I Also Think.... I Also Write

Didi ko pasal

2026-04-08T15:50:00.001+05:45

At the didi ko pasal I frequent, I've started to notice the quiet but persistent outlines of class difference shaping the space. The place itself is crammed into a tiny space in Lamodhunga, with three tables at the forefront and blue-coloured benches attached to them. The place itself is known for selling one of the best buff momos in the community [a pleasure in life I've abstained from]. The colour itself is hued with stains of smoke on the walls, but the real texture of the place lies not in the food, but in the social hierarchy it holds together.

The people who gather here come from many walks of life and different material conditions: food delivery riders, daily wage labourers, tired mothers, corporate employees, and older men who have retired from government jobs. Among them, one retired man stands out. He seems to carry a different kind of ease- a financial cushion from being a petite bourgeoisie - that allows him to buy food, soda, raksi, and cigarettes for others. His generosity draws a kind of admiration, but it also quietly reveals the gap that makes such gestures possible in the first place. His wealth isn't something self-earned but inherited, and what appears as kindness on his part is merely a performance of class- one that reflects the surplus circulating in the local economy.

Conversations here rarely move beyond the surface, often slipping into petty, misogynistic remarks- especially about why and how often I smoke, and whether or not my friend is coming (I often try not to give my time to men who are actively trying to converse with me, mainly due to the nuances in thier approach) hence marking a social rhythm I no longer feel fully part of. Even something as small as cigarettes marks a difference: most people here smoke Khukuri or Pilot, while I smoke Arctic/Ice, which costs nearly twice as much. This marginal difference in my choice of vice also reveals a consumption pattern shaped by my class and location, creating a subtle social distance among the regulars. It's not only the cigarettes that make me feel displaced here- it's my class position itself, one that structurally benefits from the very relations that constrain the lives of those around me, implicating me in a system that extracts value from their labour.

The environment carries these contrasts in small, everyday gestures. People tuck away unfinished cigarettes into their pockets, preserving them for later - stretching value out of each purchase -while I tend to leave mine half-smoked without much thought. This small, almost unconscious act brings me back to a time when I would have my father buy me orange balls in seemingly infinite amounts, never once feeling the weight of material scarcity.

The regulars here, often labourers, arrive in the morning and indulge in raksi, the raksi of the masses, drinking as a matter of course. In contrast, I am only ever passing through: reduced to buying cigarettes and leaving.

The Schrodinger’s door

2025-01-18T19:34:00.003+05:45

The paradox lies in the fact that as soon as I opened the door and walked out of their place, the existence of love that might have been there suddenly fled. It evaporated into the air, fragile as a whisper, leaving behind the ghost of a feeling I couldn’t fully grasp. Had I stayed a little longer, had we spent a little more time together, perhaps I could have found the words to embody what we shared instead of relying on metaphors. We were two rats caged in a room, our vulnerabilities pulling us closer like an invisible thread we didn’t know how to untangle. I thought about it long enough in my head to be left with words but not enough weight to fully convey all that I felt inside.

How do I explain that a stranger I had known for only 67 hours became one of the most important people in my life? It wasn’t for the things they did, nor the things I did; it was for the spaces we created together. The conversations where we unravelled the rationality of our thoughts, how they made me feel seen without the weight of patronization. It was the way they listened and the stories they told, each word a quiet reminder that intentional slow living was not just a concept but a choice I could make, even if only for those few fleeting days.

It all started when I met them in a cheeky little café in Patan where we sipped our honey lemon ginger tea, sharing adorably funny conversations about their tangents of thought. It felt like watching a flowchart come to life, each box leading to the next with perfect clarity. As I began to understand their stream of consciousness, I found myself drawn in deeper not to them but to the way they articulated their thoughts each one laced with insight and coherence. Later, as we lost ourselves in लागु पदार्थको सेवन, my mind betrayed me, overwhelmed and exhausted: and they stepped in, instinctively looking after me. A stranger, with no obligation, cared for me like it was second nature. That moment revealed their depth: not just surface-level kindness but an unyielding compassion that infused every action, every glance.

One thing led to another, and I found myself in their bed for three nights in a row. Not for anything physical, but simply to adore their face, exchange glances, and hold their hand. There was something so special about the intimacy we shared, something even more beautiful about the absence of sexual connotations. It was their grace that allowed me to slow down, to see myself as more than the sum of my trauma, to see myself through their eyes, eyes that reflected nothing but honesty and an appreciation for my raw, unpolished self.

It wasn’t the aesthetics they sought, as they often reminded me. Holding my face gently, they’d tell me how my entire being seemed built on perfectionism. Until the last day, I resisted believing them. But on that final day, I cracked. I let it in. For the first time, I saw myself as they saw me: beautiful, unfiltered, and whole. And then was when I truly felt complete, a wave of euphoria had suddenly hit me it was a double-edged sword going through my chest except this time the blades were not poisonous they were filled with elixir that fortified my essence.

Now, the silence in my room feels heavier than ever, as if the walls have absorbed every word we never got to say. The silences we shared, the way they looked at me as if - I was something worth holding on to - echo in the emptiness.The weight of what could have been crushes my heart in ways I can’t put into words. And yet, I wouldn’t trade those 67 hours for anything. They were a gift: a brief, incandescent flicker of love that will linger in the corners of my mind for years to come. And even though they’ve left me shattered, I would love them again. Over and over. Just to feel alive in their presence one more time.

विचार अफ द डे :

मन छ, तसर्थ मन दुख्छ।

मन नभएको भए त सारा संसार खल्लो भइ जान्छ।

Exploring the pleasure gap

2024-12-01T13:58:00.003+05:45

How long can one call sex a mere distraction before admitting they enjoy it?

The answer seems clear for Lil Jhola, who famously rapped "5 mahina ma 50 lakh, 5 mahina ma 50 ota keti myachikney " in his song Myachikney. He figured it out long ago, embracing casual sex with a calculated ease that many, like him, eventually come to understand. His approach is so systematic that, to hypothetically achieve his goal of sleeping with 50 women in five months, he’d need to have sex with approximately 10 women per month, which breaks down to roughly 1 woman every 3 days over the five months.

For Pragati, though, the answer came much more slowly, buried under layers of denial and discomfort. There was a time when she hated everything about sex—the physicality, the emotions, the vulnerability. Pragati once dreaded the idea of her naked body being seen and judged by someone who couldn’t truly value it for what it was. But, like many things in life, her relationship with sex evolved it transformed itself from a feared disruption to a casual indulgence. Today, sex holds the same everyday comfort as her morning cup of tea—a simple pleasure that brings a sense of ease and satisfaction. This isn’t to suggest that she has sex as often as she drinks tea, but rather that both bring a similar kind of warmth and fulfilment to her life. The intimacy of sex and the comfort of a good cup of tea have, in their ways, become instinctive sources of contentment for her.

For Pragati, sex wasn’t some grand feminist act meant to challenge the patriarchy. It was simpler—an exchange of desire, a mutual connection based on reciprocity of pleasure, or, at least, it was supposed to be. Yet, those who couldn’t comprehend the idea of freely embracing one's bodily anatomy, seized every opportunity to label her choices as reckless, insisting that consent, when given too freely, was somehow an unforgivable offence.

Through her experiences, she had an upsetting realization: in bed, many men seemed oblivious to the concept of reciprocity. The power dynamics were often skewed towards giving rather than receiving, leaving Pragati questioning why this imbalance is so pervasive. Of the five men, Pragati was with this year, only two prioritized her pleasure. That’s a 40% "success" rate in what should be an unremarkable baseline of equitable orgasms. One might argue that five men over a year isn’t a large enough sample size to draw definitive conclusions. However, none of these encounters fell into the category of one-night stands or fleeting hookups. Each connection unfolded over multiple occasions, averaging about three separate encounters with each of the five men. This, nonetheless, reflects Pragati’s reality —each of these men, like her, was an active participant in their sex lives. A closer look at her experiences reveals that the imbalances she felt in bed were often a result of the casual nature of these relationships. Still, the numbers speak for themselves: out of the five men, only two managed to make her finish, while all five had no trouble reaching their climax. This imbalance revealed something deeper: making it painfully clear how normalized it was for men’s pleasure to take precedence.

