Louis Tomlinson Lyrics - Tumblr Posts

The greatest tragedy of my life, some days, is how much words mean to me. It may be because I was not good with them initially, but eventually fell in love with their existence. It may be because it always took me alot to form a proper sentence that could make way to everyone's heart.

Some miniscule words, some days, have made me happier like never before. Other more miniscule words, have hurt me beyond my imaginations. They say words are nothing but superficial coverings of the oceanic depth of feelings. And coverings are often misleading. But how do I believe in the fakeness of words, when they have been my sole friend when I had so much to feel, but nothing much to say. My coping mechanism. Words.

-WORDS

Vanshika Singh, 24 Mar, 2022

I've felt an indescribable agony surround me whenever I have cared too much. And realised it ain't coming back in the remotest of it's form. It has managed to unnerve me everytime. And everytime I have reprimanded myself for caring too much. I have, each time, made resolutions that I'd become that stiff, upright wall that doesn't bend to form a shed for others. But these resolutions, like any other have broken each time, leaving me baffled at my own nature.

Caring, I realised, is a disease with no cure. Once you start caring, there's no coming back. If you care, you care with all of yourself.

And this failing to stop myself from caring is my second biggest tragedy. First is still caring despite everything.

-CARING

Vanshika Singh, 25 March, 2022

I think knowing people goes in two ways- knowing facts about them, and knowing them exactly as a person. I think it is not hard to dig deep and find information that can sum up a person's life. Difficult is- finding what they are, and what they've been in the course of their life. What they have felt throughout, and what they seek forward to feel. The world today, is a social platform, where lives are all laid out for people to judge. The deeper, hidden, unexplored and unseen layers are what people actually are.

I searched myself in your green-blue eyes,

I was lost, I found, like a bird in the skies.

Who would have thought, we'd be mysteries one day,

and that no roads of mine would lead to your way.

The pale hued bookmarks, still rests at their place,

your captions are there, but where's your trace?

I wish so bad, for the times to be back,

But I can't really overlook the huge deadly crack.

Let's be glad, we once had what we did,

the lines of this poem, just keep it so well hid.

VANSHIKA SINGH, Green-Blue eyes

My biggest tragedy is that I never feel empty. Even when I am at the abyss of nothingness, I feel so much of it inside. I feel even when there is nothing to feel about. I feel my existence, my breaths, my beats, and all that explicit outer stuff that constitutes my surface. This feeling of hyper awareness, me knowing myself like we know A-B-C, me self condemning myself at the smallest of misbehavior, me beating myself up for every mistake.

Often, we complain people are conceited and do not accept their bad deeds. I think that is the obliviousness I want to feel some days. The art of only embracing my good side and being in denial that the bad even exists. That is how people live. That is how people save themselves.

And I have been dying everyday, every moment, and every single second.

-An excerpt from the autobiography I will never write, Vanshika.

I met a wrinkly old woman today, on my way back home, asking me to make some space in the seat. The creases near her eyes, and the veins clearly visible in her almost translucent skin, stirred something in me. The skeletal body, trying hard to sustain in the wrapped cotton saree, and a small bag, that probably held her world. She was most certainly in her eighties, travelling alone in a metro, needing protection from all possible sides, symbolically and literally. But as she sat beside me, and a creepy man walked past, she held the steel bar beside me, hiding me from a probable attack, pretending like she knew me and I knew her, and we were travelling together. I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed to feel the protection from a lady, who could barely protect herself. She did what you would have. She was so much like you.

The creepy man, most probably was no grave danger. May be he just looked creepy. And I believe I knew ways to protect myself if it was the situation worth worrying. But that thin hand, with protruding blue veins, and shrunken skin, did manage to make me feel safe.

How hard it is for people to leave absolutely? So they leave no trace behind. I saw you, in her today. "Thankyou Dadi!", I uttered before leaving, the words I never said to you. We were close but unexpressive. And I wish I said so much to you.

That toothless smile, and those sunken cheeks, did make me smile goofily. The smile of the older ones are the most beautiful ones in the whole wide world.

Keep visiting me this way. I have to tell you alot.

An excerpt from an autobiography I will never write, Vanshika

I do not have the capacity to end a conversation on a bad note. I just do not have the guts to do so. I cannot live in peace knowing something or somewhere my words would have hurt the other person, and still live on like nothing ever happened. I'd apologize, make the situation funny or worse admit it was all me, even when it was not.

At times I feel I fail as a human, because this is clearly a lack of strength in me. A strength to not feel guilty of hurting someone. But at times I admire myself, and want people to be as soft on me, as I am on them. But this is the world we are talking about. Nothing comes back the way it goes.

And the worst, I'd ever do to myself is to become the hard, I hate the world is. I'd rather viciously be killed, than delicately hurt someone.

-An excerpt from the autobiography I will never write, Vanshika.

I just can't get enough of the feeling of being perceived as just me. Me, the entity, the present me, the me that you see right now, at this very moment. Not the me at my worst, or the me at my best. When I am seen exactly where I stand, what I am at this moment. When they take me in right now. Remind me this is my reality. And not the one where I am busy fighting with my past regrets of doing things wrong, or future fears of messing things up. But somewhere in the middle where I know I am not alone, no matter what mess I make.

-An excerpt from the autobiography I will never write, Vanshika.

My mother once said to me, "The most basic womanly thing expected out of every woman out there, by the virtue of her birth, is not assuming her caretaker role. It is, rather, being able to read the sadness of a human, and assuring them, at the least, of the presence they can offer. Because of all things she can lend-mind, body, heart and soul, her presence is the most precious of all."

