tillmyheartheals

[tillmyheartheals]

letters to my soulmate; entry three.

dear future soulmate, 

I just had a day today. It was something in between good and bad. I didn’t frown, but I didn't smile. Nothing special happened, and I just feel so dull. Days like these wear down on a soul like mine, but there's really nothing to complain about, is there? This is what life is like for everyone else on the planet. Just because I thrive in extremes doesn’t mean that’s what everyone experiences. I wish you were here. When I’m feeling somewhere in between, just a grey area of emotion, I always miss people I haven’t met yet, especially you. I miss the family and home that I know I haven’t quite found yet. I always knew that friends would come and go, but which friends haven’t come and gone yet? My chest feels empty, hollowed out from years of living for the future rather than in the present. Imagine how horrible it would be if I never reach true happiness. What if one day, I’ll wake up and know that I have my career that I worked so hard for, but I’ll be startled by how worthless it all feels. That’s what I wonder about when everything feels so still. On days like these, where I don’t know how social I can be, when I realise I’m not quite extroverted or introverted, I hope that we’ll have that in common. I think you’ll be just like me, a chameleon who is ever shifting from the life of the party to the quietest in the corner. There’s a weight on my shoulders to be happy when nothing has gone wrong, but I still don’t feel like smiling.

You’ll notice, though, that I’m feeling somewhere in between. Even though the normal response would be to help me cheer up, you’d know that I don’t want to force a smile out until it feels genuine. I want to just let those feelings that i can’t describe or understand wash over me, let them hold me in their embrace. Not quite cold but not hot, not sweaty but not dry. Like I said, somewhere in between. Instead, we’ll rearrange all the knickknacks covering every surface in the house. I always like to look at material things to bring me back down to Earth from the little world in my head. I’m a maximalist - I wonder if you are as well? I love having unique personal belongings. Ever since my childhood, I’ve never felt a connection to any of the things in my life. So I’ve spent years collecting things that left even a tinge of personal effect on me. My life never felt my own, always just a puppet to my parents and “friends”. That must be why the word “mine” is so delicious, especially to those who have been denied it all their life. Will you be mine?

There are innumerable thoughts clouding my mind tonight. If you were here, you’d stay up with me till three in the morning and talk with me about everything. I love sleepless nights where the conversation goes round and round in circles, and what you’re saying doesn’t always have to matter, but it is said anyways. Some parts of it philosophical, others just plain and simple. I’ll read poetry to you and you’ll tell me about what you read in the news. We’d learn about each other, because the stories will never cease. We may think we know each other so well, only to uncover another memory that I myself had forgotten about. I was about to say, we’ll talk about the future, but I suppose that won’t hold true. My destiny has been the only thought on my mind for so long, that it’s impossible for me to focus on the fact that I am currently experiencing that future I planned for myself five years ago. I am here, and I am doing things of my own accord. I feel like I am candidly myself some days, and that’s more than I had before. Now, in this future of ours that I’ve dreamt up, we won’t say goodnight, because it sounds too much like goodbye. Instead, we’ll say sweet dreams - who doesn’t love dreaming about their future, about love, about happiness? But guess what? We are each other's dreams. Sweet dreams, soulmate. 

— yours, xx, thamburatti

[tillmyheartheals]

letters to my soulmate; entry two.

dear future soulmate,

I just had the worst day today. I shrugged my backpack off to the floor the second I wrangled my door open, and curled up against the fridge, chocolate already unwrapped and in my hands. There is too much going on and I can’t keep up and I hate myself for it. Failed tests, constant headache, arguing with my mom on the phone, all of it and all at once is too much. I’ll feel the need to incessantly rub my tucked away scars until the skin is red and swollen and shining. Everything is overwhelming and I can’t take it anymore. I wish you were here. You’d sit beside me, knowingly, in silent support. If I began to cry, you’d have held me and helped me let it all out. Maybe future bad days are caused by a patient who never came back, and we both know what that would’ve meant. If I failed to help save a life, of course it would weigh down on me - it would be devastating. Whatever it was, you’d be strong for the both of us. If you were here, you’d say, “These days are not the end of you, Arya.” You may be right, but currently, it doesn’t feel like it. In my introductory biology course, when the professor goes on and on about proteins and carbohydrates, I rhetorically ask myself when I’ll ever need to use this in psychotherapy. On days like these, you’d convince me to go outside, breathe some fresh air, put the chocolate down (you’d succeed at only the first  two of the three requests). Out in the front yard of our house home, we’d sit beneath the weeping willow tree, passively plucking blades of grass from the earth. I would put my head on your chest and listen to the solid, tangible beating of your heart, steadying me. 

