Speaker and listener

Friendship is supposed to go both ways. It’s just how communication works but with friends you can share whatever that you feel at your heart. It’s the bond of bravery where you can really tell your friend that you are not feeling okay. It’s not the combination of one speaker and one listener. Both of them are supposed to have both skills at all times. That’s what friendship is truly about. Being best friends with people but not being able to share what’s been bugging you really feels worthless. There are many speakers out there and also many listeners, I can’t argue with that. But the perfect combination is hardly visible. There is always some kind of imbalance in the listener and speaker. One possesses one quality little too much. A speaker isn’t much of a listener and a listener doesn’t really open up to speak. The speaker is always at advantage of getting someone to share to, but the listener loses his/her voice looking at other people speak. Is it true that the best listeners aren’t that good at sharing feelings like the speaker?

How comforting it would be if one day the speaker offered his listener friend to speak and they would listen to everything the listener has to say all day long patiently without interrupting. In my case, I would love for that to happen. However, I never did find someone to whom I could share it. Although I do listen for someone but the feeling’s not mutual. It’s totally okay because we grew up in completely different backgrounds and it’s okay not to feel the same way that I do. It’s funny how my friend never wonders why I don’t share if not less, the way she does. That doesn’t mean we are not good friends, because we are. I am not afraid of sharing my emotions with my friends. What scares me is the disappointment that I feel understood after sharing them. Like my voice just disappeared into thin air and made no sense to anyone. There were a whole of three people in my life to whom I tried sharing just exactly what I used to hold back in my heart. They heard everything exactly what I said but I guess they weren’t able to comprehend it my way. Perhaps it’s not the people who don’t understand me, it’s me who is unable to express my feelings. Hence, I have stopped looking for faces with a hope that maybe they would some day get what I really mean, the way they share things about themselves. The fear of not being understood is what holds me back all the time from expressing myself and just letting it go. I can’t help but wonder what people would think about me if I told them. So it becomes easier for me to just write it down and not say it face to face because I know this article is going to keep my words safe somewhere. And by default if you’ve really read upto this then thank you for tolerating me, I guess. 

Flawed Epiphany

You wake up just to realise your feet don’t stand firm on the ground

You check on your family just to find them crying their heart out over your body

Realisation hits you like lightning hits the trees

Turning it into ashes and no sight to enjoy indeed.

You were busy planning other things when your fate hits you

Stealing everything that you called yours even the matter that your body called home

Maybe you are stuck in this purgatory to pay for your sins 

This is the first time you wonder about the kind of life you had and the person you had been.

Were you a total vain to cause such infuriating pain to the people you were acquainted with?

But who is to be blamed for this grievance because you no longer belong to this earth.

You stand on a pavement wondering where it all went wrong and when all tables turned.

The job and the power that you ran after appears vague when you replay your narrative from this dimension

You are hopelessly desperate to set a footnote in your biography-

Wanting people to point fingers at your life and prevent them from being ruthless figure as you.

There’s no way out from this realm of guilt and shame

So you fear of getting seized into a black hole for your felonies in your cremation bed

An ungrateful creature of the earth never brave enough to give back any of the fortunes you picked up

Repenting in vain-you expect the soil to dissolve all your misdeeds including your bone marrow

Because you still think all this is what you finally deserve 

What a pity! It is a delusion you misguided yourself for.

F.S.

Writer or not?

Can one incident of life seize the one and only gift of a writer? Can the flame of past activity put out the flame of writing?

It has been long since I really sorted out what my subconscious mind has been dealing with. I can’t lie that I messed up or my life has become messed up since few months. I feel clueless about what I am writing down. I am not even sure I’ll make any sense this time. I am afraid that I’ve lost my ability to write or portray down my emotions or my opinion. Is it possible for a writer to forget the way they used to write before? 

Am I worthy enough to call myself a writer when I write everyday and stop abruptly for a month or two? What do I call myself on the days when I don’t write at all? Do I play the card of a victim by lying to myself for being too busy? Should I feel guilty for neglecting all the warning signs when I was losing my grip? Am I just another spectator who watches the leaves fall from trees and feel the wind blow through my skin? Does my writing ignite the same old flame in every letter that I write? I feel my words have layers of rust that aren’t capable enough of shaking my belief system. They can just create a hollow space for me to dive deeper without creating a route to return back. All these questions that I keep asking myself, are they worthy of getting an answer? Will my words summon answers for them? The path of getting an answer remains a question itself. I am better at getting haunted by questions than chasing the answers. I am better at playing pretend and hiding behind my self created busy schedule. I can still feel the winds through skin but I can feel my words flow through me too. I am not just a spectator of the changing seasons I am the witness of my life taking a different curve at every moment. I am not looking forward to move around in circles and wait for time to send me back to square one. Time’s ticking like it’s running on a treadmill. It might try bringing me back to the first loop but I am preparing myself to take the leap whenever I get a chance. I can’t wait to scratch off the bucket list for I can never be more ready than I am today. I will not wait for my life to give me opportunities to enjoy and to write, I will make an opportunity myself.

People might take me as an opportunist but I am nurturing my beautiful passion into a tree to provide me zeal on the days when I don’t write.