||| The Journey of a Memory



Stage 1- The onslaught
It’s like chains holding you down; you’re crying and screaming and the chains are clanking in their rusted glory. The smoke is rising up from the corners of the room.
Before you know it-you’re drowning. Left gasping for air. You try to hold on to the rims, but it the pit goes on way too deep. Days like these are particularly hard.
Stage 2- The hit
You’re lost, mentally. Walking down those lanes you still visit every now and then, hoping to change stuff up. It’s always amusing to imagine how you’d do things differently if you had another chance. You remember everything so well- the missed opportunities, the lies, and the heartbreaks. But all of these are overpowered by the scent of happiness and contentment that fills you up.
The ties, emotional and physical, to the people and places you left behind were cut so abruptly. You’re still reeling.
For most part you walk around blankly, keeping so busy so you don’t have a moment. Surround yourself with so much noise you can’t hear the sound of the world crashing around you.
Stage 3- The analysis
Nothing is the same. you’re yet to realize that.
Just keep moving forward. moving forward. moving forward. Do you dare look back?
The past is not where you belong.
You’ve got so much to do, new memories to make, new people to meet.
Stage 4- The Predestination
But, What do you do when you don’t want to let go? The memory is all you’re left with.
It’s a bittersweet feeling, you know you aren’t supposed to dwell in the past, but you’re willing to take the risk and bear the hurt.
The past is dangerous. It stops you from growing. You wonder how all the people have moved on, while you’re still stuck.
How much time, till the memory brings a smile on your lips? How much time till it doesn’t reduce you to tears?
Stage 6- Until next time
The smoke is settling and you can see clearer now. The reality slaps you hard.
Pulling yourself out
Drenched in memories
Breathing again
It’s just these fucking chains that refuse to break.

– LittleGiesha



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 Loved and Lost

||    The Diary of a Logophile

||    The diary of a Logophile




  1. a lover of words.

 Put your pen to paper, fingertips to keyboard. That’s one. Then just flow.

There are thousands of them, they mean different to everyone. A single word; many interpretations.

As far as i can remember correctly, I started writing because I felt like the God of things, the characters I created. Do I kill them? Do I make them fall in love? It was in my hands, and just a few strokes away. And if I didn’t like it that way, I could always change.

I fell in love because it gave me a sense of control, of direction and liberation at the same time. A lot of people do not understand the liberating power of writing. Mostly they are the one’s who have never expirienced the gush of words on paper, and feelings you didn’t know you had. They’re all there, staring back at you, an epitome of your creation and possibly, a piece of your soul littered upon the paper.

It grounded me, a sense that time wasn’t flying so fast , and something to fill hot, sticky afternoons with- birthing new characters and stories.

There’s a strange wistful and relaxing sound of pencil scribbling upon paper. Dried flowers between books, hand coloured book marks, tea stained newspapers and the rustling of pages against the setting sun.

All replaced with tap-tap-tap-tap-tap- space – tap-tap-tap-tap. Upload. Available for the world to see. 
Words are slippery. They flow so well if strung together. Slippery. You can fall if you aren’t too careful. Because that’s the bad thing about words: they don’t always equal actions. Words are easy. Actions aren’t. 

Words can be dangerous. They hurt. They can also be comforting and kind. It’s difficult, because they don’t always evoke the meaning we want them to. You see, they are alive. Complete individuals in their own sense. They have a mind of their own. 

I was so wrong. I was never in control.