Do you know why weeping willows are my favourite tree? My first impression was from the name itself - how beautiful to be known for the way in which you droop melancholically. The lasting impression though, was because of waterparks from my childhood. You run into the pool and under the little mushroom or umbrella with the water spouting all around you, but you are untouched, shrouded and protected. Just like a weeping willow. Those drooping teardrops of leaves on vines, sheltering you in their bubble, always reminded me of the curtain of water that gushes down around you in waterparks. I love focusing on the sun-dappled grass, shifting patterns of light coming through the always-wavering formation of leaves, just like the 3D splotches of wet light dancing across the pavement of kiddie pools. Inhaling the smell of chlorine and sunscreen and summer, parallel to the warm musk of dirt and wildflowers carried in the cool breeze. Especially petrichor, my favourite scent of all - the sweet earthy aroma when certain chemicals are released from soil after it rains. The roar of the cascade, just like the whispering echoed rustle of the leaves, helps drown everything else out. In those moments, when I can hear my own heartbeat and nothing else, I feel so incomplete. That empty sound echoes around and everything is so still. Too still. I always wish for my heart to be whole. In the future, I believe that mine will beat in sync with yours. 

I’m a hopeless romantic, you know. There’s not a bone in my body that believes you don’t exist. I just don’t know if I’ll ever get to meet you, if our circumstances will align and fate will let us be together. When the time comes, it will come. I honestly also think that my love and my career will be hand in hand with one another. I won’t be absolutely content if I don’t end up a psychiatrist; I won’t be absolutely content if I don’t end up with you. Until then, I’ll write you long winded letters about the things we’ll do, the way we’ll love each other. 

Last night, I contemplated love languages. I was reading, as I often do, and the characters seemed to solely show affection through physical touch. I don’t mean the intimate type, I mean simple moments of contact. A palm on the small of their back, a toe tapping at the knee of the other, legs stretched out and stacked up, foreheads pressed up against each other. I’ve never felt love like that. I took a quiz, as I often do, and it told me my love language is quality time. It sounded so corny that I had to research more - how do you think I know so much about psychoanalytical pseudoscience? Obsessive research, of course. But the quiz was right. I value quality time, being known, feeling understood, more than anything. What’s your love language? Will you teach me how to speak it?

I used to be so sure I wouldn’t make it past thirteen. Then fifteen. Then eighteen. Then graduation. Now I’m in college. I stayed alive to do so many things, but also, to meet you. What a tragedy it would have been to have daydreamed about my soulmate all my life only to never meet them because I no longer lived. On days like these, when my mind wanders to the dark places it used to reside in permanently, I use the thought of you to bring myself back to reality. It’s not very healthy, but it’s what works, and I’m not picky. If you were here, I wouldn’t have to be picky. 

— yours, xx, thamburatti

[tillmyheartheals]

letters to my soulmate; entry one.

dear future soulmate, 

I just had the best day today. I spent the first half of it going to class, which is rarely enjoyable, but this one was of those rare times. One where every professor is entertaining, and I do well at every assignment, and answer questions flawlessly. The second half of the day, I spent with my feet strategically positioned in the middle of the perfect current, seated on a rock at Belle Isle, and reading one of the many books on my to-be-read list. The absolute bliss that settles upon you when all you can hear is river waters running and birds chirping far away, it’s heavenly. Almost at peace. The never ending chaos of thoughts spinning around in my head stills for just a moment. The sky is clear, and my mind is clear, and I am free. I came home and flopped onto my bed and felt purely joyful. This grin that spread over my face actually caused physical pain from being so wide (and unnatural). The sunshine had warmed the fresh sheets and I could’ve just sunk into those cozy covers and never gotten back up. That’s what contentedness feels like to me. All of a sudden, I thought about baking cookies. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have that scent pervade every corner of this home? I wish you were here. You probably smell like home, whatever that aroma may be. You probably know how to bake cookies. I certainly don’t, but it’s the idea of it in the moment that counts. 

