Faded Thoughts

Don’t you ever think back on it all, wonder where things went wrong.. At one point everything was perfect, it was all so beautiful.. I loved you, you seemed to love me.. It felt good, so fucking good to have that security of knowing that if the world was falling apart I still had you.. That was everything to me you know, out of all things I could have in this life, I had everything in you.. I just miss that I guess, I can’t help but constantly try and figure out what happened or where we went wrong.. I blame myself so much thinking I could have done things differently or better to keep from losing you.. No matter who’s fault it actually was I will always blame myself for some strange reason, I’ve always been that way when things go wrong, I come down so hard on myself.. That made it really hard for me to move on, even harder than it already was just knowing that I lost what seemed to be the perfect one for me.. I’m not sure how some folks just get up and move on so easily, maybe it’s just me but that pain was unbearable for a little while, the constant aching in my chest and feeling as though it was harder to breathe without you.. I will never forget that feeling.. But eventually things got better, it hurt a little less and I figured out how to put you in my past and keep you there.. Yet still I have these days, when I miss you, think I still love you and reminisce on all the moments we had when I was still convinced everything was perfectly fine.. I will probably never get to a point when I never think of you again, and that’s ok with me because when I loved you, I really loved you, and I would never expect myself to just forget that or cast those feelings away as if they never existed.. Maybe you can, but I could never.. So you will keep that place you had in my heart forever, there’s no need for you to be replaced because my heart is big enough to love again and find some space for someone else..

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Posted by on December 15, 2017 in random thoughts


Tear Drops

Two little teardrops were floating down the river of life. One drop said to the other, “I am the teardrop of a girl who loved a man and lost him.” Who are you? “Well, I am the teardrop of the girl who won him.” Love is very strange. Love is unconditional commitment to an imperfect individual. You need it but when you love, it’s like destining yourself for pain. You become addicted and dependent on the person. You become strong and at the same time, you open yourself up to being hurt. Love can make you bear any kind of pain and any kind of sacrifice. It can also make you feel stupid and act stupidly. Sometimes when you love and end up giving so much of yourself, subconsciously you only discover how much you’ve given when the person you love hurts you or has to say goodbye. 

Then you realize, an important part of yourself is already with that person. It goes away when he leaves and you are left with a sickening, empty feeling inside. 

Tears are bound to shed from your eyes no matter how you force yourself to keep them in. Most teardrops ever shed on this earth have been for love or lack of it. When tears dry, a silent loss sticks to your heart for a long, long time. 

Well, that’s what you get for caring so much about someone. But how can you regret it? To give yourself freely and lovingly is the most beautiful thing you can do. Loving makes you real. Loving also makes you cry. And that is why a teardrop is also BEAUTIFUL….


Posted by on December 4, 2017 in random thoughts


Muffled: A Short Story

“Mr. Rohit?”

The boy paused, his attention entirely undivided as he studied the edge of the wooden desk before him, running his hand along it and repeatedly tilting his head so as to better examine it from several angles. Just barely over the threshold of detection was a source of sound which manifested itself as a blurry, moving blob in the topmost part of his peripheral, the rest of his visual field filled with the dark shine of expensive, government-owned wood.

“Mr. Rohit is my father,” he almost said, eventually resolving that he lacked the humility to cop to such a cliche phrase and directed his eyes from the edge of the desk upward with a sadistically deliberate slowness. The boy was only barely able to notice a reaction to his lack of enthusiasm before making eye contact with the some four-odd foot-tall troll-person; he blinked twice, boringly redirecting his attention back to the desk edge painted with its many black grooves and imperfections, devoting to this transition an equal measure of slothfulness as he had in directing his attention away from it. He understood that to look away from the man behind the desk too quickly might give some indication of nervousness or concern, and hesitation perhaps if too slowly. In his desire to appear apathetic and uninvolved, he resumed his amateur study of woodworking.

“Mr. Rohit?”

The temperature of the office seemed to have been rising steadily over the short period of ten minutes. Was this how torture tactics worked?

“I need you to look at me, young man,” the Dean said through pursed lips. “This is not a joke.”
The boy sighed inaudibly and looked down as the small, square enclosure which was the dean’s office began to make him feel uneasy, cracking under the impending stress of claustrophobia and cold sweat.

