Some days are recuperation. Some days are comfort. And some days are sitting with discomfort because that’s the name on the door behind which we stuff pain. Maybe it’s because I am facing head-on, things that trigger me and trying to learn new responses in doing so. Maybe it’s another…
Unexpected echoes from a pandemic, old connections, and buried trauma collide—showing how time can trap us in moments we thought were gone.
You have to live through the echoes of the things you couldn’t hear. Trauma manifests in layered ways.
I did not expect to find feminism in a book about Shah Rukh Khan. But reading Shrayana Bhattacharya’s book on the gender wage gap made me rethink.
There are treasures in hidden corners as much as there are monsters called trauma. This un-loving wanting is our map.
“How are you? How have you been? Who are you?” I don’t know how to answer these questions anymore, where once I had perfectly formulated, sure-as-steel answers. I’m still catching my breath and making sense of sounds. I’m experiencing the first summer in two years. In many ways, it is…
IdeaSmith is not just my name. It is an identity. It has been a journey. It became a saviour. And then a ray of hope in my hardest time.
I’m punk, you’re cheesy. And now I’m writing poems about your loving but you got there via the punks.
A glass of lemonade and a whole relationship dynamic in one swallow. It’s all ice shards and acid.
He writes of the isolation of chasing material dreams. I saw exquisite poetry laced with slivers of pain.