This all raises a question: if pleasure had an SI unit, a neat measurable number, would women’s pleasure register any lower than men’s? If it could be measured the same way we measure the speed of light, boiling point of water, or wavelengths of gamma rays, would women’s pleasure be any less quantitative? Probably not. Yet, qualitatively, pleasure seems to be perceived through entirely different lenses—men’s wants are legitimized, even celebrated, while everyone else’s is scrutinized, trivialized, or shamed.

This disparity isn’t rooted in biology—it’s social conditioning. Men are often taught to view sex as conquest, an act centred on their satisfaction and their dicks, while women are conditioned to be accommodating, and or self-sacrificing. Pragati’s experiences reflected this imbalance. While the men she was with this year were those she often considered capable of understanding the deeper norms that bleed into the bedroom—emotional and intellectual intimacy, where sex is more than just physical connection—she still felt the dominance of men’s desires. Even If or when men cared about their partner's experience, they risked being labelled submissive or “too soft,” reinforcing the idea that masculinity is tied to self-centred gratification. Pragati's experiences reflect a broader trend highlighted by research: studies consistently reveal a “pleasure gap,” with women reporting fewer orgasms than their male partners. For Pragati, sex often became more about giving than receiving, and once the balance tipped, it rarely returned to equilibrium.

Disclaimer: If you know someone named Pragati—or if you’re my parents reading this—I want to make it clear: this story is entirely fictional. It’s not based on real events or real people. Any similarities are purely coincidental, and no, there’s no hidden subtext to read into.

Fun fact: This was alternatively gonna be titled: Pragati’s Sex Life Wrapped: 2 Orgasms, 5 Men, and a 40% Success Rate

Conditionality of love

2024-09-01T18:20:00.000+05:45

“Love, in its purest form, is unconditional”—is something I’ve believed for a very long time. It was a narrative I grew up reading especially in my favourite romance books where the lead protagonist passionately falls in love with the antagonist. But more than that, love is a force—so strong that it transcends time, space, and even the boundaries of relationships we form with others. While the idea of love seems to go against Newton’s third law, the constant acceleration it brings into life makes you believe there’s some equality involved, at least in the beginning. When you love someone deeply, that love doesn’t simply vanish when the relationship ends. It doesn’t magically dissipate into thin air; instead, it lingers, imprints itself on your soul, brands itself into your entire existence and continues to shape your experiences and emotions, even after the final goodbye. For better or worse, it changes you entirely as a person and for the time that you allow yourself to fully immerse in love, it feels euphoric, to say the least.

Over the past couple of months, I’ve experienced love in its most raw and beautiful form. I felt emotions so intense that they completely paralyzed me against the fallout that was yet to come. The journey itself was filled with ease, joy, pain, confusion, and, ultimately, a profound realization: love doesn’t end—it evolves. It keeps growing, and so do you with it. At first, there was disbelief and hesitation in acknowledging the horrors that came with heartbreak. How could someone who felt like the perfect piece of my life puzzle simply decide to walk away? How could they just unlove (me)? That’s where Bojack comes into play. He once said, 'Nobody completes anybody. That's not a real thing. If you're lucky enough to find someone you can halfway tolerate, sink your nails in and don't let go, no matter what.' With that thought in my head, I've become more rational in picking up the pieces of my heart, that I once thought were beyond repair.

My mind initially raced to places it shouldn’t have been, replaying every moment, relieving every memory, dissecting every word, trying to find where it all went wrong. The heartache, the struggle to understand why the love I poured so willingly wasn’t enough to hold things together, echoed in my mind like a constant drumbeat. It made me question whether love was ever enough, and if it wasn’t, would anything else ever be? I was trapped in a paradox of my own making, holding onto the belief that love fixes people, but when it came to me, it left me broken, inside and out. When things ended the way they did, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of loss—not just for the person, but for the future I had envisioned with them. The dreams, the hopes—all shattered in a single moment, now framed perfectly inside me. Dipta, who once woke up with the thought of sharing a cigarette in their favourite café with someone they loved, left that café with a void that felt impossible to fill.

Every day since then, it felt like I was carrying the burden of unfulfilled love, and it weighed me down with every step I took to find something that could replace it. What was I supposed to do with all the love that still resided in me, the love that belonged to them?

Blame became a close companion, and the weight it placed on my shoulders made it difficult to just accept things as they were. It’s easy to turn the finger inward, to think that maybe if I had been different, things might have worked out. The guilt and agony were equally overwhelming as I replayed every misstep, every flaw, wondering if those were the reasons the love wasn’t reciprocated in the end. This cycle of emotions lasted for days, making me question if I would ever be enough. It’s a painful spiral, where self-doubt and regret feed each other, leaving you feeling trapped in a cycle of “what-ifs.”

But then, there’s also a strange sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the time spent, for the memories made, for the love that was shared, and for every little thing we did together. Even in the pain, there’s a recognition of the beauty that existed between us. The bike rides, cigarettes at Prestige, the little duck, 5-minute walks in Thamel, matching t-shirts, the inside jokes I rarely understood—all become cherished memories, reminders that the love was real, even if it wasn’t meant to last. It’s a bittersweet realization that while the relationship has ended, the love remains, embedded in your heart, shaping who you are today. It changes you into a different human being because now you feel that your heart is capable of feeling things much greater than you realized.

Navigating the aftermath of a heartbreak is never easy. The world around you becomes a minefield of memories, and with each step you take, you risk triggering an explosion of emotions. A song, a place, a picture or even a simple object can flood you with emotions, pulling you back into the moments you shared, the memories you made, and the awkward silences that lingered between you. The grief feels insurmountable at times, a wound that refuses to heal because every time you start to feel a little better, reality creeps back in and reminds you that you were simply not enough. But within that grief lies the truth of love—it’s not something you can simply turn off. It’s a part of you, woven into the fabric of your being. No matter how angry, depressed, or shattered you feel, it’s still something that brings comfort on days that feel gloomy.

The pain of losing someone you love can feel unbearable at times, but it also holds the power to transform and mend your heart into something new. In those moments of deepest despair, you begin to understand the true nature of love and the destruction it carries. Love isn’t about possession or reciprocation but the experience itself. Beyond that, it becomes a culmination of unrequited feelings that must be buried once they no longer serve you. Love is unconditional because it exists beyond the confines of a relationship. It’s a force that continues to influence your life, even when the person who sparked it is no longer by your side.

Healing from heartbreak is a journey, one that requires time, patience, and self-compassion. I’ve realised it’s about learning to let go—not of the love, but of the need for it to be returned in the way I once desired it to be. As I reflect on the past two months, I find comfort in the fact that I was able to love so deeply and completely.

The love I shared with them will always be a part of me, even as I move forward. It has shaped me, taught me, and, most importantly, reminded me that love is not about the outcome—it’s about the experience. It’s about the joy, the connection, and even the pain, all of which contribute to the idea of being human. Love is unconditional because it doesn’t require reciprocation to exist. It doesn’t demand a happy ending to be meaningful. It simply is. And for that, I am grateful. To love and to be loved is a privilege, even when it ends in heartbreak. And in that, I find peace.

He told me I was 11/10 ( I was 11 years old )

2024-07-03T21:52:00.001+05:45

How does a 21-year-old person get over the fact that they were immensely sexualised as a child?

This story belongs to Pragati, Pragati was an 11-year-old child who lived in a well-to-do household and was immensely ambitious. She was a student studying in grade 6 and loved playing hangman with her friends, eating chips for lunch and going on long walks with her grandfather. She was an extrovert with her primary interests being astrophysics and rocket science. She had always dreamt of being a scientist and loved watching shows like Art Attack, Spongebob Squarepants and Horrid Henry. Her days were bright and filled with dreams of touching the moon, travelling the world, and making art. She was one of a kind and was a very special and delicate child.

As a 21-year-old Pragati is a very different person, she is lost in the monotony of her life which is moving at an unforgiving pace. She is stuck in the routine that keeps her busy from thinking about things that burden her. She now no longer feels the comfort that she felt as an 11-year-old, doing things like swimming, playing video games or even painting.

