little things are the creators of some of the world's greatest art and literature. They can make a piece of paper a coiled snake, a flute, a dragon, a box, just about anything at all! The paper changes its form so much by just remaining in our hands. These hands are responsible for some of the greatest artwork and successes in the world known today, from Van Gough's Sunflowers, to the Airplane, to fire, to cycles, to rockets to Agatha Christie's Orient Express to my hand pushing your hair behind your ear. Perhaps the best example of this is clay, given life through our manipulations. Or paper; being changed by a portrait. Or music; created only because of a pattern of movements. Or poetry, written with these same implements. Everything. Our hands are such wonderous, wonderous things. It's like you relate the world around you by these cold, cold fingers. And I suppose you could tear it down with the same.

And if I'm drowning down in honey, Would you even understand? And if I'm crying out to save me, Would you dare to give a hand? And if I asked you why you love me, Would you get up and take a stand? I'm sorry, its too lonely, I really hope you've got a plan (Cause even though it's rather selfish, I think I'd want to fall again.)

I don't wanna have conversations; I wanna sit out in our balcony and eat oranges together in silence.