The first time I baked cookies was with my best friend, in her tiny little kitchen, making a mess of everything but having fun in the process. She’s always been the one who brought dessert, even taught me how to crack an egg the baker way. I’ve known her since fourth grade when she impulsively dyed her hair with blue highlighter, the first time I saw someone show no restraint and no care for consequences. I hope she approves of you - you have no idea how important that is to me. If she didn’t approve of someone I was talking to, they probably wouldn’t be the right person for me. She knows me well enough to be my eyes when I’m blind with love. But we won’t need to worry about that, because when I meet you, dearest soulmate, my best friend will love you. 

 If you were here, we’d lie side by side and you’d stare up at the ceiling with me. We would have painted something onto that blank canvas, maybe a few stars, maybe a whole galaxy. You’d laugh at every little joke and quip in my stories as I tell you about my day. You’d have the type of laugh that makes me laugh until I’m clutching my stomach, aching and breathless. When I share this type of day with you, I might’ve helped a patient overcome one of their biggest struggles and come to terms with it. Or perhaps I would’ve just been offered my first job as a psychiatrist. Whatever it is, you’d remind me that I was born for this career, that this is what I’m meant to do. But these days, I struggle with my assignments and exams wondering if I’m making the right choice. I like to imagine you would think so. I like to imagine you know me better than I know myself. 

The sun no longer shines through, but leaves a darkened golden tint on everything it touches. If you were here now, you’d tousle my hair and ask me if I wanted to make the day even better. What sort of fool turns that down? Your spontaneous nature perfectly completes my excessive planning. You help me let go when I’m too wound up, and I reel you back in when you’re in too deep. I’d grab a leather jacket (is it yours or mine?) and follow you to the car motorcycle parked out front. The wind would blow into my face and I’d really wish it wouldn’t, so I’d reposition myself until you’re blocking it out. Our eyes would reflect city lights and our hearts would be a place of fireworks. Arms wrapped tightly around your waist, we speed away to our next adventure. Every day with you must feel like an adventure. We’d be thrill seekers for life. It wouldn’t really matter where we ended up, but if you know me well enough, you’d take me to one of two places: a petting farm or an amusement park. My two favourite things in the world: baby goats and roller coasters. Then again, I suppose you’d be number one on that list. 

I wonder how I’ll meet you. Maybe in the morning at the most precious little café in all of New York, watching me fill a bag up to the brim with lemon bars. You’d smile and ask me if all the lemon bars are for me. I have a feeling that it’s the type of smile that pierces deep into my heart without even shuddering at the walls that I built up. God, I love lemon bars. They remind me of the time between summer and fall, when my best friend would bake them and bring them to school for us to pass around our lunch table. She didn’t say anything but she always knew I craved them. Will you be the person who brings me the things I love without me even asking? Is that what soulmates are? I’ll love you the way I love lemon bars. That sweet but tangy taste that exudes adventure and surprise, I’ll never get over that. Will I kiss you with that flavour on my lips?

I haven’t even met you yet (or have I?) but I already miss you. What if I place so much importance on your existence because deep in my core, I’m gripped by the fear that I’ll pass by my chance at love on the street one day, a stranger with their head hidden by the front page of the newspaper? It’s simpler to blindly pretend it will all work out. I know you most likely aren’t the solution to all my problems. But oh, wouldn’t everything be so much easier if you were here? I yearn for that effortless solution. Just your presence might make every day as good as today. I think you, my soulmate, are going to be the manifestation of what I believe to be true happiness. As I write to you, in this letter that sings as it cries, bleeds as it heals over, I feel as if you already know me. Maybe better than I know myself. I guess we’ll find out. One day, you’ll join me and be by my side in everything. Sitting in the dirt with goats in our laps, bleating for attention. At the very top of a drop tower, shoes off and eyes wide open. Adrenaline coursing through our veins as I realise I am finally living in the moment. This is all that I have ever wanted, my whole entire life. To have someone there for the rest of my life. Do I dare to dream of this future?

— yours, xx, thamburatti

[tillmyheartheals]

Any fantasy writeblrs out there want to talk about their wips with me? I am in desperate need of writer friends!