Now everything she is good at reminds her of memories from when she was 11 years old and was clicking pictures for men on the internet. At twenty-one, during a conversation she had with a friend over a cup of cinnamon tea at Snowman Café, fragments of that long-buried memory began to surface. While the pieces fit together it also revealed a painful truth that had shaped her entire life. The realization was both liberating and devastating. She understood that the event she had barely remembered had cast a long shadow over her existence, influencing her every decision and relationship. It almost gave her the clarity for the chaotic blurs of images she had been seeing every day.

She still thinks very intensely about the situation but rather than reservation, she's constantly confused about why men viewed her the way they did. She feels scared every time she clicks pictures in the kitchen, opens the fridge, or even uses her iPad now. Everything that happened left behind a gaping wound that never fully healed, perhaps it never will…

The once carefree Pragati, who loved herself was now a girl paralyzed by disorientation and anger. The trauma was buried deep within her young mind, a dark secret that screamed at her subconsciously. Over the years, she excelled academically, masking her pain with achievements and accolades. Yet, an inexplicable emptiness gnawed at her, a void that no amount of success could fill. She simply felt like an empty vessel now, that only made noise when touched.

One particularly intense night, after a binge, she found herself standing in front of a mirror. The reflection staring back at her was not the accomplished scholar or the ambitious scientist; it was a woman who now could barely recognize herself. She realized that life had taken something precious from her, but it had also given her an incredible strength to endure. Determined to reclaim her life, she embraced a new perspective. She sought to find joy in the small pleasures of life. Now she pursued her hedonistic desires unapologetically while learning to love and respect herself. The conversation at Snowman Café had been a catalyst, a moment of epiphany that changed her outlook on life.

Two Worlds in Thamel

2024-05-14T16:25:00.011+05:45

It was the last Friday of December when Sujit a 19-year-old high school dropout who worked in a Chiya Pasal near Baneshwor was walking in the streets of Thamel hoping to buy lighters and cigarettes from a mini-mart near Trisara: The Baking Factory. On his walk towards the mini-mart, he kept hovering over Google Maps on his Nokia C1 that he had bought after saving his money for 3 months. It was his first time witnessing Thamel’s nightlife and its haunting beauty. He there observed people in all kinds of clothes doing all types of drugs, he saw people in their most fancy outfits going to clubs he never stepped foot inside, he saw businessmen talking about making an amount of money he’d never even heard of and he saw people in alleys in an altered state of mind participating in tomfoolery, to sum it all up Sujit who was new to Kathmandu witnessed lives of people that he’d never seen in his home town Ramechhap.

As he further made his steps towards the mart he saw two parallel scenes that he couldn’t take his mind off of on one hand he saw two beggars fight for the spot right below the huge green trash bin so they could sleep peacefully in the night, without worrying about policemen circling their backs and on the other hand he saw four presumably rich government officers in their suits with their hands full of bottled beer and cash. The two beggars were going through an intense argument over who should be allowed to sleep under the trash bin and they were in a heated verbal altercation about who was more deserving. In contrast, the four rich men were giving bottles of Barahsinghe to what looked like people in their early 20s just cause they felt like it. Sujit who before 4 months had never been outside of Ramecchap was witnessing lives that were beyond his comprehension, his worldview was shattered and so was his narrative about the people in Kathmandu, what he thought was the land of dreams was indeed a desert of sand where people were fighting for their cup of water to quench their thirst.

Sujit had never stopped so long to watch what goes on the two opposite sides of the road, but that Friday he did and the more he watched both of the scenes unfold the further he understood about the inequality and division of our society. Sujit made mental notes about how the two beggars who were clashing against each other had emboldened themselves to move forward, progressing to fight for each other's living space and the four government officers who spent their money like tomorrow didn’t exist were simply doing it cause their mirage never dried. Sujit’s attraction towards the atmosphere of both threat and prosperity made him feel as if he was drowning himself in a matter of social existence, He felt helpless as he couldn’t do anything about the wealth gap in the streets of Thamel. Both the rich men showing high levels of delinquency and the beggars' struggle to get one night of peaceful sleep had damaged Sujit’s mind, as he felt unable to fulfil his social obligations. He was a perceptive thinker immersed in the derided question: How can contentment, social justice and prosperity be achieved in this society?

While some continue to fight for more wealth and happiness others languish in helplessness.

( I wanna thank Aditya for his insightful observations that made Sujit's story happen, Aditya is an incredibly beautiful human with his interests primarily being art and human society. It is due to their generous spirit that this story is being told

To check Aditya and his work check out his profile on Linkedin : Aditya Pandey )

भगवानलाई घुस खुवाको कथा

2024-05-03T23:31:00.004+05:45

Amidst our clash of differing beliefs, I a highly religious person and Tike who’s an agnostic made our way to the Bhagwati Mandir which resides equidistance to our homes, there was a shared understanding between us, even perhaps a shared glimmer of hope that we might find answers from the divinity for our impending exams cause after all Bhagwati is known to grant wishes to those who gracefully pray to her. As we stepped inside the two tired square panned pagoda-style temple the morning sun which had just gotten up hit our faces, and right at that moment I felt as if I had found the yin to my yang cause they were everything I could never be and both of us bowing our heads down and clasping our hands to the Gadurbahini Bhagwati was a testament to the beauty of our differences. Right after we offered our silent prayers, Tike murmured “fuck I want a cigarette” a mantra that had become as routine as our morning rituals. The irony of seeking solace in nicotine amidst the temple's sanctity wasn't lost on us, but it was a craving we’d grown accustomed to, an addiction that bound us together in our shared struggles.

Sitting in the cafe afterwards, the weight of our exams still lingering in the air, we found comfort in the familiarity of shared (Hadigauley) rituals. Lighting our cigarettes, we exchanged glances filled with unspoken understanding, acknowledging that our reasons for being there were as diverse as the paths we had chosen in life. It wasn't about the smoke that curled lazily into the air or the nicotine coursing through our veins; it was about the bond forged in the countless amounts of time we passed our Arctic Burst or sipped each other's कालो चिया while simply sitting across each other. It was about the silences that we shared while we talked about all the uncomfortable things that we had been through, reiterating all of these things makes me see how we’ve grown not just closer but into better versions of ourselves.

Sure, we were still grappling with our addiction, still bargaining within ourselves after each puff we’d inhaled. But for now, in the afterglow of our temple visit, I found peace in knowing that I wasn't alone in this journey, I was on a rooftop sharing 5 Ruppee तितौरा कुल्फी and Choco Fun with TIku under the blanket of stars. Together, Tiku and I navigated the highs and lows of life, celebrating the small victories and weathering the storms that inevitably came our way while eating Lumbini Tandoori's naan every time we could.

So, as the smoke perished in the air, carried away on the gentle breeze, I made a silent vow to cherish these moments, to hold them close to my heart as a reminder of the bonds that bound us together and to hug Tiku every time we separated from our hangouts. For in the end, it wasn't the cigarettes or the exams or even our morning ritual to pray to Shovagaya Bhagwati that defined us, but the moments we shared, the memories we forged, and the friendships that endured against all odds.

Poems for Rakesh !

2024-04-29T00:47:00.008+05:45

For a very long time, I debated putting these poems up on my blog, I wrote them about a guy who was my favourite person when I was 17 years old. For anonymity let's call him Rakesh, Rakesh was a leading activist, an actor, a writer, a film director and so much more. He to the world was a Marxist who was steeping his foot into mainstream politics and to me he was everything a man shouldn’t be.

When I reflect back on time I feel as if my 17-year-old self didn’t realize the majority of what I felt was mere infatuation and everything that he made me do was both ethically and morally wrong. All that I feel when I think about him now is this burning pit of disgust that penetrates my stomach every passing hour.

To further contextualize these poems try as hard as you can as the reader to picture energetically cheerful extrovert Dipta falling for someone they met in one of the first protests of their life and them being utterly disappointed to find out the kind of man he was in the end.