“What?” the boy asked, speaking for the first time without raising his head, making no effort to hide his irritation. “Why am I here?”

“You are here,” the Dean began, “to answer to some very serious allegations made against you by a group of your peers. Within the context of recent disciplinary developments, your guilt is not an, ehm… inconceivable possibility; I am sure you know Mrs. Malhotra, the geometry teach—

“Are you listening to me, Mr. Rohit?” he asked more forcefully this time as he noticed the boy’s head begin to droop once again. No response issued from the lanky, slouched adolescent, a master of the art of sleeping while sitting, despite never having learned how to do so with his eyes open (though this not due to a lack of effort—he had, quite literally, lost a fair amount of sleep over the whole thing). After a brief interlude of silence, five stubby fingers and a sweaty, fat palm softly nudged the boy’s shoulder, who awoke with a start at the slightest hint of stimulus and wiped drool from the corner of his mouth with his right arm.

“Are you paying attention, Mr. Rohit? You need to wake up.”

“No, I’m not paying the fuck attention,” the boy flared, staring up at the pig-human with bloodshot eyes, an embodiment of that queer phenomenon whereby the transition from sleepiness to anger occurs with alarming speed. “I’m tired as all hell, and you keep talking up a goddamn storm instead of explaining why I’m here. I have classes to be in. Just spit it the fuck out already, won’t you?”

The chubby figure behind the desk hesitated, and what little flesh the boy could distinguish as the Dean’s face appeared to soften briefly; thereafter followed repetitive contractions of his dime-sized nostrils and an expression of suspicion, perhaps even a little anger.

“Are you high, boy?” the Dean blurted out, leaving his mouth slightly ajar in an expression of shock after he finished the question. It was understood by both parties that the Dean had taken notice of the circumcorneal redness, strings of drool, and lack of affect which indicated that Suraj was far less capable than he thought he was, at least at the moment; moving into a state of light panic and looking around, presumably to make sure nobody was listening, the Dean made movements that the boy could only interpret as checking to see if his office had been bugged. Had these people truly never dealt with a stoned student before?

“What are you thinking?” he whispered sharply, leaning over and casting anxious glances at his office door, presumably making sure he was not being watched or listened to; it was clear that the Dean was uncomfortable with the position he was in. Suraj laughed.

“I’m on some new medication. I just started today and it’s got me a bit droopy. Call my doctor and check for yourself if you’re really that paranoid.”

Multiple pops, cracks, and clanks signaled the rise of this not-quite-skinny, not-quite-fat man from his office chair, intense enough to be detected by Suraj as a sequence of vibrations moving from the floor beneath him to the bones in his legs and feet. The Dean prompted further laughter from the boy as his stout, chubby figure waddled towards him with surprising agility and vigor.

“You’re lying, Mr. Rohit,” the Dean said through closed teeth, now standing over the boy and taking several short whiffs of his gray hooded sweater. He paused and bent over Suraj’s shoulder, taking deeper inhalations and giving them adequate time to digest.

“I can smell it on you, Suraj. You smell like dope,” he concluded with confidence, electing to resume an upright posture once more in light of his discovery. The boy half-expected that he might place his hands on his hips and stare off into the distance dramatically; instead, he paced back towards the backside of the desk and dropped his plump bottom onto the leather cushion (which issued a high-pitched scream in response), rickety and in desperate need of repair after years of excessive load-bearing.

“I will call in the resource officer in a heartbeat if you do not believe I am serious about this. Are you going to stop lying to me, young man? Do I need to call Officer?”
“I’m not lying to you,” Suraj said unconvincingly. “I don’t have any dope.”

He truly wasn’t, and he really didn’t: What the the Dean was smelling was resin, which he had liberated from his bowl with the aid of an aggressive, hour-long ass-fucking with a bobby pin and subsequently smoked a fuck-ton of prior to embarking on his academic pursuits for the day. He hadn’t had any pot, unfortunately, but with it being 4/20 he would be god-damned if he didn’t find a way to get high somehow; despite hating the cliche nature of stoner culture, he felt that he could at least observe this small tradition, which would also offer the benefit of intoxicating him. Suraj noticed that the Dean’s face had taken the form of a ripening tomato, and that he appeared to be angrily holding his breath for some reason.