[tillmyheartheals]

CHARACTER FACIAL EXPRESSIONS (WRITING REFERENCE)

EYES/BROWS

his eyes widened

her eyes went round

her eyelids drooped

his eyes narrowed

his eyes lit up

his eyes darted

he squinted

she blinked

her eyes twinkled

his eyes gleamed

her eyes sparkled

his eyes flashed

his eyes glinted

his eyes burned with…

her eyes blazed with…

her eyes sparked with…

her eyes flickered with…

_____ glowed in his eyes

the corners of his eyes crinkled

she rolled her eyes

he looked heavenward

she glanced up to the ceiling

she winked

tears filled her eyes

his eyes welled up

her eyes swam with tears

his eyes flooded with tears

her eyes were wet

his eyes glistened

tears shimmered in her eyes

tears shone in his eyes

her eyes were glossy

he was fighting back tears

tears ran down her cheeks

his eyes closed

she squeezed her eyes shut

he shut his eyes

his lashes fluttered

she batted her lashes

his brows knitted

her forehead creased

his forehead furrowed

her forehead puckered

a line appeared between her brows

his brows drew together

her brows snapped together

his eyebrows rose

she raised a brow

he lifted an eyebrow

his eyebrows waggled

she gave him a once-over

he sized her up

her eyes bored into him

she took in the sight of…

he glared

she peered

he gazed

she glanced

he stared

she scrutinized

he studied

she gaped

he observed

she surveyed

he gawked

he leered

his pupils (were) dilated

her pupils were huge

his pupils flared

NOSE

her nose crinkled

his nose wrinkled

she sneered

his nostrils flared

she stuck her nose in the air

he sniffed

she sniffled

MOUTH

she smiled

he smirked

she grinned

he simpered

she beamed

her mouth curved into a smile

the corners of his mouth turned up

the corner of her mouth quirked up

a corner of his mouth lifted

his mouth twitched

he gave a half-smile

she gave a lopsided grin

his mouth twisted

he plastered a smile on his face

she forced a smile

he faked a smile

her smile faded

his smile slipped

he pursed his lips

she pouted

his mouth snapped shut

her mouth set in a hard line

he pressed his lips together

she bit her lip

he drew his lower lip between his teeth

she nibbled on her bottom lip

he chewed on his bottom lip

his jaw set

her jaw clenched

his jaw tightened

a muscle in her jaw twitched

he ground his jaw

he snarled/his lips drew back in a snarl

her mouth fell open

his jaw dropped

her jaw went slack

he gritted his teeth

she gnashed her teeth

her lower lip trembled

his lower lip quivered

SKIN

she paled

he blanched

she went white

the color drained out of his face

his face reddened

her cheeks turned pink

his face flushed

she blushed

he turned red

she turned scarlet

he turned crimson

a flush crept up her face

WHOLE FACE, ETC.

he screwed up his face

she scrunched up her face

he grimaced

she winced

she gave him a dirty look

he frowned

she scowled

he glowered

her whole face lit up

she brightened

his face went blank

her face contorted

his face twisted

her expression closed up

his expression dulled

her expression hardened

she went poker-faced

a vein popped out in his neck

awe transformed his face

fear crossed her face

sadness clouded his features

terror overtook his face

recognition dawned on her face

SOURCE

[tillmyheartheals]

“Peel your heart like a pomegranate. Offer it to him, palms outwards. Say “eat.” Watch him come away stained red by you. You’re in his teeth. He’ll kiss you with that mouth.”

— Azra.T “Fruit”

[tillmyheartheals]

okay

dear readers,

i think that sometimes, it’s okay to not be okay. other times, it’s heartbreaking when you have to say you’re okay, when you lie to yourself too, but deep in your heart you know. you know you haven’t been okay for a long time.  i wrote this villanelle poem when i felt trapped behind my smile and external happiness. please, if you’re ever feeling like you can’t tell those in your life about how you’re feeling, reach out to anonymous platforms like the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (800-273-8255) if you’re in the US, and Crisis Text Line (text HOME to 741741). if no one has told you this today, know that i mean it when i say: i love you.

she said she was okay. never tried to mend her heart’s gash, she wrote her pains away.

she hears all that they say. in her head, the voices clash, she said she was okay.

keeping her tears at bay, every decision was rash, she threw her mind away.

it doesn’t matter anyway. teardrops clung to her eyelash, she said she was okay.

holding in all day, with a knife, just one slash. she screamed her anger away.

the smile just never did stay, her life went by in a flash. she said she was okay, but she burned her world away.

