I was young and naughty,
Like all other kids I was.

Of the school Matador,
The minibus,
I was a commuter.

Nirmal Public School,
Was all but a
Normal Public School.

For it was a strung off
From the highway
And was my first school.

In the Matador,
The last window was
Ajar.

It was already dangling,
My friend joked,
"You can't break it."

His comment,
Me it motivated,
I sought to prove I can.

I pushed it intentionally,
And the last nuts,
They became undone.

The window went thrashing down,
And the driver-conductor duo,
Me they punished.

It was overcast that afternoon,
And they made me crouch akin to a ****,
It started raining down.

Then the math teacher came,
And she vouched for my innocence,
"It was already dangling."

The bus crew,
They argued,
"But it was still there."

I was young,
Just 7 years,
And cute too.

The bus crew,
They softened up,
And let me go.

Ma'am, do you now remember me?
You travelled by the same bus,
For you lived in the same campus.

The National Dairy Research Institute,
Its residential campus we both called home,
I miss those days when I was young.

You are that boy
I showed up to school for
The one who never knew
What he meant
To me
Wanting to be wanted
Just in case
He looked up
But never did
Still...
I always think
About him
His essence
Follows you around
The way I do

When young
You think you'll never grow old
When old
You forget what it means to be young
And I?
I wonder aimlessly somewhere in the middle

i don't know anything
but i'm young
i have an excuse

you're older
you say you know better
but you know nothing
what's your excuse?

you say you know me better
but if you really did
then you'd never want to see me again

see, i don't know anything
because i'm young
so just excuse all of the above
i just told you my excuse

or so everyone says
when they justify what i do
what other young people do
then turn around and fault us for being young

i don't know if i like it
if i'm supposed to feel relieved or insulted
sometimes both

you see, there's the kind, comforting "you're young, you'll learn"

the exasperated, tired-of-you "oh my god, you're young"

the condescending, i-know-better-than-you "you're so young"

the i-wish-i-was-you, "i can't believe how young you are"

the unsolicited, let-me-give-you-some-advice "you're young right now"

and then the hesitant, i'm-not-qualified-for-this-and-i'm-bullshitting "you're young...you know..."

i might have missed some
let me know
i just know that ageism is a real plague to our society
it's time things change







Hahahaha I'm kidding. Maybe. Not really.

Call me young.
I am.
There's nothing I can do about it.
I'm going to stay young for as long as I am young.
What good comes out of growing up too fast?
So call me young.
Until I'm not.

I will use it as an excuse for as long as I can.

My mind is a storm, but
If you ask me how I'm doing...
I would probably say..
"I'm okay" ... like many threads of make-believe that I've woven into a seeing glass that I see my reality in.
The things that used to effortlessly settled in my mind, I now strive for...
I miss childhood innocence,
the peace my mind used to cuddle with and take for granted,
the beauty in naivety of how good people are
I miss how little control I had over my story...
I guess I was comfortable with someone else holding the pen, as though I'm more confident in them to write what's best for me than myself

My mind is a storm, I guess because I now write my own story
I never used to bother my mind with...
When should a new chapter in my life start? Where should I put a full stop... Should pause now, Does the sentence have too much emotions...I'm I writing my story right?...which characters should I give more screen time?...is this a sad story?  What do other writers think? Do I have an easer?  Do I know when I should start writing again?
But of late, my thoughts conjure answers from the mirrors around my life
I ponder on which version if reflection I should section keep                                                
  I tell my myself... maybe if I was a writer,                       maybe then I'd know what I'm doing wrong,
maybe I'd know what a good story looks like.

My mind is a storm, for I have spilled the ink of my thoughts over the canvas of my life, and I see not my next step.
I thought I'd distract myself with an abstract masterpiece from the noise of the colours, but my hand knows not the path to strike the fitting brush strokes.
To me, I'm a mess... perhaps other eyes see art
To me I'm a mess...but I can't say I'm done with my story.