“Listen,” the vermilion ripple of flesh started, exhaling hard as he did so and spraying pieces of saliva from his lips in the process. “Do not insult my intelligence. You are here because four individuals have implicated you in a very serious instance of vandalism which took place yesterday, in the East Wing, near the end of the school day. You’re familiar with Mrs. Malhotra? … Right… I have here,” he started, pausing as he opened a desk drawer above his lap, slid it towards him and started rummaging through the papers within.

Suraj had time enough to sketch a brief plan of action in his mind as the administrator flipped through pages of God-knows-what, removing several sheets and holding them in his left hand to make room for more effective and efficient searching with his right one. After a minute or two, he finally closed it—taking particular care not to slam the drawer—turning on his swivel chair to face Suraj again as he concluded that whatever he had been attempting to locate was not to be found therein. The Dean’s next best guess was the uppermost of three large filing cabinets, stacked vertically, centimeters from his left knee and leg; after nearly twenty seconds of angrily biting his lower lip and rearranging multiple stacks of invisible documents, he pulled a tan manila folder from beneath other the desk and placed it on his desk, open.

“Right… I have here, three— no, four— disciplinary referrals here under your name, all written by Mrs. Malhotra herself,” he said very quickly, licking his middle finger and sliding four pieces of paper off the top of the stack towards Suraj. He reversed their orientation in the process by twisting his wrist without lifting his saliva-topped appendage, his finger making a gesture in the form of a letter C, so that Suraj need not attempt to read the documents upside-down, which he very well could have done.

“It’s barely September, and each one of these reprimands have been issued in the last three weeks. If you are going to try to convince me that it is just acoincidence—”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Suraj said, just now processing parts of the conversation which had happened a minute or two ago. “Are you accusing me of vandalism, did you say? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well,” the Dean began, clearing his throat and visibly uncomfortable once more. Though slightly amused by the reproach demonstrated by a figure of authority, Suraj did not laugh, well aware that this situation had the potential to fuck him good and proper if serious words like vandalism were being thrown around.

“Yesterday, during Mrs. Malhotra’s planning period—that is the last hour of the school day—someone…” he started, heaving a large sigh. “Well… urinated in her filing cabinets, destroying a large amount of homework to be graded and other paperwork. She’s extremely upset.”

The boy allowed his jaw to drop dramatically, adopting an expression of ultimate shock, completely at a loss for words. Taking note, the Dean hesitated briefly before resuming his reading of the charges.

“Regardless… Because you’ve been specifically named by not one, not two, notthree, but FOUR individuals, plus the extremely recent history of conflict with this teacher in particular, you are, quite frankly, our ‘number one suspect,’ if you will—”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” Suraj interjected incredulously, shaking his head rapidly as he began to comprehend the insane nature of his early-morning office visit. He let his body go limp, deflating into the chair as far backwards as he was able, a tribute incarnate to anti-marijuana television advertisements circa 2005. He felt it was unfair that he could not laugh at the absurdity of the situation, as he would have in any other situation in which he was not stoned nor the “number one suspect.”

“Now, Suraj, we just—”

“No, no. Hold on a fucking second. You called me down here because you think I pissed,” he said, pausing dramatically for a brief moment. “In my fucking geometry teacher’s desk? Why in God’s name do you think I did it? Because some fucking group of four kids in a school with sixty cliques and thirty fucking gangs says I did? Because some angry bitch has been too busy trying to gut me that she can’t grade papers in a timely fucking fashion? Fuck you. This whole school is one big fucking brick toilet. You, sir,” he said, intentionally drawing out the last word sarcastically, “can suck a cock, and you—”

He turned, now facing the third person in the room for the first time during the meeting; an Punjabi girl of nineteen or twenty, to whom Suraj had never actually spoken directly despite having seen her every day for three years, rotated nervously to face the boy whose angry outburst had quite visibly frightened her. Suraj’s feelings of pressure and vulnerability—which had been present since the word “vandalism” was used—had only served to make the boy more unpredictable; he had hit the breaking point.

