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Relationships, all kinds, have developed a tendency that the people in it, drop the responsibility of their own happiness in the hands of the other one. They rely too much on what the other one will do for them, and not what they do for themselves. I feel it is highly foolish to expect these associations to enrich our lives, when we ourselves have stopped doing so.

Nobody must have the power to cure us. I feel, it is making ourselves too vulnerable to expect healing from an entirely different person. It points to so much emotional instability. So much weakness on our part. I feel people are just there to tell us again and again that it will be okay. And to assure that once we heal ourselves, they will be still waiting by the other side of the horizon, waiting for us to catch up with them.

On that wide endless highway,

and barren, unknown land,

a tattered, bruised, broken soul,

Offered me his hand.

For once, I thought I am the savior,

to take him away to a sea,

But whoever he was waiting for,

I realised it wasn't me.

Sometimes we are just carriers,

to fetch and drop people off,

So when we learn we were used,

I believe, there's nothing to hate or scoff.

I resist crying before anyone, not because I fear it shows them my vulnerable side and that they'd manage to develop a hold on me. But because crying my heart out, will depict me, in my rawest form. The form that my mother witnessed when I was a kid, and turned to her to complain of the world. The form that my father witnessed when he disciplined me after I rebelled. It was a luxury I gave them- a right over me. They deserved to see me that way, and never once have I regretted crying before them, even if it was for the dumbest reason ever! Do we find such energy in people now? To love our rawest form, and never contemplate over the rationality of our actions?

Who do I miss?

A person, place, hobby or environment? Or do I miss those shades of me, that I could never achieve. The traits I always wanted to inculcate, but my inner self always remained immune to. The traits that I still aspire to have, but I know my heart and mind will never align to accept and be the person that I find ideal. I will always be a crooked version of my imagination of myself. I miss the person I longed to be. I miss the person I'd never be.

Do I hate myself for what I turned out to be? No. None of us do.

After years of stern teenage, and hard opinions, I have realized I am more at peace when I am flexible and little soft on everything. If I am wrong, the bad guy, the toxic one, all it would take me is a little admittance, to myself and to the people in question. I believe the more effort we invest in trying to justify our actions, the more we disturb our peace within. What will it cost me? A little ego bruise that doesn't stand a chance before the settling peace within?

We'd fight alot,

but we never remembered later what we fought for.

I feel it is beautiful how the content wasn't important,

but only how it made us feel.

Argue with me over the beauty of old pictures. I find nothing more beautiful than those still evidences of moments, that hold so much story behind. They don't just capture scenes, but also the warmth the hearts held while someone smiled huge at the camera. The fact that when you look at them now, you feel the same emotions you did while those pictures were captured. Like a virtual time travel, that needs no complicated technology.

I was once told, that when someone leaves one place to reach another, it is our collective responsibility to make sure they leave in peace because journeys are the best and worst phases of our lives. Journeys are filled with uncertainties, people are alone, ways are haphazard, accident prone and there is high probability of them getting lost. Both literally and metaphorically. So, while it is not possible for us to accompany everyone in their journey, it is definitely feasible to make sure they leave with a smile.

Sometimes looking at my drafts amazes me. I mean my drafts probably know me more than someone will ever do. They contain the unfiltered, unrefined parts of me, which are meant only for me to look at. More specifically, those are not the words I don't find suitable to post but are the window to my soul, which is better inaccessible.

The introvert urge to have a soul person to share everything with, while knowing barely anyone out there deserves to know it all.

I was thirteen when me and my friend participated in a school function. While we changed into our costumes, our similar red coloured sweatshirts, not the part of our basic uniform, got exchanged. I took hers home and she took mine to hers. It is a plain and simple mistake, but at that time, I felt like we were giving each other an access to our oddly private domesticity, a glimpse into our lives outside school. As a kid, i felt it took my friendship with her, a level up. And to be honest, I have not stopped feeling so, even now.

It has been so easy,

to pass through it all,

the happy, the sad,

the high and the fall.