POEM 1

I often think about "us" you and me holding our hands together and such

We were seated on the last bench, passing notes losing our sense of touch

It was almost like a daydream to me, when you proclaimed what we had in between was almost like "classroom romance"

For once I didn't feel like a stranger to you what I thought, while I begged divinity hoping I wouldn't blow this chance

And as the days passed by, I realised what I had been feeling for you for so long

I was craving for your endearment, for some reason I thought it was a sin cause it felt so wrong

You left me un-noticed time and again but it only made me think about you in ways I shouldn't have

I wanted to be dominated by you, it was your affection that I longed for as the glaciers in my mind calved

For now that I have a medicated mind as I write, I feel that these pills got me feeling a certain way about you

You once said they made me seem "agitated", but what could I even do it was you standing under the sky so blue

POEM 2

Physical affection or lust you would say is one of the seven deadly sins

But for me to wake up next to you, feels so mellow that I'd rather trade it with our lies & skins

You feel like a sudden breeze that just passed by me in the warm light of soft spring

You make me feel a sudden touch inside me wondering if it was something or just a fling.

The bells in churches ring, and I feel like an Atheist looking for GOD in you

cause I would rather worship you than feel so lost in this world of hate & despise that ain't new

You are a perfect example of people who are chaotically beautiful due to your absolutism

that you make my evil wicked mind, innocent who once lost the touch of cynicism

Why is it that you are the first thought in my mind when I wake up in the morning

it's like you are the sun and I am the earth and I am trying to change your light as you are dawning

POEM 3

I'm having a really hard time picturing you with somebody else that's not me

It's like I'm here writing you love songs & lost in

serendipity which is to be

You were like an epiphany lithe with elegance so white & pure

Paradoxically pristine & dulcet you made me feel dismal & unsure

Maybe the way I'm thinking is the reason I'm Silvanas & fucking miserable

In a way or some meeting you was my only regret, and made me vulnerable

I miss the coffee and walking with you at the dawn, but now the two hands clap

The party's over, and I wake up from the dream that is yet to be true from the lost maps

(Although these poems no longer represent what I currently feel, I think they deserve a special part of the internet to reside in that's outside of Rakesh's dms )

"To eat" or "not to eat"

2024-04-11T13:50:00.005+05:45

In the dimly lit bar of Jhamsikhel on a Friday night, I engaged in conversations with friends about the constant monotony of life. I shared a bottle of Lindeman’s Bin 35 Rose, which contained 110 calories per 100ml and had a fruity and crisp flavour. As the hours passed, a friend cheerfully ordered another bottle, oblivious to my turmoil. With it came an astonishing amount of guilt within me. While he happily cheered for the lives we all shared, I sat across from the ghost that had haunted me for so long: the possibility of disordered eating. With every sip I took, I felt like I was fighting a silent battle—a battleground where everything edible around me started to become a wielded weapon against my own body. The maddening pursuit of achieving perfectionism echoed in the corridors of my mind, it was like a ball was constantly hitting the corners of my mind and with each bang, I mercilessly judged how my body looked in the mirror of the bar’s bathroom while simultaneously tearing my reflection apart.

Ever since I was in the third grade (also the heaviest I had ever been), the pressure to conform to a certain appearance weighed heavily on me. It felt as if my 9-year-old self carried a burden from which I could never be free. Every swimming session starting from that moment, I watched my peers dive carefree into the pool while I stood on the sidelines, completely paralyzed by the thought of exposing my body, as it was a scary thought to be dissected by those eyes that viewed me.

Every day before I ate my lunch, I found myself standing at the intersection of past and present, grappling with the intricacies of my existence. Each bite brought more calories, and with those calories came a sea of uncertainty that left me adrift, surrounded by insidious whispers of never being enough, never achieving the “perfectionism” I sought. While I looked for solace amidst the haze of intoxication that accompanied me throughout the night, I discovered not freedom but shackles forged of my own making. Every drink I carefully sipped became a calculated decision, and every sip was a strategic move, setting the stage for the inner turmoil brewing within me.

Yet, as I struggle to nourish my body, the constant blackouts and bad trips have become my “best friend,” as any Gen Z writer would put it. They neatly package my life, tying it with a bow filled with sparkles and rainbows. In the darkness of the same bar, I now seek comfort, and the pulsating beat temporarily respite me from the chaos within. It was at that moment my day started to bleed right in front of me, and the simple act of feeding myself transformed into a Herculean task—a war between appetite and hunger with each hesitant swallow, making it increasingly hard for me to breathe.

Trapped in this cycle of limitation and indulgence, I swing like a pendulum between extremes, grappling with the demons that lurk within. I feel overwhelmed by the expectations I’ve set for myself, suffocated by the relentless pursuit of perfectionism. I’ve become a prisoner of my mind, shackled by the chains of unattainable standards and unrealistic goals, which have nearly flickered my spirit. However, I cling to the belief that there lies a light at the end of the tunnel—a beacon of hope guiding me toward a better tomorrow.

Breaking the Mirror : A Journey to Healing

2023-11-07T23:16:00.000+05:45

Did my ama feel as I did as she stood in front of her mirror gazing at the reflection that looked back at her? Does that image haunt her of all the struggles that women before her went through? Did she ever think about how fat she looked and how any jeans that she bought never fit well around her body, or does she not have to wrestle with her self-doubts and insecurities constantly as I do? I wonder if her reflection ever spoke back to her and reminded her that she was never gonna be enough; no matter how much weight she lost, or how thin she looked, or how little she ate, it would never be enough. Or does all she ever feel is the way her mom made her feel, just like she did to me?

The answers to these questions made me realize I spent almost a decade wanting fairer skin, a thinner body, and a picture-perfect waistline. For a very long time, I envied people who had bodies that were very different from mine, and every passing day, was just a reminder of how "ugly" I've become. To grapple with the inadequacy of not being able to conform to the beauty standards, I somehow then set this false narrative that made me believe that I had to constantly sexualize myself if I wanted to feel valued by those around me.

But the expectation of being more "beautiful" wasn't all that altered the way I viewed myself; it was also the hands that touched me when I screamed "NO"; it was the voices that yelled, "I'm nothing more than my body," it was men around me who pushed me into this never-ending cycle of self-doubt and self-blame. The emotional burden of carrying the weight of abuse added yet another complexity to the pattern of self-destruction that made me feel that I was not good enough in any aspect of my life. The more I criticized myself, the more I believed I would be blamed for my suffering. Now, the restless pursuit of having an "untouched" body became an insurmountable challenge that I never could achieve.

As I reflect upon the pain that I've carried for so long, I can't help but empathize with my mom and all the women who came before her for the sacrifices that they had to make for me to be as resilient as I am today. I thank them for all that they did and all that they had to endure for me to be where I am today. I now clearly see the legacy of self-hate that's been passed down the generations through the inheritance of pain and insecurity. The mirror that I had stared at for so long now reflected a distorted image of my mom; it showed her struggles and her scars amidst her silent suffering, and this has left me with an overwhelming sense of guilt because, for a very long time, I couldn't see her for what she was. It pains me to see how wrong my perception of her was.

At the age of 20, I now finally have found my peace, and the mirror that I looked at for so long has started to reflect a happier and more self-assured version of myself. I have learned to acknowledge my past without blaming myself for all that I had to go through. I, now more than ever, am aware of the patterns that held me captive for so long and have indeed embarked on a journey of self-discovery, growth, and happiness.

An Addicts Journal

2023-07-22T22:26:00.003+05:45

"Fuck, I need a cigarette" is the first thought I have in my mind when I wake up. Is it the same for you? From the moment I open my eyes, I'm looking for reasons to go outside to hit a puff. It's come to a point where I've recognized myself as a functioning addict, and as shameful as I am to admit this, I think it's for the best.

These days I'm suprised by how people continue to go on days, weeks, months, years, heck, even lives without smoking. The thought of simply having a nicotine-free day is very amusing to me, and the worst part is I have no one but myself to blame when it comes to it. I remember when I deceived myself into thinking I didn't have a nicotine problem and that I was not an addict. But now that I reflect on it, I see someone afraid to admit their dependency on a substance that, in reality, was only harming them back. Despite knowing its risks, I still, to this day, cannot gather the willpower to begin to break free from this addiction.