— yours, xx, thamburatti

[tillmyheartheals]

crying for the familiar

dear me in the future, 

every day of my life, for all three meals, my mother would sweat away in the kitchen to cook traditional meals to remind us of home. breakfast was puttu or appam, lunch was choru and avial, dinner was erissery with chappathi. there were always deep colours and aromatic spices, numerous side dishes and a fusion of vegetables. while i cherished trying them all, i did develop a disdain for certain meals, but there's one that has never dropped down in the ranks. ever since i could find a way to bring my hand up to my mouth, fist grasping grains of rice, i have adored the best comfort food there is - thayirsadam. unlike all of our other dishes, this is just plain white in color. whenever we want to have some, we grab a bowl and start with the base: rice. we never ran out of cooked matta rice in our house, thanks to the weekly trips to the patel brothers with my mother. i'd haul itchy burlap sacks of rice double that seemed to be half my weight into our cart so that we were set for at least a week or two. spoons after spoons of creamy cool curd, made from dedicated time on the stove and then in the oven from gallons and gallons of milk, go into the bowl next. that's why we always buy our milk in bulk. back home, the yoghurt is made every morning using fresh milk from the cows that graze near the paddy fields. back home, everything we need is already right there. i add the curd on top until i can't see the translucent red accents of the squishy rice anymore. if i'm feeling especially down, i add a finishing touch of a swirl of bright red achhar to the top, often tangy mango or lemon pickle. i'd sit down on the floor, legs crossed, and eat till i had to wipe the bowl clean with my fingers. we never leave anything in our bowl so as not to waste, but also to indulge until the very last drop. i don't think anyone else makes it quite like we do, and that just adds to how close i hold this meal to my heart. 

— yours, xx, thamburatti

[tillmyheartheals]

the thing about move in day

dear me from the past, 

my mind has been all over the place since i moved into my dorm. obviously, starting college is a big change and a lot of new responsibilities, but that wasn’t my main concern - my motto since eighth grade has been, “only _ more years until i’m in university”. turning eighteen, living on my own, and making my own decisions opens up a whole world of possibilities, and it’s at this point that i realise just how much potential i have and just how much i’ve missed out on. i just got an email of my acceptance into the crisis counselor training i applied for this summer. reading the subject line of the notification presented a feeling i didn’t expect to feel - worry. i feel worry course through my body, head to toe. dread and worry. i rethink everything i’ve ever believed about myself, my entire life, all my choices. i am not good enough. i will never be enough. i don’t know why i haven’t been able to cry since i moved into my new home. i used to cry every single day back when i lived with my parents. it was my prison and so was my mind, but i knew in my heart that if i changed the exterior i would change on the inside too. i usually turn to poetry to make sense of my feelings. i feel bad because as a writer, i haven’t written in a couple months. the last poem i wrote, i wrote with fridge magnets, but it was actually quite nice. i can hear my fingers slamming onto my keyboard, clack clack clack, and it’s making me angrier than i should be. why am i angry? i should be sad. 

the last time i cried was seven days ago in the bed in the room i slept in for most of my life just like every week since i can remember face buried into pillows feeling so much feeling it all at once wishing my mother would stop trying to guilt me wishing anger wouldn't wash over me every time she spoke, seething

the morning after boxes on boxes, bags and bags rearview mirror crowded piled up high on the moving dolly move in day means i should feel something

i see my new home for the next year i think about the townhouse in the neighborhood the room i studied in with the view of the lake i think about why i can't feel anything

i check the faces of other students to see what they are feeling in the elevator, on the way up i feel my stomach drop i observe it with interest am i feeling a feeling? do others also feel nothing?

i open my door and see my once-hospital room now-dorm i look out my windows and clean my floors i concentrate on my breathing

i lay new blankets on my bed i hang art on my wall i set out supplies on my desk i arrange books on my shelf i feel a connection with each thing

my mother packed a homemade meal my parents sit beside me in the park as we eat my mother hugs me long her nose goes red but she reminds me that i need to focus on my studies my father pats my back and wishes me good luck the last time he looked me in the eye was five years ago   i can't feel a single thing

i see my new home for the next year looming building, windows alit, students walking around i know why i could not feel a thing

i have never known home

now i feel something

— yours, xx, thamburatti