one day while studying a yeats poem i decided to write poetry the rest of my life. i recognized that a single short poem has room for history, music, psychology, religious thought, mood, occult speculation, character and events of one's own life.
everytime i’m travelling w my father, he strikes a conversation. we start from discussing politics to how engines work to poetry to crop fields. he fills me on all the family drama and i fill him in on all the drama going on in my friend circle. we are basically best friends.
it’s not the large things that send a man to the madhouse. it’s not the large things that send a man to the madhouse. it’s not the large things that send a man to the madhouse. it’s not the large things that- it’s not the large things- it’s not the-
most medicos are stupid people with brilliant cramming skills and lack creativity, also they so annoyingly believe they are superior than people with other majors. never came across a rational take by a medical student
no it’s not and you’re a terrible fucking mother if you think beating your kid to a pulp is what motherhood is about, don’t have children if you’re an emotionally unavailable and a terrible fucking person. stop putting this behaviour on a pedestal
currently having a breakdown in some big hot shot restaurant’s loo, i personally think it’s very victorian, jane austen fused with female lead of some bollywood commercial cinema of me.
the days of my moving out are approaching and baba just randomly went “abhi idher ho tou kabhi pyaar se baat karlete hain, kabhi ghuse se. chali jaogi tou hum chup kar ke paray raha karain gai dono (my mother and him)” my heart’s a bit wounded now
when my daughter goes through a heartbreak she’d know her mother is in the next room with a tub of ice cream and a collection of her favourite romcoms and would stay up all night telling her no chihuahua looking man can ever break her heart