“Fuck you, too, Komal. As if I can’t fucking see what you’re saying,” he said. “How many goddamn people do you know that can’t hear or can’t read lips either? You are a translator. You will translate what I say, as I say it. Read my hands,” he started, violently molding them into different gestures and movements at an almost imperceptible speed.

“Fuck yourself,” he finished with a grand flourish of his arms, resisting the urge to spit in her face for taking advantage of his inability to speak for himself.

“I don’t care if you don’t ‘like swear words,’ I don’t care if it was your mother’s dying wish that you never speak a naughty word in any fucking language, be it sign or fucking Punjabi,” he continued. “If I sign a ‘bad word,’ you fuckingtranslate the bad word. If you fucking censor me again, Komal, I’ll hop over this fucking chair and break your goddamn neck, which I have no trouble doing on my own. You’re all pieces of shit,” he ended dramatically, making sure to highlight each obscenity with both slower and more deliberate hand movement before proceeding to rise to his feet once again.

He spoke aloud with his actual voice, garbled and throaty without the ability to moderate his speech with the aid of hearing. He could see the effect this perverse sound—compounded with his sarcastic enthusiasm, in the form of a menacing smile—had on the Dean, who took no care to avoid flinching in response. This was the first time he had attempted to speak with his actual vocal chords in several years, preferring sign language for the majority of the time he had been deaf and therefore the majority of his life; to speak aloud now, especially stoned on resin, was difficult and emotional for Suraj, though it was important that his act be convincing.

Komal, with straight black hair down to her ass, was crying by this point and extremely confused as to how her workday had taken such a terrible turn. Suraj saw her cast a desperate glance at the Dean for some form of support, and slowly break and begin to cry as she realized that she was alone in this conflict, as the Dean had absolutely no clue what was happening; he had only observed a sequence of aggressive hand gestures, including the violent miming of a blowjob, followed by a near-unintelligible garble.

The brain behind the desk began to realize that there was a situation occurring, his gaze oscillating rapidly between Suraj and the Translator, asking for information. It was raw, unadulterated comedy; Suraj would have erupted with giggles had he not been so angry. Komal wiped her nose on her sleeve and then, looking down at her elbow, held her face with the crook of her right thumb and index finger above her lips and sobbed lightly into her palm. Suraj watched the Dean’s expression from confusion to concern, asking several times, “What did he say?”

Even with her mouth exposed, it was difficult for the hard-of-hearing non-conformist to read her lips while she was crying. Suraj could make out the word “break,” and could only assume that she had snitched on him for threatening her, though technically he could not be certain and did not really care at the moment—the Dean, on the other hand, did not seem to think that threatening a faculty member was much of a joke. He immediately uprooted himself from his chair and moved quickly for the door, taking exceptional careto slam it; Komal continued to cry into her palm silently in the corner.

Suraj felt the rhythmic thump-thump of the Dean’s stomps grow less intense and pause before beginning its return to full amplitude in a dramatic crescendo of suspense which lasted approximately thirty seconds, finally culminating in a sort of anti-slam—the sudden and powerful swinging open of the door—which thrust a gust of air through the room and blew Komal’s hair over her left shoulder, which she fixed quickly in between sobs. Irate and accompanied by the RO, the Dean began speaking loudly and directly to the cop, pointing at Suraj and making large arm movements with an unreasonably angry expression on his face. Suraj believed him to be overreacting, personally figuring that this woman did not have a place in education regardless if she was not capable of withstanding insults from a deaf teenager whose obscenities comprised a lexicon with a whopping length of five words.

The Dean was cooling down slightly, though still clearly very angry that Komal was Suraj made out the words “drugs” and “threats,” as well as a third one he was quite sure was “vandalism.” The resource officer was middle-aged, plain, Caucasian and red-haired, an exact opposite of the police stereotype; he looked at the delinquent with stern disappointment, staring down at Suraj past a bushy ginger mustache.

The heat was coming down, and this began to freak out the youngest member of the Sharma family—he closed his eyes in an oft-utilized stress coping mechanism, and all was quiet. He felt vibrations in the floor which indicated the movement of both the Dean and the Translator, and a dull reverberation he could only assume was a door slamming; upon opening his eyes, he was able to confirm that he was alone. The Dean, for some odd reason, had left to collect the resource officer only to leave once more.

