Conversations
Some conversations are traps, some are escapes.
Navigating complex emotions of jealousy, ambition, insecurity, joy, fear, peace, anger, happiness, betrayal, contentment, disappointment, love.
Some conversations are traps, some are escapes.
A case of Emderatology: Close to midnight on Saturday, the coffee server on duty reported two dead people in the shop.
Someone recently asked me if I would do a tarot reading for them. I found a polite way to decline and recommended a friend who does this and related things for a living. Then they asked if this person was any good, whether it would work. And I had trouble…
I run with my wordsRacing my thoughtsGetting ahead of my emotionsBecause I’m scared you’ll turn away before I’m done But then I pauseTo catch my breathAnd realise you’re still listeningAnd also that I’ve forgotten what I was saying Then you hold me closeIn a way, I’ve never knownBut, which makes…
I miss being fabulously single. I’ve been it for so long, it has become a part of my identity. A huge, glamorous, proud-of-it, reveling-in-it part which is the one thing that conflicts with being in a relationship. A good relationship is wonderful in a number of ways. But it still…
My smile is like a neon lightLighting up all aroundAnd drowning out all elseBrilliance in personIt says, “I’m happy!” Yours is like a candle flameA single flicker in the darknessEnveloped in a warm embrace of shadowsGentleness personifiedIt says, “I make you happy.” And you do. *Read my other Love Poetry….
“I miss the good old days when portrait painting was the only form of visual reproduction. But of course, you are too young to remember that.” I read the words in a tiny glass screen in the palm of my hand. Not a muscle moved, not even an eyelash flicker….
She tells me about her struggle with weight, and coming to terms with it. She quotes another friend who said that she had to stop obsessing over her body, to stop making it the be-all or she’d never be happy. I point out that I said the same thing, a…
A park separates them. If it can be called a park, that is. A grassy patch chequered with muddy patches, that turn into puddles in the monsoon. The dogs like it anyhow. They keep him awake at night with their barking. Nobody seems to care at 2 in the a.m….
On one hand, it seems like adulthood is getting younger. Six-year-olds are taking computer lessons, twelve-year-olds own mobilephones and seventeen-year-olds are entrepreneurs. On the other hand, it feels like maturity is an endangered species. Oh sure, there’s the whole ‘maturity has nothing to do with age’ argument. I’ve used it…