It's strange how the incident of me replacing weed with nicotine is how I reiterate the beginning of it all. I was just 17 when I picked up my first cigarette; I smoked a generic brand of Nepali Cigarette on the way to my tuition classes which I was taking in preparation for my board examination. I texted the group chat that day, saying how cool I felt, and I realized what I was missing out on. And slowly, one cigarette a week turned into two cigarettes a week and into a pack in three days. Despite knowing the harm I'm causing to myself, I'm also constantly contributing to the itchy temptation of the dependency I have on the substance. I feel disappointed whenever I buy a new pack of cigarettes because I'm willingly surrendering myself to this addiction, which only lowers my self-esteem.

It’s hard to break an addiction that socially has become such a conversational prop. Everywhere I go these days, be it bars, cafes, or restaurants, I see people effortlessly holding cigarettes and granting them the power to kill themselves. I don’t think people are ready to have the conversation about how their dependency is never social and, in most cases, goes way beyond it. From my perspective, smoking culture is inherently structured in a way where it fosters and perpetuates people's reliance on its addictive nature. Similarly, how long-term addiction affects us emotionally and makes us different mentally is a subject people can’t wrap their heads around.

As an addict myself, it has never been my purpose to hurt those around me by shamefully engaging in behaviors that harm me, but it's my utter failure to get out of this cycle of chasing ecstasy from one substance to another. The disappointment I feel in myself when I give into the temptation of smoking every day feels awful yet I can’t let go of it.

"Depression and Abuse" : A Survivor's Story

2023-05-05T23:29:00.002+05:45

Two months ago, precisely on January 3rd 2023 I tried to kill myself...Looking back on it, I don't think it was an instant decision, but rather a well-thought-out step that I was just afraid to take before. It wasn't just one thing that pushed me to the brink, but a culmination of a lifetime of trauma and suffering.

As far as my recollection of memories go, a lot of things contributed to my suicidal thoughts. From constantly being sexualized since the sixth grade to being sexually assaulted eight months ago and getting groomed by three different men when i was a teenager, life hasn't been very fair to me. I used to think that being a "woman" was the reason why I went through all of it in the first place but I was very wrong about it,it was men who were responsible for everything that i had to go through and not a part of me is even remotely liable for everything they did to me.Those moments in my life made me feel unworthy of love, unworthy of respect, and unworthy of the life that I was living

For a very long time, I felt that all those incidents defined who I was as a person, and that made me feel disgusted towards myself. From getting back to my nicotine addiction after being sexually assaulted to engaging in self-harming behaviors, things had been rough for a very long time. I had started ignoring my responsibilities, failing in classes, and being uncommunicative towards my friends and family. All of these only resulted in the downfall of my mental health. I was constantly fixated on how I looked and did everything I could to eat as little as possible because I thought that if I were able to change how I looked, I would no longer be the person who went through all the horrible things.

The only time that I felt genuinely happy was when I was hanging out with my friends or when I was in the company of someone who I really liked. I used to feel like I was drowning in my own thoughts, but having someone to talk to would give me a brief reprieve from the constant pain and suffering.

But the relief was always temporary. It seemed like no matter how much I tried, I couldn't shake off the feeling of being a burden to those around me. I felt like I was always putting them through too much and that they'd be better off without me. I know now that this was the depression talking, but back then, it felt like the absolute truth.

The first time that I got touched by a man was when I was 16 years old. I was going back home through Nepal Yatayat, and he kept on brushing his dick against my body. As I was travelling through a crowded bus, I thought that maybe it was just an accident. But then he started to put his hands on my thighs, and that's when I realized that it wasn't an accident. I froze, didn't know what to do but he kept on going and touched me in places that didn't belong to him , and I just sat there, praying for it to be over soon. When I got home, I cried myself to sleep, feeling violated and helpless.

I wanted to be 16 again, but this time around, I wanted to carry a pocket knife with me everywhere I go. I wanted to feel safe, and I wanted to be able to protect myself if the need arose. But deep down, I knew that even if I did carry a pocket knife, it wouldn't change the fact that men are a constant threat to my safety.

On a recent conversation I had with a friend of mine, I was explaining to him why I hated men the way I did. The conversation ended pretty quickly, mainly because he was a good listener, but what remained still was this undying despise I had for men around me. People usually painted me as this 'pseudo-feminist' when I tell them that I hate men.

But it's not that simple. It's not just that I hate all men. It's that I hate what some men are capable of doing to me and to other women. The thought of that is enough to make both me and other women constantly live in fear of getting harmed...

An open letter to my abuser

2022-12-04T21:50:00.005+05:45

It's just a phase, I say, lying to myself, taking another drag of the cigarette I've been holding. The nicotine buzz hits me, and I realize I'm no longer the same person. Would Dipta, a few years ago, even think of this as the right thing to do? Perhaps time really changes people; it changed me for the good and the bad. As time faded, the obligations on my shoulders have gotten heavier, and so has this unfulfilling void that always makes me feel empty. I dumped the ashes in an ashtray and sipped on my coffee.

The longer I stared into the smoke that passed out the window, the more I got in-depth with my emotions. Have I always felt this way? Have I always been an empty shell of a skeleton with nothing but the emotions that people around me fill up? Who am I, to begin with? Why am I here, and when will this stop?

Perhaps answering all these questions requires me to strip naked in front of the mirror and point out things that I see as flaws in me since August 8. It's been difficult moving on from what happened that day; the constant reminders, the panic attacks, and the shivers don't really go away. My words wouldn't be enough to describe how incredibly hard these months have been for me, someday I wake up feeling the best, and some days I don't wake up from my bed at all. The agony of this monotony of life eats me up sometimes; despite the fact that I've come to terms with him being my perpetrator, it does not give me enough justice to move on from the fact that he assaulted me. Every time I try to feel something new or touch someone, reminders of him forcing himself on me creep inside me, and I lay still crying; the patterns have been repetitive enough for me to realize I am entirely unable to give or receive love from people around me. I've been avoiding people for more than a month now, and I'm unsure how my friends, cousins, or acquaintances are doing. Social interactions at this point seem like a bizarrely overwhelming thing for me to involve in.

After all the guilt and bargaining, the depression finally hit me; even though I had accepted what had happened to me long ago, it went unnoticed how the anger inside me never seemed to stop. Being constantly triggered by a room full of men, dark alleys, or even cafes in Putalisadak, I've been avoiding everything. How does one even move on from something like this when the thought of just going to classes and doing mundane tasks feels heavy? The number of visits I've had with my psychiatrist just seems to prove that no amount of medication is going to help me through it but nonetheless, I keep on taking them with the hope of getting better. I constantly think of how I could have avoided the situation or how I could have fought back against him. Still, the conclusion always draws out that in front of a man, I'm nothing more than a pair of tits, and he'll do everything in his power to be the dominant one, even if it means he'll be assaulting the other person.

I'm not sure if he knows the impact he's had on me since he forcefully stripped me off of the clothes I loved. Is he even aware of how painful it was for me to accept what he had been doing to my body cause I wasn't strong enough to fight him? I have not been able to forgive myself for putting up in that situation; fully aware of the fact that none of it was my fault, I still cannot help but blame it all on myself.

He's destroyed me, and sometimes I think I'm beyond repair cause all that I've been doing is running away from it instead of facing it through, but how would I even run away when I'm stuck in the same coffee shop with the same cigarette in my hand?

Mourning the loss of a favourite person

2022-09-29T01:22:00.001+05:45

As someone diagnosed with BPD around 8 months ago, I still have a lot to learn about my own diagnosis and how it affects the people around me and myself. From anxious attachment style, which steams from abandonment issues to the search for external validation that subsequently goes along with hypersexuality having BPD has made it harder for me to navigate relationships with myself and the people around me. This disorder has caused me to be a furious person who is full of rage all the time. The way BPD has shaped me to see the world in only black and white has made it profoundly difficult for me to understand the grey areas that come along with things in life.