Suraj was shocked to find that he grew rather bored very quickly. He looked at the clock on the white brick wall to his right, which read just past eight-thirty behind the once-transparent, yellowing plastic cover. A lot had transpired in less than half an hour, and the office’s sole occupant found himself studying the room in a less-than-successful attempt to pass time. In less than twenty minutes, Suraj was sound asleep, hunched over in his chair and snoring.

A piece of phlegm, saliva, or some other airway obtrusion caused a cough to issue from the slumbering teenager, which prompted him to wake with a start. He looked at the clock, noticing that an additional half hour had passed as he slept; had they forgotten about him? He could feel the shuffling of feet and commotion behind the thick door, and after five minutes, he wondered if he had been locked inside. Extending his arm, he gripped the doorknob and twisted it slightly, and, noticing no rigidity, assumed that he was, in fact, free.

He swung the heavy door open, and noticed nobody was standing outside of it. Despite this, he could ‘hear’ people doing things somewhere in the office; he stepped through the doorway into the lobby where seats for students to sit in while waiting to meet with administrators, as well as a receptionist’s desk for the ‘administrative assistant’ who handled calls for those same primarily male administrators. There Suraj observed the school staff, though there body language was peculiar and strange, and he thought he could hear several women sobbing… Had his outburst truly upset this many people? He had not even made noise.

“Look, I didn’t mean to—” he started, before pausing in confusion as he stopped to observe the scene.

The resource officer, the Dean, and several secretaries who would preferred to be called administrative assistants stood gathered around a tiny television next to the receptionist’s desk, forming a circle. Several of the women were indeed crying. Suraj was intrigued, but mostly confused, and approached the circle to see what was going on. He called out to the Dean by name for the first time, who turned around and appeared very upset and disturbed, though was not crying.

“What— What’s going on?” Suraj asked, having long ago dropped the uptight badass routine.


“Just go home, Suraj. Get out of here.”

He did not ask any questions, and walked straight out of the lobby heading directly home to catch the news and find out what had saved his ass. In the years to come, he would regret his behavior that day and struggle with the fact that he had gotten off because of those two trenchcoat-wearing fuck-ups, that he almost owed them one for them putting holes in over thirty kids. His future self would furthermore commend the four assholes who had framed him for pissing in the geometry teacher’s desk; there are a lot of ways to pick on the deaf kid, but that was certainly one of the more creative ones—and he never even once felt the need to buy a gun.

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Posted by on November 30, 2017 in Short Fiction


The Ultimate Freedom -Positivity

Today, I discovered the secret to freedom. Let me explain…
Have you ever asked yourself when you’re worried about something, what it is that is actually worrying you? Meaning truly and deeply?
Have you asked yourself what is it that you feel you will have to endure or experience if said thing does or does not happen? Of course, sometimes, like when one is fearing, a negative diagnosis, this would equate to a painful or seriously concerning set of circumstances. But many times, when we are worrying about something, such as something not going our way, we don’t pause and think, how bad would it actually feel if it happened?
I was having one of these moments today. I was notified about a particular (potential) problem with something I was counting on, and I began worrying and being upset that the outcome would not be in my favor; that the situation would not go the way I’d like it to or had hoped it would. And as a result, I sat their stirring and stewing about it.
But then I decided to try something. I have been working on my positivity lately, so I thought, no, I’m going to be happy right now either way and not worry. So I smiled, in order to cultivate the happiness I was trying to manifest. And you know what? For a moment, it worked. I wasn’t so worried and I found, I could be happy with whatever.
And I realized something. I realized that even if it doesn’t go the way I want, and I choose to still be happy…then what am I worried about?
Many worries, at the end of the day, are fear of potential disappointment. Sometimes we are so worried, that we don’t even realize that what we are actually worried about is worrying (or similar emotions, such as a feeling of general upset).
If however, we are choosing to be happy at every moment, to be positive, then the worry is really nonexistent. If I am happy no matter what, whether it goes my way or not, then what is there to fear?
This is where my Passover insight comes in. In this moment (this brief and fleeting moment) where I truly felt happy and unconcerned about the outcome of my potential problem, I felt so free. I felt like, nothing can hurt me. If I am choosing at every moment to be happy, what can bother me? How can something going wrong be that bad, if even when it does, I am still happy?
This is how I realized that positivity is the ultimate freedom.
As Passover approaches, I’ve been thinking about what I am a slave to. (At the seder, we are all supposed to see as ourselves, as we have also gone out from slavery to freedom. This is why people focus on their personal slavery and their path to freedom, this time of year).
While there is actually more than one answer, the one standing out to me now, is my emotions. And more specifically, a false sense of succumbing to them. In other words, if at any particular moment, any particular situation can generate a negative emotion in me, I am not at all in control of myself or my feelings. I am a slave to my emotions (and to life’s circumstances). If however, no matter the situation, I choose to be positive, to be happy, then I am free.
And on top of that, when we feel positive and happy, we actually feel more free. We feel looser and less constrained. Happiness is liberating.
And this is how I discovered the secret to freedom. It’s positivity. But not just positivity: the choice to be positive. Knowing that you can’t be burdened by the feelings of sadness or anxiety no matter what, that you will choose to be happy and positive steadfastly, is such a release…that it is the ultimate freedom.