I've bared all parts,

the tears and smiles,

Since the first time we talked,

we have already crossed miles.

That wicked mind,

has been class apart,

the play pretend dumbness,

closest to my heart.

The inside jokes,

I've always laughed on,

Have made me happier,

Even after you're gone.

Wish I could ever,

say this out aloud,

you are the prettiest rainbow,

in my life shaped of cloud.

Us together, can be sheer blind luck,

Or a peculiar coincidence, fate?

It often makes me believe in all.

Nothing fancy about it,

as you jumped out of nowhere,

But stay now that you've already made a home.

We've been clubbed together,

the farthest pieces of a puzzle,

Yet let's cherish the fact we are shards of the same object.

Not meant to fit obviously,

But to sit together or walk through it all,

Friends are never meant to fit.

The happy, the sad,

the high and the falls,

Unconsciously you've broken all my walls.

I shall collect the debris,

and dispose it far away,

You'd stay- I believe, and I won't need to build them again anyway.

The best parameter of my love for myself is how much I believe myself over the words of others. Out of immaturity or lack of experience, should I believe other's perception of me? Or should I just trust the intuitions that come from within me? Will it still be self love, if I let myself be changed upon the words of others? Or if I continue doing so, I will become an idealistic persona for the world to see, while feeling all crappy within?

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 was almost six years old, when I felt a small bulge in my mother's womb that my mother said was a monster eating up her stomach because she refused to eat cereals. I was perplexed at that concept and the fear alone forced me to be compliant to her, whenever she asked me to eat what I hated the most.

Months down, I come back from school, having so much to tell her about my day only to find my neighbour waiting for me. Everyone, my father, mother and brother were not home. I was disappointed and hurt that they would leave me behind. Not that I didn't love playing at our neighbour's place, but after school I always desired to come back home to my mother.

The whole day passed, but no one came back. I was certain they left me behind. And I promised myself to wage a revolt for this. They must be having fun somewhere, while I was here lying in an unfamiliar bed among not so familiar people. They promised me that a gift will be brought for me, but I glared at them portraying that I am not a material girl and a gift wouldn't convince me after this behaviour.

My father came back the next day before I woke up, but my mother was not with him. Only my brother, who looked just as lost as me. Only that he had something to tell me that he couldn't because of all the crowd surrounding us. He is a timid one among the two of us.

I was told my mother is going to bring a baby brother, to which my otherwise shy brother nodded eagerly.

"Did you already see him?", I asked.

He shook his head, "In..In a towel..small..", his broken words were not beyond my understanding. I was used to having such conversations with him.

What I felt about having a baby brother, one more to our family of four was sheer distaste. I was the first child and used to having all this attention towards me. This timid brother of mine already took a half of it, because his long hair and lost looks made him look cuter, than the angry little pouty me, who was on a mission to fight the world. A third one, means the attention being divided into one third, which was anything but acceptable.

My baby brother was born on the fourth day of August, and I met him on the ninth day, on the occasion of Rakshabandhan. He was small and pink, sleepily gazing at us, sprawled in our mother's lap. I do not exactly remember what I felt in that six years old heart, but it definitely had a change of the lifetime. I say this, because the next thing I remember is making that little fist grab my forefinger and wanting to do this for the rest of my life.

I have loved no human more since that ninth day of August. He was not a normal baby, I was told. I didn't know what it meant then. Too much complications in the world of science. But for me, all that mattered was the most simple promise my child heart made then- to protect this little human from all the harshness of this world.

He was not well. His head was abnormally big, and his hands was covered with a white bandage. I had never seen that before. He was diagnosed with hydrocephalus. The days following that discovery were not easy. Not atleast for my parents. I was too small to know what was happening, only that my parents don't come home for days, and our grandmothers and aunts come to take care of us.

It was after three years, and four complicated surgeries that he was able to utter his first words. His first word was 'Papa' and I now know that was all it took for my father to know that all these struggles for his new child were worth doing.