For as long as I can remember, I've always been someone who idolized people who I liked and moulded my personality in accordance with their likings. Later in therapy, I learned it was called; Mirroring. Mirroring is when someone with BPD changes their personality, attributes, identity or sense of self, to fit in with an unfamiliar environment or establish a sense of similarity with their favourite person. For me, fp or favourite person is someone who I look up to and find a sense of comfort in confiding all/any issues I'm going through. They are the most important person in my life, and their acceptance means everything to me. They are also someone who I hold upon a high pedestal which changes the way I look at them; as I would see no flaws in them, regardless of all the red flags they carry.

It took me a very long to realize and accept that ever since grade 12, I've always had someone who was my favourite person, whether someone I had a platonic relationship with or romantic. These relationships that I had built with my fps were always filled with a lot of compassion and love bombings (its a personal flaw, yes, I do realize it); I would go out of my way to do things for them that would make them happy, or shower them with materialistic things that would make them like me a little more or even do something that I intensely disliked just so I could see a smile on their face. It's weird, isn't it, how we borderlines are represented in media as this crazy manipulative person who hurt everyone around them. Still, all we ever truly want is people around us to like us and for whom we'd literally move mountains.

Nonetheless, the point being the last person I dated was my favourite person, the complexities of emotions that I had after we ended things between us made me feel as if I was mourning the loss of someone very close to me. It's unreal how a person I barely knew for 11 days could hold such a strong effect on me. Regardless of how things are at the moment, I'm glad we got to know each other the way we did. But it did teach me how much I sucked at prioritizing myself and how little I cared for myself. There were days when going on long walks, sitting with a friend in a cafe who smokes or even preparing my mom coffee reminded me of my fp and as guilty as it makes me feel to constantly carry the thoughts of them on my shoulder, I think the spiral of memories that my fp and I created is gonna follow me for the rest of my life. They were incredibly comforting, and throughout the time we saw each other, they made sure I felt respected and provided me with a space where I could learn and grow. But when that went away, it felt as if my whole world was crashing into the pits of hell, and there was no way for me to escape it.

For the following week, the feeling of emptiness reeked within me. I had no one to talk to about how bad my accounts class went, how I had to stand the whole way on a public bus cause I couldn't find a seat, or how a guy in my class continuously made misogynistic jokes that made me feel very uncomfortable. But here is the thing once I realized how negatively it started to affect me, I had no choice but to work on myself. And as my fp once put it, " If there is something about you, you don't like, change it…" and that's precisely what I did. I changed how I thought about them, It took time, but I accepted the boundaries for what they were and distanced myself from them cause I couldn't bare to sympathize with myself anymore. And eventually, I learned how to live without their thoughts interrupting my life, which felt liberating!

I started going back to things I loved doing, like running, watching my favourite TV shows and even playing my favourite game. And one of these days, I also ran 22k steps a day which was a personal milestone for me and made me feel very exhausted but accomplished. Looking back at how things started and ended also makes me understand how I'm on the wrong side of the story for wanting that emotional security from someone who already has so much on their plate.And how no one should bare the responsibility of being fp of a borderline if they do not have the energy for it.

Peter was my first love.

2022-08-23T17:17:00.003+05:45

It took us about three weeks to entirely fall for one another. We were practically still kids back then, but for what it was worth, we found each other at a place and time when we needed each other the most. We spent the following year and a half going out on cute little dates, buying flowers, and flooding each other's phones with sweet and corny texts. It was the most fantastic period of my life cause everything I did with him was wonderfully flustering and endearing. He simply felt like serendipity to me.

But all I can afford to say now is, It was incredible both falling in and falling out of love with Peter.

So this goes out to Peter and me

You came along and swept all the woe away with your tender touch

For you held me against your chest and made me feel I was enough

I felt like a kid, wrapped up around your arms, learning how to walk and talk

Your patience felt mellifluous while I simply laid there inert like a lifeless clock

We both were lost in the labyrinth of our own melancholy and agony

But only I screamed out loud while you buried yours away with such sanity

Even on the bluest days, your pretty eyes reflected all the good things that you saw in me

While all I could mirror was the daunting symphony of the endless misery to thee

Friday nights, dinner dates, and dead roses are the only reminders of you I have with me now

I'm sorry we were ephemeral, but even today, I look back at your arcane kindness as a gift to me somehow

Long walks these days are a constant reminder of what you and I could have become

But all I can do right now is thank you for being the absolute best to me when I couldn't do the same

August 8 /2022

2022-08-20T17:37:00.001+05:45

Life's uncertainty always baffles me. Last week I had a deeply traumatic experience that I'm still trying to work on. It's funny how the human psyche works cause in my mind, and I'm still trying to comprehend many ways I could have avoided the situation. On the other hand, my perpetrator is probably sunbathing while sipping a cup of tea.

Here is a poem that I have been working on ever since then :

(Trigger Warnings: mentions of sexual assault & violence)

Do you carry any shame and guilt for all the horrible things you did to me?

Or will I have to carry the burden of being touched by you for the rest of my life?

Do you still see people with the same filthy eyes of yours as you did towards me? 

Or am I the only one struggling to get your perception of me off my body?

Were those screams not enough for you to understand I have had enough?
Or did you find immense joy in stripping clothes off of my body which I loved for so long
Do you wonder how I must have felt when you touched me with your dirty hands?
Or did my body satisfy you sufficiently that you didn't care enough to comprehend the consequences of injustice you did towards me?

Did it feel euphoric when I was struggling in front of you, and all you do is pin them down?
Or do you always like having it your own way and making people beg for your sympathy?
Are you afraid of men, men like you who violently touch women to fulfil their fantasies?
Or do you not care enough about people, people like me whose body still reeks due to men like you?

English teachers, a pillar to queer kids

2022-06-08T21:48:00.004+05:45

The education system has failed queer kids all over the world. Private schools, colleges, and universities are best known for excluding queer kids from sports, invalidating a kid’s gender identity, and giving more validity to hetero-normality. For example, ever since I was a kid, I had been taught that marriage should only exist between a man and a woman and anyone who thought otherwise was “wrong.”And growing up in such an environment only made me push my queerness far away. Of course, it is constantly conflicting when one goes through a crisis related to their gender or sexual identity but having to experience that conflict in a homophobic region made it harder for me.

It wasn’t until grade 6 that a teacher finally made me feel seen or visible in their class; else, I was always perceived as the kid who was not doing enough to get good grades but having a teacher who believed in me and encouraged me to do better truly made me feel secure and confident in myself. And that teacher was no other than my English Teacher. She indeed was the best teacher our school faculty had, or so I believe. She made her students feel excited about learning and encouraged them to follow their passion equally. Similarly, my grade 10 English teacher was an incredibly humble person who never made studying feel like a chore. He engaged his students in various fun activities and treated them uniformly. It is due to him that I fell in love with reading books. Likewise, the lecturer currently teaching me English is an outspoken feminist who always appreciates my writing. I always find her classes exciting and lively. Nonetheless, the point is gravitating toward English teachers is a universal experience a lot of queer kids, including me, feel. Maybe it’s cause they are the only allies we know of in any educational institute.

Everyone from the mentally exhausted gifted kids to students who are neurodivergent, to socially awkward kids, and to queer kids find their English teachers extremely comforting. It’s also because the subject of English allows students to navigate their feelings through various literary methods. Even though there is little to no queer narrative and voices in our curriculum, the inclusivity in English classes makes all the students feel very warm and welcoming. In retrospect, the stereotypical pedestal that the gays hold their English teachers in is, just an honorary status that expresses the love and respect we have for them.

While our schools don’t have spaces for LGBTQ youth, English classes often feel like a safe place for gay kids who are both closeted and out. In conclusion, the observatory breakdown of the relationship a queer kid has with their English teacher goes to show how far behind the education system is in treating queer kids better.

[Ps: Happy Pride 🏳️‍🌈 ]

What does my faith mean to me ?

2022-03-30T19:35:00.005+05:45

Having been brought up in a Hindu household, I've always been accustomed to agreeing to be within certain boundaries, whether in my social or personal life. I still remember when I was three years old, my mom took me to Saraswati Mandir in Dabali, which is just 5 minutes away from my home. It was Saraswati puja that day & it also was the very first day when I was taught how to write the Devanagari script, my mom held my hands, and we together wrote: "क,ख, ग" on the walls of the temple. After doing so, we took blessings from the Pandit who was there & went home. For the three-year-old me, it practically meant nothing, and I couldn't comprehend why my mum would take me to a place as sacred as the temple to teach me Devanagari script, and what even was the point of scribbling into the walls?