-Excerpts from an autobiography I will never write, Vanshika

The only regret I ever held about my life, is that I regretted too much.

-Vanshika

Me: People say I am cruel, and that I should try to reach out to my inner child. The heart of the child inside me.

Also me: I would like to admit I have 3-4 hearts of children inside me.

Also also me: I like to collect them.

Also also also me: Kidnap is the correct word probably.

Someone: So how many times do you pretend to be in a conversation, while completely zoning out about life?

Me: Yes.

You wait for me,

was the plan.

I saw you standing,

so I ran.

I could not believe,

people stay.

Warm promises still spur,

come what may.

-Vanshika Singh

I have had two types of critics in my life.

1. "It is a negative point of your personality but it won't stick with you if you try to get better. And it does get better if you try hard enough. I'd be here to correct you and support you through this."

2. "Your this negative trait makes you the worst person I have met, in my whole life. I hope you die."

If I hadn't known better, I would have died.

We live in a non-friendly locality. A typical urban setting with dominating anonymity. We greet people often, out of courtesy to show that we come from a good family. Nothing like the silent pact, that states 'reach out to me if you are in problem'.

An old man, in his late seventies, just shifted from his village, after his wife died to live with his son, who lives in the same locality as us. He was a breath of fresh air. He greeted everybody who walked past him, not because of courtesy, but because he really cared. If he did not see us, or our car parked outside our home, he would bang his walking stick on our door, and call out to us. When we would reach the door, he would only ask us if we are all fine. And us being fine, washed his face with relief. As if he was a blood relative who shared with us, something redder than blood. Only that he was a man, distant both in age and origin geography.

Initially, i thought it was just us. The urban mentality of thinking yourself as morally higher than others, made me think, we were kind and that is what made him attached to us. But then I witnessed his conversations with other people, and I was amazed at his communication skills. The man had a heart, for sure.

What made me write a space for him, is his actions few days ago. I was out of my doors, with my bag pack, ready to leave for an examination. He was walking past our home, and I greeted him with an endearment I used for my own grandfather. He only nodded seemingly in hurry, and asked me where I was off to, early in the morning. I told him I had an exam and he replied with a, 'Go succeed'.

The very same evening, he banged his walking stick on our door and when my mother came out, she asked about my whereabouts. My mother called me, and I went to greet him for the second time that day. He regretfully said that he was in a hurry in the morning because he had received a call that some close friend of his, back in the village had succumbed to death.

When we expressed our apology he said it's high time they leave. But that was not his main concern. His main concern was my examination and that he could not bless me with a abhimantrit aparajita (a flower from a creeper, that is considered holy in India, and the one that brings good luck). He made a promise pact with me, that whenever I have an examination, I'd inform him a day before, so he could bring one for me the day of the exam.

So many things baffle me everyday. The good and the bad. I condemn myself of thinking too much of the world and picking out meaning in everything. But this was something else. The fact that good people exist, is fine. We have accepted it long back that they do. The fact that good people feel it is their responsibility to keep the good thriving is what made my day.

I do not look forward for my examination day, or that abhimantrit aparajita. I look forward to the expression of satisfaction he would wear, the day he fulfills his self assumed responsibility.

-An excerpt from an autobiography I will never write, Vanshika.

Title- Aparajita

In some way, it was simpler,

to walk around all lonely.

To not have to look around the world,

and search for a place to be.

But now when I am here,

where mortals give and take.

I'd have to pretend I like it,

with a smile, that's a little too fake.

-Vanshika Singh

I've asked my guardian angel

to free me of all ties

And show me that side of the world

where heartless humans reside.

So I could be one of them

and be a loner soul

And play this game of earth

of treachery, cheat and foul.

He asked me, if I was

already tired of it all

Who knows if I still hadn't

experienced my worst fall.

Who knows if life has in store

For me, a deeper abyss

I have a long life ahead

so much more to live, than this.

I cried all tattered and broken

Can't do this anymore!

Have myself served on a table

And allow all devils to devour.

He laughed out loud at my misery

Said i can't give up now

With my foremost breath intake

I'd survive- was the very first vow.

He suggested I slam my heart

onto the people, places and things

And let it wound a magic carpet

from all those attached strings.

If I'd save myself too much

I won't have much to live

Life ain't a book of receipts

It's how much you've got to give.

-Vanshika Singh, Slam my heart.

"What of heart?"

"An overrated organ."

"Emotions?"

"Hormones."

"Grief?"

"Hormonal imbalance."

"Art?"

"Personification of heart."

"But heart, you say, is an overrated organ!"

A nod. "Art is the personification of an overrated organ."

-V.S.

There have been days when I've felt homesick at home. Extremely uncomfortable in my skin, and felt myself burning in an air conditioned room. There have been days when I have adored a smile on my face, while my soul has danced inside. I have loved every breath intake, and appreciated the very type of my existence. I have had black days, and white days, like every normal human out there. And I have felt myself grow in the midpoint of the line, where the black has mixed into white. I have felt the chronological growth of my soul, and I have died the next moment. My life has been a thrilling adventure of contrasts. And within these adventures, I have lost myself and I have found myself, a little more than a million times. And all the predicament had led me into what I look in the mirror today. I am grateful.

Someone: How many times do you tend to turn the most trivial matters into elaborated, heart wrenching poetries and end up having no significant story behind them?

Me: Yes