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Posted by on November 23, 2017 in random thoughts



Ever felt irritated of everything around you? Ever wanted to just be away from the world and to live just in your own built place of memories?

Ever wanted to lock yourself there and never come back? Ever wanted darkness?
Well, the things you have at present is known as freedom for some wanderering souls.
No, by freedom I don’t mean the permission of doing all the illegal things or freedom from the never ending questions of your parents. Freedom has different meaning for everybody.
For some its FREEDOM, freedom from the cage. Freedom for some is the longing of watching the sunrise, its walking by the sea under the city of stars and it is PEACE, peace of soul. Freedom for some is just a dream, its a wish of breaking out the cage someday and fly, fly high to conquer the mysteries of sky. It is the never ending long drives and tangled romance with moon chasing you or you chasing the moon. Freedom for some
means breathing independence and giving out all fears. Freedom for some is escape from the cage of loneliness to the warmth of crowd. It is to admire the brightness of the loving old couple and not to replay the darker past. It is to cherish the fight of little cuties and a poor boyfriend getting cursed for being late..for some, freedom is to just watch people living, living without a cage..For some it is to make others happy so that they can lighten some weight from their fetters of sins and to fly high towards the peace..for some freedom is to get high, high on the beauty of nature and to loose themselves in it. Freedom for some is not just to live and breathe, it is to love without fear, fear of is to be alive, it is to chase dreams. Freedom is to feel Everything out of Nothing.
Freedom is breaking out the cage to a new morning of tranquillity. But freedom now is a thing, far away from the society…



Posted by on November 21, 2017 in random thoughts


Words to her

I’ve been shoving this away for a long time now. The only way I make things real in my head is when I write about whatever has happened, and I refused to let go of you because how could I accept that you have left me? You never did. When I kicked you, when I pulled your tail, when I whacked your snout in an effort to make you leave the room or at least move away from me, you never did. And now, when you’re gone, I’m the one pulling your memory closer to me, because you were, and you are a part of me.

One of the most important people in my life told me something that hit only now. You’re not here now and you won’t be here again. But the memories I have of you, with you, are mine. They are bequeaths you left me, and no one can possibly take them away from me. That was the beauty of your existence too. By acknowledging me as your mistress and by giving me all your loyalty, love, affection and care, you had made yourself irreplaceable. You had made yourself one of the few points of gravity that kept me grounded.

You had such human eyes. I wouldn’t call them smart because you were, well, daft. But human eyes. Kind eyes. A lot of people questioned why, exactly, I acted like I did when I lost you; ‘Just a dog’, ‘you can buy another puppy’, and my personal favourite, ‘you can only feel for non-humans, can’t you?’. But what these people don’t realize is that you weren’t just a dog to me. You came to me during a phase in my life where I didn’t know if I was still human. I was a monster with an abject lack of empathy. You taught me so much.

You taught me to let go of grudges. To enjoy little things. To appreciate routine. To love unconditionally. To show love artlessly. To give all of myself. To demand love that I deserve. To want someone’s smile enough to make a fool of myself to extract it. To accept new people, but be wary enough to protect myself. You taught me how to be a better person and you taught me how to love. Funnily, most of the humanity I exhibit, I learned from a dog. I’m thankful for that, because people would have taught me with words. You, however, taught me by example and that’s why the lessons have stuck with me.