I often stayed in my Mamaghar in my childhood cause both of my parents worked a 9-5 job. On the days when my Aama was free from her household chores, she took me to Gujeshwari, where we listened to a Pandit speak about god, sang prayers together, and hymned to the beats of tabla. And that used to be very fun to me back then. Maybe that also was because she would buy me my favorite toffees on the way back home, but the child in me genuinely enjoyed being a part of that.

When I grew up, I found my perspective gradually changing, and I found myself distancing from what I grew up in...I questioned a lot, and with it came unanswered questions, Which brought hindrances to my faith. Maybe it was because I couldn't find a place where both my religion & my relationships came together.

It was tough to accept all the good, bad and ugly things that came with becoming religious, so even now, if someone asks me about it, I tell them I'm doing nothing more than tipping my toe in it cause I'm not sure if I have it in me, to go all the way in.

As far as Hindu teachings go, I find them very important because we often carry that in our daily lives. Our books give us the idea of the most truthful and knowledgeable teachings that one must follow to have an incredible yet peaceful life. Geeta, Mahabharata, Ramayana, everything is just a variation of how good wins over evil & how life sometimes isn't fair even if you are a "good" person, but what we can learn from it is so much more than that; I find all of them incredibly meaningful in respect to human lives, I believe it captures the conflict, emotions and irrational decisions that goes into being one perfectly imperfect human and I'm sure everyone can acquire a lot of knowledge a lot from them.

Nevertheless, my faith certainly has shaped me to be the person I'm today, and even though the journey of accepting my religion for what it has had a lot of hindrances, I now finally understand it for what it is. And I certainly don't blame my faith or religion for the absolute chaos it has brought to the world, but I do blame "People" who actively try to spread hate in its name.

19 & unemployed

2022-03-19T23:06:00.005+05:45

I sigh as I wake up early in the morning, I'm restless, and my body is aching everywhere. As I look into my phone, it's 5:01 am, and the voices of alarm don't seem to stop despite me trying to turn it off. It's such a cold day, I say to myself as I finally get out of my bed to get ready for college. I do all the mundane tasks, including brushing my teeth, combing my hair, and changing into fresh pair of clothes. It was already 5:30 am, so I rushed out of my home & to my bus stop. While I stood there waiting for the bus, I started thinking about all the places where I had applied my resume last night and counted the probability of me getting in; the chance was zero; of course, why would any company hire someone who's just passed their high school & has little to no experience.

As soon as the bus arrived, I rushed inside & sat in the cornered seat which was available. I began checking my emails, showing I had no new emails to open. I was disappointed & maybe a little bit too desperate. I began contemplating each & every part of my resume and thought about the areas I could work on, but would altering the positions of my data there land me a job, or would it simply be something that would bring "peace" within me?

I've had this yearning inside me that craved "independence" forever, but I didn't care much about it until the last two months. I've been engaged in activities that would land me a job, or as LinkedIn users would say, I've been "networking." But isn't "networking" just a fancy way of saying, "riding a stranger's dick to get a job?" Well, anyway, I find that the working culture in our country often lacks ethics cause as soon as a person graduates high school, if or when they start looking for a job, they'd be provided with unpaid opportunities. The job's only perk would be that we'd get "experience" & a recommendation letter for our next job, which wouldn't even matter ?!So is working right after high school even worth it?

In hindsight, the only reason I've been chasing after jobs is cause I wanna be able to pay for my therapy, not that my parents wouldn't pay for them, but it's too much of an expense to put on their heads (or I believe so). And maybe a job would help me not fall into depressive episodes anymore cause I would be accustomed to a routine.

Falling in love

2022-03-11T19:51:00.007+05:45

I remember when I was a kid, I used to have this idea about love that it was so profound & so pure. Even now, I'm not sure what it means, but it has done incredible things to me and honestly made me a better person. It's so hard describing the very thing I experience & feel every fucking day. My interpretation of love is so simple; I believe it to be an emotion that gives you immense comfort and joy.

Although love has its variations be it romantic, platonic, or parental, I think each & every one of them is equally important. But "young love" it's incredibly flustering. When two young people with big dreams & ambition fall in love, the days suddenly start being more blissful & fun.

Ever since I met him, I've had this voice inside me that tells me I don't deserve to fall in love with someone so perfect cause I'm nothing like him; maybe it's my nativity that puts me in a position where I feel so insecure about the fact that someone else can love me the way I do them without having any expectations on me.

My experiences in the past made me feel love was violent, forceful & manipulative. But being treated precisely the opposite was so confusing to me; I used to think, "why is this person respecting my boundaries? Why does this person think that my opinions are important? Why does this person not force me into things.?" And it was a humbling experience to uncover all the trauma I'd been through. I found it amusing how he efficiently carried my burden & made me feel secure enough to be vulnerable around him.

December 6, 2020, was the first time we met in person. I was very nervous and scared. After seeing each other, we went for a walk where we smoked and talked a lot, and my nervousness gradually faded. We spent the entire day going to different cafes drinking tea and eating snacks. And during the afternoon of the same day, we went to a jewelry shop where I got my ears pierced, which resulted in us holding each other's hand, which felt alleviating. Then we went for a walk again, except this time, we held each other's hands and were playful.

After coming home, I couldn't stop thinking about him, us holding hands and being flirtatious with one another. It was such a wonderful day, and it made me so happy to share these cute little moments with a stranger I got to know from Twitter.

Days, weeks, and months passed by, and we met with one another every time we got to. And one day, it finally hit me; it felt like waves of emotions washed over me while I stood still on the shore of my tiny little beach, where waves represented "love," and I was slowly drowning in it…I was falling in love!

To my first girl crush

2022-03-05T21:33:00.007+05:45

I first formally met you in 8th grade; we competed against each other's team in a basketball game. I didn't even know how to play that sport; I was just there cause one of my teammates was injured.

Good god, you were so fucking beautiful. Amazing brunette hair with the perfect length, kind face, and legitimately a brilliant and caring individual. You were famous, athletic, and had a smile that could light up any room, and I was nothing like you. I usually find people in that position to be very mean and bratty, but I do honestly believe to this day that you were an exception cause you were always incredibly thoughtful and warm.

I'm not sure when I started liking you, but it was probably when we were getting to the end of 10th grade; I used to find you so pretty and attractive. You were one of the kindest people I knew back then, and even if we didn't have much in common, I'm so glad that we at least shared our interest in books; as much as I knew you were into fiction and used to read books from Paul Coelho constantly. You used to carry a book with you everywhere you went and sit on the last bench of your class, carefully annotating everything you found interesting.

Initially, we only spoke when it was necessary, but gradually I tried making conversation with you anytime I could. You were one of the few people I was out to at that point, and you made me feel comfortable about being myself. You were dating someone throughout grade 10, and the funny thing is I was really good friends with him too, and not one bit of your relationship made me feel jealous cause I knew he was the yellow you were searching for so long, and I never wanted that to end, cause you were so happy with him. Thus I never told you how I felt, also cause somewhere within me; I always knew I couldn't love you as much as he did.

We are no longer in touch now, cause after school we just drifted apart. You seem to be moving forward in another direction with your life, where you are pursuing your passion, and I'm not sure if it's a good thing, but I have nothing but the best wishes for you. I always liked you and forever will. And I hope you take good care of the book I gifted you.

Coping with grief & loss

2022-02-25T21:25:00.004+05:45

Everyone & Everything dies. The tree that you see right outside your door will die someday, the bird that's flying in the sky will no longer be in the sky one day, the snail that's moving on the ground will no longer be there one day, and we, we humans are as certain to die like Everything else in the world. Some die because they choose to do so, and some die because their body is reaching the end of its life. But grieving and mourning are different for everyone.

I'm not someone who intensely mourns over the death of people around me cause I understand death is inevitable, and there's not a power in the universe that can stop it; in addition, I'm never comfortable showing my emotions to others... It's tough losing someone close to us & it's tough having to move on with the realization of their absence...I often deal with my emotions by acknowledging the pain and understanding that there is no "normal" timetable for grieving. At one point, I used to feel nothing for people who died around me cause it felt very natural to me; I knew I was sad about the death but couldn't process the emotions, so I felt different than others and constantly questioned my feelings.

