From The Quill of Suranya

I sat alone on the overly comfortable couch in the room with blue walls and green curtains. There was something very clean about the room. The painting on the wall was abstract, and it felt like every piece of furniture, every bit of art, every bit of stationery was there to test my mind. I have never been to a psychiatrist, psychologist or counsellor before. This was my first time in therapy, and I wondered what he was like. The man who walked in after two polite knocks was rather older than I expected. He was about my grandfather's age. I wondered if he would understand the complexities of the new generation and the stress we go through. Truth be said, I did not even know if something was wrong with me, but I felt so overwhelmed lately that I could not sleep at night. That was when I decided to try therapy because my bad thoughts had by now transformed into bad dreams and nightmares that woke me up with sweat and tears in the middle of the night. I wondered if he could fix all of...

 The voices in my head, Screaming at the void, Getting louder every day. Some applauding, others panicking Mostly distorted and chaotic. I have tried to listen to them, To the wind that whispers in my ear, The sound of everything around me Deafening my thoughts and fears. Yet every day, even in the numbness Of unsure silences, the voices echo. They get louder and louder As if they are unheard. And I scream, in silent reassurances, 'I am listening!' as they laugh, 'Are you, really?' ©Suranya

When an expressive woman is calm, it's not because she changed. It's because she realised that nobody will understand her anger or sadness. She chooses her peace of mind over her expectations from people. ~ Suranya

 I find myself in unfamiliar surroundings, Wander alone through the complex roads, That intertwines like two snakes fighting for survival And I chance upon a stranger. The sunlight reflects on his face. Blurring my view of his features. “ Is this the State of Mind? ” I ask. “ What are you looking for? ” He smiled. “ Peace. ” I show him the address. He shakes his head, amused. “ It’s a difficult road ahead, you would need more… ” “ More of what? ” “ Thick Skin, Carefreeness and a lot of self-love. ” “ Then? ” I ask, intrigued. “ Then you will perhaps find a glimpse of it some day. An idea, an abstract, a utopian world. You will get there, slowly, when it's time. ” “ How do I know when the time comes? ” “ When Death knocks at your door, Asking you to let go, He will surely take you there. ” “ But can I not reach there before Death arrives? ” He laughs, a hearty laugh, staring at me, Like I was a child asking something naive.  “ You will find a glimpse of it someday. ”  His ...

The silence is killing me Is not an expression  For some of us. Silence is a curse A reminder of demons that chase us Voices in our head, sins and shame We drown in the noise of the world. We need headphones in a crowd Playing music that keeps us warm Amidst cold judgemental stares. We need stories to be told to us Like when we were children To fall asleep to. Silence bothers us Like noise bothers some people. The beating of the heart, The involuntary breath The thoughts in my head I don't want to face  All come haunting me at midnight  In the silences And Music works its magic Drowning out everything Questionable and Tragic  Drifting me to sleep As if the universe Sings me a lullaby. © Suranya

"Days pass by as I begin to heal,  I want to feel whole again." It's an odd expression, I wonder.  As I keep my book down,  My eyes caught a couple  Sitting hand in hand  In a corner of the coffee shop. Why do we feel incomplete  Without a person or an achievement? I ponder upon it, staring at my reflection On the screen of the phone. I have my whole world.  Around me, even when I am alone.  Yet I, too, feel an emptiness engulf me. Remember when we read about black holes? How do they consume everything? Sadness perhaps consumes life.  Into a dark nothingness. We begin to put more importance.  In less important things.  And before we know it, The feeling of a void creeps in. Yet, once you heal Once you know better, You will see, all along You were whole. Complete. Filled with everything The universe is made of. Particles of hope, faith and love. ~ Suranya

