whyaaryanwhy

[whyaaryanwhy]

[whyaaryanwhy]

Sat at the same seat as on 17 july'21. Had the same nervousness. Missed your fingers comforting me , holding my hand.

[whyaaryanwhy]

We never learn, we've been here before

Why are we always stuck and running from

The bullets, the bullets?

[whyaaryanwhy]

Is your favourite colour blue?

Do you always tell the truth?

[whyaaryanwhy]

Is it ever getting better from here?

[whyaaryanwhy]

Some feelings linger like the scent of rain on dry earth—quiet, undeniable, and impossible to forget.

[whyaaryanwhy]

My heart is tamarind tangled with wild honey. Does it taste like the sharp pull of longing or the sweetness of release? It carries the weight of stories untold, words caught between my teeth like seeds. My heart is tamarind and smoke, for the bridges I’ve burned and the skies they’ve lit. My heart is tamarind and moss, for the softness I’ve sheltered and the roots I’ve grown in silence. My heart is tamarind. My heart is jade. My heart is resilient, bearing every scar as a map of where I’ve been. My heart is tamarind.

[whyaaryanwhy]

It's an incessant bleeding, a yearning for someone who seems just out of reach, like the veins themselves are collapsing as you try to breathe in the last traces of their essence from the cold air around you. It's that fragile, fleeting breath between parted lips, the final trace of sweetness coursing through a heart that is sturdy, yet not strong enough to withstand the weight of the longing. My lover, unaware, leaves her sorrow bleeding on pages, and I, in my quiet desperation, carry the essence of it in my pockets. You know the truth. You always have.

[whyaaryanwhy]

Pomegranate bruises, tender and raw. An empty rooftop to let the silence spill, stars bearing witness to what’s been lost. Hold, release, and drift away. Pomegranate-bitter aches, lingering like shadows at dawn.

[whyaaryanwhy]

"if love is a battle, then tell me- how many corpses must I bury beneath the weight of my longing before the ghost of you finally sets me free?"

[whyaaryanwhy]

November arrives like a shadow that I can't shake off. The days blur together, but there's a certain weight in the air, a reminder of something approaching, something I can't ignore. It’s been a year—almost—and I can feel every second of it slipping away. I’m still sorrowful. Last November had me by the throat, and I haven't breathed right since. Days throw up a "closed" sign around four, and I’m left pressed against the window like a ghost that no one wants to remember. TV light ricochets behind curtains that feel too heavy to pull back. Did I love you enough? When I had the chance? I don't know, but November is cruel. I’ve brought nothing but destruction upon myself. I never said love was kind—never claimed it to be benevolent. And now I feel my heart splitting in opposite directions, like it’s trying to tear itself apart just to escape.

[whyaaryanwhy]

Lets Dress Neon

The electric dust keeps kicking in, another season changes. The summers passed, so did the springs before, and this deep ache doesn’t cease to grow. It's an endless loop for us dynamic humans. As "on the move" as we may be, we are still stranded in a wide spectrum of seasons. With the consistent and exponential surge of information, the minds have begun to rust.

It was the tabloids and newspapers in the past, magazines and blogs in the 2000s, and now... it’s all over the place. And it’s overwhelming.

As avid consumers of modern, social, mass media, we pride ourselves on being experts at navigating this endless flow of content. Yet somehow, we keep finding ways to deceive ourselves. We built machines to think, and now we can't stop worshipping them. On our way to manifest this façade, we kept feeding ourselves with more and more data—jumping from one wormhole to another, tethered by fragile strands of text or whispers we hear. Maybe we are the onset of the dystopian future we always feared, or maybe not.

In love, it was no different. The same rush of information, the same unrelenting pace. I poured myself into it, only to find myself lost, not in the love I wanted, but buried in the wreckage of what I had hoped for. I wasn't addicted to anything except the idea of what love should have been. Maybe I still am. And yet, I failed. Miserably. It wasn’t the endless party I thought it could be, but a quiet, exhausting loneliness—the kind that mirrors the way we binge and scroll, hoping to fill something inside us. Instead, we’re stranded between screens, between relationships, waiting for something to break the cycle.

[whyaaryanwhy]

Does the sorrow of losing a beloved ever find rest, or does it weave itself into the fabric of our days, perhaps like a haunting memory that forever plays?

[whyaaryanwhy]

I’m not sure why I hide my arms.

There are no scars,

no marks,

or anything else unusual.

I guess

I just got used to hiding myself

within the soft fabric embrace

of too-big sweaters.

Whatever the reason,

whenever it started,

now I pull the ends of sleeves

down over my hands,

and short sleeves leave me feeling

exposed and vulnerable.

But today I stretched my arms out

across the table,

and let my sleeves roll up just past

the tangle of bracelets on my wrists,

and I let you put your hands over mine.

It might not have looked like much to you,

but it felt like a damn victory to me.

[whyaaryanwhy]

[whyaaryanwhy]

I wish people could peer into the depths of souls, rather than fixating on the superficiality of bare bodies.

[whyaaryanwhy]

Impeccable bodies, yet aimless, consumed by mindless nonsense—lacking thought, depth, and purpose. Shallow minds as stagnant waters, hollow souls, yet flawless bodies .