I do remember the day he addressed me, called me clearly in words. Ofcourse he recognised us, knew us, loved us but he was unable to utter words. Guess all that fluid in his head only sharpened his intelligence. He is way more sharp than any child of his age till date. And it made us love him more than we thought we could.

His health graph was moving up the slope. There was no prominent neurosurgeon who was left unaware of his existence. Not only they were intrigued by the medical records, and how such a small body survived such life risking operations, but their jaws dropped the moment he began talking like a professional. As if he was not the supposed patient, but the cure for their depressive medical careers.

Though there was one doctor who claimed there is no permanent cure to this. Five to six years of wandering to find a suitable treatment was supposed to end by a ruthless claim that such children do not live a long life. A seven-eleven years visit is all they are meant to give to the world. If pain is a word, it started making sense then.

How do you prepare yourself for an impending end? I did not know it then. I do not know it now. At that time, when we were probably too small to know about this predicament, I happened to overhear this when my parents were talking. The heart wrenching claim by the doctor. It scares me to the core. It did so when I first heard it, and it does now, when I just think of it.

So many things have changed about me since that age. My life has been an evolutionary course of events and I have always found myself at a better place. But this particular thing, the claim still sends me into a deep panic attack.

Ofcourse, it did not stop us from witnessing better days. He was just one doctor. But every time, a sneeze escapes my baby brother's little body or he complains of a silly stomach ache, we are left shaken at the probability, that most likely has no meaning.

He's been doing better, than most kids of his age and type. We've been doing better seeing him do so. There have been few fake scares here and there, but we have made it. He has become a centre of our lives, and his personality has fetched him many admirers other than us.

He is here today, alive and kicking, annoying us to our last nerves and truly taking away all the attention from us, but that ninth day of August really gave me the best gift of my life. I was not a material girl, I am not so even today but if this is the gift you get everytime someone makes you angry, I'd probably spend my whole life in anger.

-The ninth day of August, Vanshika.

five steps for not writing a boring story? i can never ever write something that doesn't end up boring 😂

Hiya! Thanks for your question. Writing an engaging story is complicated, but it can be done.

First off, there are so many aspects to writing a gripping story. Honestly, it can’t be done in five steps (and certainly not in one blog post). To prevent a boring story you need strong characters, an exciting plot, good pacing… the list goes on and on.

So rather than type out a 3000+ word response, I’m going to give you a mini-masterpost of the key aspects of writing a non-boring story with links to other LGF posts. Here you go:

How Not to Write a Boring Story:

Descriptions:

How to Write Better Descriptions

Showing vs Telling

How to Create Interesting World-Building

Dialogue:

How to Create a Unique Character Voice

Writing Unique Dialogue

How to Prevent Your Story from Being Dialogue-Heavy

Characters:

What Do You Do When Your Main Character Doesn’t Jump Off the Page?

Three Types of Character Traits

Writing Character Arcs

Plot:

How to Make Your Conflict Less Plain

The Element Every Story Needs

How to Avoid Unnecessary Scenes

Pacing:

Why Your Story Feels Too Fast

How to Pace a Scene More Quickly

Pacing Through Details

Beginning:

What to Write in a First Chapter

How to Avoid Info Dumps in the Beginning

10 Ways to Start Your Story

Middle:

How to Build-Up to a Climax

Plotting the Middle

Creating and Maintaining Tension

End:

Traits of a Strong Ending

Examples of Narrative Endings

Dual Duties of Chapter Endings

Misc.:

What Aspects Make a Good Story?

The Four Horsemen of the Bore-Apocalypse

Thanks again for your question! If you need any more writing advice, feel free to send in another ask! Happy writing!

- Mod Kellie

If you need advice on general writing or fanfiction, you should maybe ask us!

I just love my ocs relationship

I mean, I'm always down for enemies to lovers but whatever profound hatred and honest disdain they have for each other's very being that will eventually turn to the sweetest, most kind type of love Amalie and Khaos have going on?

That shit is making me go FERAL