#59 Why I write.

I get asked a lot about my writings, about what inspires me and what feeds my mind with the thoughts that I let flow onto the paper. Truth be told, I don't have a cool story to tell, about a special someone whose breaking my heart made me start writing, like most of the writers on Instagram these days do. I started writing way before the malicious claw of love, or the lack thereof, took hold of my thoughts; before I had even learned about love, even. It was the intricacy of nature that surrounded me then that helped me write. I was a much keener observer back then than I am now. I might even admit, rather begrudgingly, that my poems from high school had more depth in them than the ones I write now. There was a phase when I was drawn towards writing about loss and pain- the dark side of love- when in reality, I was neither hurt nor in pain. I just found it intriguing enough to write about it. But the amount of questions I had coming compelled me to shift back to writing on less darker things. And that's when it hit me, that my writing had somehow become more about the readers than it was about me, and it made me sad. Because, if anything, one's writing is an outlet for one's thoughts. How the reader accepts it is important, yes, but how it leaves you feeling after you have said it... that is what writing for me is all about. I never wrote for anyone more than I did for myself. I might have had many muses for many of my poems, but the only reason behind my writing is my need to let the words out of my head; the reason I write is because I love writing. And that is how it will always be for me.
©Shwetha.

#58 When it's love...

Lucky.

You know it's love when he makes that annoying slurpy noise when he's eating and all you can think of is how you could fall asleep to that sound. You know it's love when he yawns in your face, and you start laughing while trying not to pass out. You know it's love when you kiss him good night and his head smells like milk, and you close your eyes and savour the moment. You know it's love when he pulls things down and when someone scolds him, looks at you for support because he knows that you will always side with him. You know it's love when he comes running to you when he is scared of the thunder, and lets you hold him. You know it's love when he comes before everyone else for you, even yourself. And that's how I know.

I love the way his big brown eyes always seem to be in search of something to do; I love how he gets into trouble, pulls a puppy face and somehow gets away with it; I love running my fingers through his fur absentmindedly and the way his fur feels against my hand; I love how he annoys me with his barks and how I start missing it when he stops; I love that he listens to me sometimes which is still a lot more than he listens to anybody else. I love how he taught me that unconditional love is the best kind of love. It's been six years since he came home, and ever since he has been the string keeping me close to home even when I'm away.

It's a rare thing but sometimes you just know when it's love, and it's the most wonderful feeling ever.

#56 the art of love.

It's never actually the big things that take grip of you and shout in your face that you're in love. No. It's the little things, the insignificant things done out of boredom, with a sense of mischief, that will come back to you and startle you with a rather wild knock.
It's those random moments where I'm caught off guard thinking about you; those times when, in the middle of a conversation, you abruptly pause to tell me that you love my voice; or when I realise I'm smiling reminiscing something you said long ago; it's these little things that make me love you more everyday.
- shwethabhat /art of love/

#55 you.

I sit on the roof, watching
the vast expanse of a sky
glittered with stars, with
the breeze tickling my neck;
and for a while it's like
I'm lost in the moment,
with only one thing
on my mind even when
there seems to be none,
and it's you.
It's always you.
- shwethabhat /you/

#54 The strength in letting go.

Every time we went out into the woods, I would watch him lose sight of everything else and focus on the things that spoke to him. He would capture the most beautiful pictures, and he always had a reason behind each photograph he took.
When he told me I was ready, and asked me to take photographs of the things I found beautiful, I smiled. I picked up a fallen dandelion and took a picture. He laughed, and asked me what beauty I saw in a dead flower whose seeds were long blown away. Without looking up from the flower, I sighed. "How hard must it be for the flower to part with its seeds, and yet it does so every time. These dandelions taught me to let go of things when it's time, no matter how hard it seems. They taught me the solace you find after letting go; and that, to me, is beautiful."
- shwethabhat /let go/

#53 Survival.

He created a map of trails
with every one of his touches.
She left him poisoned with love,
and she was the only antidote.
They were like the sky and the sea;
every time they met, the world
watched, wild with excitement.
They were so right together,
it was almost too good to last.
But some stories do survive
against all odds, because love
seeks strength in hope;
and that they had in abundance.
- shwethabhat /Survival/

#52 Etched in my heart.

It's been quite a while since I stopped believing in love. But when it starts to feel like I am losing parts of me, I'm drawn towards the few memories that I have kept of you. I sift through the pages of my old diaries to find poems I had written about you. Those words that I had put together with a conviction, and the undying faith I had in love amuses me now. Because the kind of love I once sought after, is the very kind that scares me to my bones now. And I'm often left thinking I'm better off without you; because my love for you made me vulnerable. And neither of us wore vulnerability like a cape, we saw it as a hindrance. Over the years I have lost faith in the existence of the kind of love that I once believed we shared. Yet I catch myself off guard, thinking that if love existed, it would look like you.
- shwethabhat /Etched in my heart/

#51 It takes a while.

Don't chide yourself
for remembering him
quite too often as yet,
your heart needs its time
to unlearn how to love
him; to forget the way
he looked during sunsets,
or the way he locked eyes
with you and smiled.
But when you do get over
him, please don't let hatred
tarnish that heart of gold
that beats within you.
- shwethabhat /it takes a while/

Home.

Every time your eyes meet mine, I see the same question lurking behind its layers. 'Why me?' you have always wondered, but somehow you always manage to keep it within and look away. But I want you to know the truth. We don't choose whom we fall in love with, that's not how it works. You can't plan it, and you can't make the other person fall back in love with you. It just happens when it does. And to answer your question, my heart chooses you over everyone else because you feel new to me. After wandering through streets unknown, meeting you felt like magically being brought back home. And that is why, as we dance to the tune of our racing heartbeats tonight, I tell you again the one thing I keep telling you over and over, 'you feel like home'.

- shwethabhat • /home/