Where the damp wall  Smells like home;  And the faded poster on the wall  Reminds me of good times. There is this glow in the dark  Pack of Stars that I put up  Because I am scared of the dark.  And the bed, pillows and cushions  Seems to know me more than people. They witnessed my insecurities and fears. I can tell you which book is on which shelf  Without really looking,  Every single showpiece holds a strong meaning.  And a picture of You watches over me.  I can cry there in peace,  Scream, yell, vent and rant  All to myself, without judgement.  To people, it looks like a lonely corner  Where I allow no one, and nobody cares for it.  But to me, in good days and bad  That is my safe space. ~  Suranya

Whenever Life gets tough I seek solace in people of the past. People who mark their lives In pages of History. With their blood, sweat and sacrifice. I tell myself, "They had it worse, You can survive this." Lift myself up because who will, If not me? I treat life's obstacles, As minor inconveniences, Because they taught me Life could be way worse. I wait for things that never happen Put my faith in fate's cruel play I often wonder what life was like For all those immortals In the pages of novels. They fought all odds, Wins and Losses And emerged from the battles of life So why can't I? I read their stories with hope and belief That everything in the end seems fine. ~ Suranya

 Every scar is a reminder of people, places and things. Lost and found in the debris, of our long lost memories, Every scar is who we are, inside out. Sometimes you see them, and sometimes they are hidden In the mind of the Victim. Every scar is a milestone, of becoming  Someone you are not. Of doing things you never imagined you could. Of facing reality, carrying on and moving ahead No matter what comes your way. And then, with words, carefully chosen Every scar becomes Poetry. ~ Suranya

 Your manipulative brain often plays  Tricks on people to your favour.  Your indecisive heart often hurts,  In a loop of ego and winning pride. Like a Gargoyle protecting your soul  Your mind doesn't let the world see  The real, raw, flawed you;  Afraid perhaps of being vulnerable  With your scars. © Suranya

 Have you given someone a character In your story, only to realise  You were not even a part of theirs? Have they been a chapter in your life? A lesson for your love? Only to realise you were invisible to them? How does it feel, Dear Shattered Heart,  To be rejected time and again,  By different people and the same circumstances? They say you keep repeating a pattern  Until you learn a lesson. If this is a pattern, it's now become my way of life  I have embraced it with grace,  That I am this character in everyone's story  Who is never significant to mention.  Sometimes hidden away in embarrassment  Sometimes, snooze till they get hurt again  Most of the time, blissfully non-existent. Do I not leave a mark? Do I not stir their hearts? Who can say, if not they who claim,  "I forgot what it felt like with you."  And me? Naive, silly, romantic as I am.  I play every conversation in my head  Like a broken record that...

 I prefer to stay in my head  Where you and I are still a thing. The storyline fits every love song  That I saved in our shared playlist. Sometimes we are star-crossed lovers Sometimes childhood friends  Sometimes we meet and part  Never to see each other again. I know your smile.  Your deep brown eyes. I know your favourite food.  And how you react to certain flowers. There's a lock on the door.  Of this world that belongs to your thought The words are my key  To let others into your realm. Yet I must be careful.  They should never know all our secrets. © Suranya

 "The typewriter tap dances  Right in the centre stage  Where the protagonist meets Their fate." The writer pauses  In between spaces,  Pages to be changed  Ink to be replaced Often wondering about The One Greatest Writer of them all. The One whose commas continue life  And periods end chapters good and bad.  Tragedy, comedy, romance and drama  Sometimes thrillers and dark desire  They can write any genre without a care. Are we all protagonists in life? Most aren't in books.  Some are just side characters existing.  Driving others' stories. What if the writer is one of them? Never a protagonist in her own life?  Could something be more nightmarish Than that? © Suranya

 I feel like writing a poem Yet no thoughts come to me. No rhyme or reason to share  No will to fill the empty pages. With ink and words. Yet I feel like writing a poem. Why? To be appreciated by people I barely know? To be criticised by those who matter? Or simply because I want to let everyone know I am still at it, The struggle and the journey  Not giving up on dreams just yet. I got what it takes, I am running in a race  With millions of others across the globe  Named, unnamed, anonymous, famous  To prove that I can write. But why? Here I am scribbling every day.  Procrastinating about the story in my head Which is yet to find the right plot. Here I am weary from nothing. Yet sleepless awake and alert  Anxious about how the words refuse to flow  In a night of writer's block. I don't stop even when I want to.  I can't stop, even when the thoughts tire me.  As if I have a world out there  Waiting for me to prove my worth. © S...