I’m going to have dogs after you. I had dogs before you. Some day, you’ll be a part of the data I’ll transfer from machine to machine, struggling to keep my youth alive through digital reminiscence. But there will be things I won’t forget. I won’t forget the month of research it took to narrow down on you, the first visit to the pet store as we searched for a beagle, the first time we met you, at 9pm, when you, a tiny, overfed, waddling puppy decided to choose us. The look on mom’s face when you went ahead brazenly, as though driven by an inherent instinct, and curled up into a ball on her feet. The first time you entered your new home, in a blue polythene bag, a tiny head poking out, almost too adorable to be real.

The most telling sign of you being my dog was the dog trainer’s reaction to you. He was a professional, and he gave up on you in a week, and all he said was ‘let him be, he’ll learn what he needs to, himself.’ There was a certain camaraderie you and I shared as the troublemakers of the house. And that’s what I’ll miss. In a house full of people with focus, determination and an innate sense of right and wrong, we were always mildly left of center. Our moral compasses, although aligned with each other, were slightly skewed from everyone else’s. Maybe the fact that you were too human for your own good, and I was, and am, not human enough, developed into a solidarity that I wouldn’t have given up for the world.

There were days you were my only friend, and you truly were good company. Not many friends stay when you push them away, but you did. You always did. You stayed with me when I actively tried to shoo you away. That was possibly the most important lesson you taught me; that I’m worthy and capable of loving and being loved. I’m still learning, and there are people I wish I could have introduced you to, because they’re showing me the truth behind your lessons. I think you would’ve liked them.

I have so many regrets, in retrospect. That one night when I could’ve taken you for a walk but I was too tired to, and let the maid take you. The days when I was cranky and didn’t play with you even though that was, sometimes, the only thing that could make things okay. The days when I was at the vet’s with you and instead of comforting you, I was too absorbed in a novel. The times I didn’t love you as much as you deserved to be loved, and the times when I didn’t do your simple love justice. I know it’s too late for platitudes, but I truly did think I could have loved you tomorrow. And now, suddenly, tomorrow doesn’t exist.

I need you to promise me a few things. I need to know you’ll be okay. I know you’re loving all this attention, wherever you are. You need to promise to be good. Don’t bite people with red umbrellas. Don’t fall into ponds. Don’t cry when I come home late. Don’t beg for chicken when someone’s cooking. Don’t make a fool of yourself for papaya. Don’t jump onto sofas and challenge Mom to retaliate. Don’t poke your nose into the kitchen and whine for raw vegetables. Don’t drag your leash into mud. Don’t run away when someone tries to bathe you. Don’t do that retarded beagle water dance.

I loved you, you little goof. I still love you. You took with you a small part of me. In return, you gave me limitless amounts of love and a pool of memories I can dip into in times of dire need because your unpretentious, uncomplicated love translated into fortitude and support. It translated into an aim; An aim to love as well as you have loved me


Posted by on November 18, 2017 in love, random thoughts



Question everything, including your beliefs. When I’m having one of those days where I get stressed out and things seem unfair, I always find myself asking “are my thoughts about this actually correct?” I find that in any circumstance, there are several ways to interpret events. I won’t lie and say there is always a positive. Sometimes there isn’t. But there is often a neutral version, more of a “ok, this happened, now what?” It causes me to look for solutions and how to best manage my present situation rather than waste my precious energy fuming about it. I can tell so clearly now when I’m falling down that rabbit hole of negative stress. It feels horrible. I feel hopeless and on the verge of tears (unfortunately this is most often at work!) This type of stress is not healthy. But there IS a form of stress that is healthy, and it’s the type that stimulates your mental and physical resources to not just get through a situation, but to prosper from it, to develop skills that you can use later. To open to a different perspective you might not have considered before. All you have to do is question your own beliefs, to not take on faith that what your mind tells you is true. Not everything you think about the world is even your own idea; you were taught how to think the things you do. Look at those thoughts. If they aren’t helping to uplift you during times of stress and darkness, they aren’t serving you.


Posted by on November 6, 2017 in random thoughts

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