sometimes, there are people who come into your life and leave a permanent mark. they paint your soul different colours and change the way you see the world. when they leave, you realise that somewhere along the way you lost yourself. you feel like you don’t even know who you are anymore because they changed you immeasurably. and then, eventually, you’ll say that you don’t miss them – you miss yourself.
hearts don’t shatter; they rot.
so recently i chopped off 14 inches of my hair. my hair is something that everybody notices, it used to flow past my lower back. and i chopped it all, till just past my shoulders. but, it was for a cause that i’m supportive and proud of of. i donated my hair to the hair for hope foundation, to make wigs for cancer patients. this has always been on my bucket list, and i’m proud of myself for achieving this goal so early in life 🙂
(p.s : i was surprised by how great my new hair looks)
not everyone you lose is a loss
“what is wanderlust?”, a lot of people ask me.
and so i decided to finally put my take on wanderlust into words, for the world.
according to dictionaries:
a strong desire to travel.
i would agree to a certain extent with a dictionary.
but i have to say that meaning of wanderlust cannot be scribbled down into five simple words, so here you go, here’s some more words that i scribbled into a coffee stained notebook, that will hopefully provoke some emotion within you.
wanderlust is a traveller’s lust, where dreams of people are now dreams of places.
wanderlust is the feeling of wanting it all, the escape within the limited planet and its atmosphere.
wanderlust is not the feeling of wanting to look at cities you see in movies, but it is the feeling of wanting to get away from all the people, and go into pure nature.
wanderlust is the desire to roam through the deserted streets, with your little empty heart.
wanderlust is overcoming your fears, flying in airplanes if you are scared of heights, sailing in ships if you are prone to seasickness.
wanderlust is a feeling after you accept yourself, after you are truly comfortable with yourself, after you need nobody else.
wanderlust is not the desire to capture pictures to make your friends jealous, it is the desire to capture images and words in your mind, that is for you and yourself only.
wanderlust is running away from everyone, and everything, into the wild.
wanderlust is hanging out with the sun, the moon, all the stars, and everything beyond reach.
wanderlust is the feeling of being lured into the seven giant land masses, into the five unfathomable waters.
wanderlust is the feeling of not belonging, of knowing you’ll never have the feeling that you will belong.
wanderlust is real when you will walk that extra mile, when you are willing to skip a meal, when you are willing to give it all up for one sight.
wanderlust is losing many trees, countless cities, rivers, canyons, valleys, and knowing that it isn’t a disaster.
wanderlust is the start of wandering, in search of nothing whatsoever, but finding everything.
wanderlust is accepting to own nothing, no matter that can held between your five fingers, to feel everything.
wanderlust is the millions of undiscovered constellations.
wanderlust is magic.
the ones who first saw me, the ones who made sure i entered the world, who held me, as if i was a diamond and the entire world was dust.
the ones who bought me infinite toys of all sorts, books of animals, fruits and letters, CDs of the animations i still remember when i sleep today.
the ones who changed my diapers, who made sure my skin was softer than cotton and smoother than silk.
the ones who dressed me like a princess, who made me feel like a princess, with everything in the world at my command.
the ones who held me on the thunderstorm days, wrapping me safely in a blanket, and making sure that nothing could ever hurt me.
the ones who took me to the beaches, building sandcastles with me, the same way they started building me – with all their love.
the ones who i would laugh with, at all the little things in the world.
the ones who i could cry on, when a friend was being a little bit of a jerk by not sharing their latest hot wheels model with me.
the ones who taught me to get up from every fall, and keep running, and running, like the wind, who taught me that i could do anything.
the ones who tell me, “go show all those stupid boys who’s the boss”.
the ones who put food onto a plate, water in a glass and books and pens on the table, for me.
the ones who take me to look at the world, from cars, airplanes, ships and trains, in mountains, seas, deserts and valleys.
the ones who still brush their hands through my hair and kiss my head even after i let them down.
the ones who hold my hand every day and tell me that i can reach the stars.
the ones who still hang around with me even after i say that everything is fine.
the ones who’ve taught and showed me that life is hard, and that i have to work hard, and that i have the potential to go beyond all limits.
the ones who i can crawl to, and moan and cry for hours and hours about my broken heart, about all the hate, the peer pressure, the society, and all the hard things to deal with in the world.
the ones who i watch family comedy shows with, and laugh about all the things that we can relate to.
the ones who always have an answer to my question, even if the answer isn’t right, but have an answer that’s enough for my heart.
the ones who i will need all my life, no matter how independent i become.
the ones who will remain in my heart all my life, no matter who comes in my life and no matter who leaves.
the ones who are the most important in the world to me.
the ones who i want to make proud, who i want to say to everyone, ‘you know, my daughter did this….’, or ‘that’s my daughter’.
the ones who i can’t bear to see when they’re sad, the only ones that will completely upset my entire world with even a single frown.
the ones who give me the motivation and energy to open my eyes every single day and taught me go out and face the world.
the ones who taught me that i am not mediocre.
the ones who still keep me in their house no matter how many times i’ve crossed the line, let them down, or been a jerk.
the ones whom i’ve written endless poems about.
the ones who taught me that if i could love myself, i could be all the stars, and that i didn’t have to love some stupid boy.
the ones who brought me up such that today when a boy insults me or teases me, he leaves the scene with tears in their eyes.
the ones who told me that i could be bigger than all the faces that i’ve stuck onto my bedroom wall.
the ones who support me in every field, in every thing that i’m interested in.
the ones who let me soar in the sky, but still keep me anchored to the ground.
the ones who i push myself for everyday.
the ones who sit by my side when i can’t move a single muscle, and tell me that it’ll all be alright.
the ones who make sure that every bad decision is a lesson learnt for me.
the ones who continue to teach me how to survive in this big, bad world.
the ones who love me inside out, despite all my scars, flaws and sins.
the ones who i will love till the end of time.
i love you, mum and dad, like a lot. thanks for tolerating my nonsense and doing all that you do for me. i will make you proud, i promise.
You can write for hours and hours,
of all the things you wish you could be,
but the truth of the matter is simple,
people are not poetry.
And I know that you wish you weren’t awkward,
that sweet words could roll right off your tongue,
but your time here is too short to worry,
about how each sentence is strung.
Its okay to be rough around the edges,
to be bruised up and broken and scarred,
but its not okay to let people tell you,
that it’s the reason to change who you are.
Your hair doesn’t always sit so neatly,
the way a poem sits so neatly in lines,
and sometimes you might feel like a word,
that nobody has learnt to define.
You might not be a star that can light up darkness,
or a bird that can teach us how to soar,
but its okay, because you are too complex,
to be crammed up into a single metaphor.
It’s okay not to know what you’re doing,
because your feelings don’t have to rhyme,
though a poem once complete is eternal,
you have the freedom to change over time.
You’re much more than can ever be written,
there is no title to say “this is me”,
because you can’t be trapped in the lines of a notebook,
because people are not poetry.