Memoirs of unwritten verses,  Waiting to find the words;  Feelings of unrequited longings  Couldn't be put on paper.  A dream trip you never took,  A half-done hobby or a book,  A few scribbles,  A friendship  Without a closure to comfort you? Do they matter at all? What troubles our nights? In the hollow emptiness of your mind  The sleepless soul asks in an echo, "What are we? Who are we?" An accumulation of particles  Forming a shape and mind,  Floating insignificantly in the universe  Loathing in superiority and pride. © Suranya

 The moon reminds me  Of how in the darkest of times We are truly alone.  The stars veil the night sky, twinkling  Almost touching the skyscrapers  In a distant concrete jungle.  The leaves rustle in whispers.  The owl hoots often,  One by one, the fireflies light up  And arrive at my window.  My words scribble on paper.  My thoughts were disoriented In a state of numbness  Sometimes I cry over a song,  Over stories of the past  What we could be and never were.  Sometimes I overthink  Every conversation plays in a loop  The punctuation and emojis overanalysed. © Suranya.

 The sound of raindrops on my panes, Haunting wail of puppies in the lane; Existential crisis of mindfulness;  No moon to muse on, no stars shining Only the city is visible in the lightning. Wide awake, not a wink of sleep, On these days, the thoughts run deep; I gather them together in the warm blanket  Carefully hide them away in my emotional casket. The mask of the strong has fallen for the weak,  The rain wipes it off like a magic trick. Slowly, I blend in the waters of heaven,  As it flows upon my cheeks,  And I know for sure that I must endure  In the path that I seek. © Suranya

 I cried my heart out today  Cleaned my soul of all the agony  The pain, fear, hurt and anger  That I managed to keep hidden  From the world for so many days. I have a problem. I think my problems are smaller than yours. They probably are. Hence, I don't share with you. It builds up a storm inside me. I try to break free from the feeling  Of suffocation, claustrophobia and guilt. What am I even guilty of? My own sufferings? They say suffering creates art. But my soul is tired and tested. My overthinking brain works like a hamster  Stuck on a loop wheel and can't stop. I am a walking red flag,  With my flaws, issues and definitely my personality. I am self-absorbed, obsessive and sometimes  Borderline narcissistic even.  But I try, I will keep on trying.  Life is a battle, and I refuse  To give up just yet. © Suranya

 The fire rips through me  And still brings mirages of hope  To be heard, to be understood  To be loved. For who I am. I pay for sins that I know not of  Yet here I am, committed to mayhem  Apparently overthinking it. To you, my problems are small  Insignificant to your rich world  Of course, you suffer from the heat, it's summer  Of course, you don't get appreciation  Your art is free, who will buy it? Madness, anger, frustration  I have been silently screaming into my pillow  Every night for the past decades. My tears have now dried up in hell  Where many like me scream into the black hole  Where our issues and complains disappear  Before they reach your privileged ears. I chose this life, I chose my pain  For the little things you find insignificant  That makes me who I am  And enlighten my soul, richer than yours. Your flaws, your reasons, your excuses  I justify them all in my head  ...

 In a frolic of hide and seek,  You remain hidden from me tonight;  O Guiding Star,  Unseen in the darkness like a shadow,  You perhaps appear with light.  Oh, how I desire to see you.  I weep over thee  Like I would for a near one. I feel restless to feel warm again.  But tonight you seem like a stranger to me. Cold, like a distant dream perhaps,  You walked away tonight  And took my dreams with you. Perhaps that is why sleep refuses me tonight. My salty tears turn themselves.  Into waves of turbulent questions  Over my mere existence and purpose. Who am I? What am I?  Without an identity or purpose? © Suranya