Nonetheless, it's been a few days since I've been having intense thoughts about people who have died around me, and I've started feeling very guilty about not having spent enough time with them... it's like, I feel more comfortable with my emotions involving them now than ever... But someone who I miss the most these days is Aama…She was an adorable and kind woman. I never had the best relationship with her, but it was never bad. I still remember some stories she used to tell me; I remember her face, her smile, her wrinkled hand, and how delicately she used to make wicks; I remember how she used to sunbathe even on the hottest summer days and how she used to have a small jar of salt right beside her bed.

And now, I feel bad for not having spent enough time with her; I feel like I should have been there for her; I wish I didn't distance myself from her...I wish I could change things, but I just can't.

Contractory to the truth, Just because one dies with hope/s in their head doesn't mean that people who die with question/s in their head are inferior. Having meaning with hope and having meaning with questions will not change the result, no matter how much one claims to know ((But again, how would I know I'm still alive, aren't I?)). Both could have heads full of knowledge that have led them to their prospective conclusions.

One problem with having existential thoughts and fears is that society makes it out to be something unnatural or something you shouldn't be thinking or concerning yourself with. A lot of dread stems from that rather than the thing causing the dread itself. It cripples you from processing it.

Getting over someone you have known most of your life is hectic & tiring. It's a very time-consuming process that completely drains you. Heck, it's natural to be scared of yourself, your thoughts, and your emotions. It's okay, It might take weeks or months, but you'll grow out of it. I'm sure many of us have had a dreadful fear of darkness, maybe the ones under your bed. It takes a while to think, react and grow, but we inevitably rise from the concern themselves. But imagine if we tried to work around our fear of darkness instead of facing it and growing out of it during childhood. Our lives would have been entirely different if we had looked at the grief that way. But realistically speaking, there's not much we can do, and griefing would require the same amount of time as falling in love with the person we are grieving for would take.

Grooming and hypersexuality

2022-02-20T21:40:00.005+05:45

I had a very chaotic teenage life; ever since I was 17, I started to go to therapy & was on a lot of antidepressants. Back then, my bisexuality & queer identity made me feel very uncomfortable and suffocated cause I wasn't able to accept myself; I guess that was just a result of my upbringing in a conservative household. Anyway, when I look back to the past, I see a very naive person who wanted a lot of validation and acceptance from people around them. I was a people pleasurer as I did about anything if it meant that the "said" person would be happy. But now that I'm 19, I understand things better than I used to, but I still carry a lot of shame & guilt, which I cannot get past. Many things happened to me while I was 16,17, and many of them still traumatizes me. But therapy has helped me manage my emotions regarding the said "subject."

When I was 16, I spent a lot of time online; I talked with many strangers and befriended them. But what was consistent was my urge to hypersexualize myself. I used to have very intense sexual interactions with people, especially men who were way older than me, making me feel very powerful cause I used to get a lot of attention from them, making me feel worthy. Constantly being told I'm way too mature for my age made me feel "old enough," which stopped me from viewing age as a boundary to what I can or cannot do.

But at one point, I was in "relationships" with men way older than me; they were 19, 20,21 each; while I was 16-17. But essentially, the point of these "relationships" was to exchange nudes and fulfill our desires while we engaged in "sexual" conversations. I didn't ask much from them, neither I had any expectations...nonetheless, I was asked to do many things for them, making me feel uncomfortable and humiliated. They would constantly bring up how I would turn 18 soon to justify how an adult being together with a minor was completely fine. I was like a "sexual object" to them; I would do about anything and everything if it meant that they would appreciate and validate my body and wouldn't abandon me. I was driven entirely by their "attention" and felt it was the only thing that made me complete. I couldn't understand why they didn't take "no" for an answer when things they made me do were utterly disgusting and sickening. Every time I got undressed for them, I felt very vulnerable and weak, but I still couldn't stop it. Sometimes they judged me for how I looked and passed comments on my body, making me feel very insecure to the point that I was starving myself so I could "please" them better.

In one particular session with my therapist, I talked about my relationships with men, and he pointed out how I was getting groomed and manipulated by them. I contradicted him by saying how i "consented" to everything I did. Still, he explained to me how an adult being with a minor is/was wrong and how easy it was for them to influence young girls to sexualize themselves; I was in a lot of self-denial, and later when I came back home, that day, all I could do was self reflect on things that had happened over a year, how I exploited myself to "satisfy" those men. I regretted everything I did and blamed myself for everything that had ever happened; it felt so revolting that it made me sick.

Two years later, I still carry a lot of shame and guilt, and there still are times when I feel so angry that I end up hurting myself. But this time around, I don't think I should be the one taking the blame for what had happened.

body & insecurities

2022-02-15T11:41:00.004+05:45

People are subconsciously pushed into looking like / or presenting themselves as a certain perfect figurine...And that figurine is somewhat already established... I feel everyone has been a victim of envying men & women in magazines, televisions, and phones because, for some reason, that felt acceptable and beautiful to us. But why do we hate it when it comes back to our bodies? The reasons are so much deeper than someone to pinpoint & explain; there are good reasons and bad reasons – they may not be correct, they may be horrific and mean and based on decades of well-funded sexism and fatphobia,...but they were taught to us while we were very young.

We cannot turn around without being exposed to depictions of very thin, tall, "flawless," often highly sexualized women & men. And due to the very fact that beauty is often related to people having "Perfect" bodies, we end up questioning our own; we even take it a step further and point out the parts of us that we feel are "flawed" and that only cuts into our sense of self. I remember watching myself grow into my body and hating every inch of it….to have asymmetrical breasts that spill forward thighs that touch each other, and a stomach that's fat very wrong to me….My abject failure to accept myself, love my body and celebrate it compounds the shame I feel for not achieving perfection in the first place. And it's just not enough to passively not give a shit cause what about the days when I can't even look into the mirror ?... If loving oneself is taken as a job, what about those days when we cannot love ourselves ?!

(Holy fucking shit, I hate my body...but self-love is a journey, so there's that)

Monotony of life

2022-02-11T12:21:00.003+05:45

Does anybody feel that life isn't really for them? That you're tired of it all. Some people wake up, and they go to work, and they wait in traffic, and they pay their bills, and they care about the opinion of others, and they come home to sleep in the same bed they've been sleeping since a decade or so... Do you ever feel like you're above all it all? The layers of bullshit in everyday life. Cause you know for a fact that people will let you down. The fact that everyone you've ever known will die. The vanity of existence, the lack of true meaning, and compensating for it by setting goals for yourself to keep busy is no different than the donkey that goes after the carrot on the stick.

Yeah, people will disregard those thoughts. They'll say you're "depressed ."They'll say meaning is in the little things. They'll try and help you with inhibitors, counseling, and hollow advice. They'll cut you out 'cause "wow, that negative energy is too much, man" only because they don't want to face the truth themselves, hiding behind their "LIVE, LOVE, WHATEVER" posters and their stupid "meaningful" mottos they have on their mugs or inked on their forearms. Sure, there are pretty things around to witness and feel. And every day is a gift. But does it have to be the same pair of socks every day?

It's been seven days of the same dumbfuck cycle for me, wake up at 9 am, quickly brush my teeth and eat a meal with the family...think about stuff till ten and then attend a wack-ass useless online class and as soon as it's over go to sleep and wake up around 2 pm eat lunch with family, do dishes and go back to the room and overcompensate about life while listening to Ciggerates After Sex...Then again, go to the roof around 5 pm or so, light some candles, incense whatever's around, and stay put the whole listening to symphonic rock while looking above the sky and watching the clouds move, then get back down and socialize with family too it's time for dinner... And after dinner, listen to more music and think and think and think a lot while some random Music plays in the background till it's past 2 am and then finally fall asleep around 3 am... And then again wake up at 9 am and continue the same cycle again and again and again... Nothing changes, everything is the same, same bed, same music, same sun, same class... Will this cycle ever end ?!