Category Archives: Poetry

Whirling Dervish

Reading Elif Shafak makes me feel like I’m frequenting a world that is not mine and it makes me miss my real place. It makes me look at people and situations I’ve dismissed, with fresh light. And it makes me wonder why I’m chasing the ones I am.

I feel listened to, between the stories of an unwed mother, a talentless poet, a tattooed nihilist, a Sufi mystic and a bored housewife. These are the people I have been, will be, the selves I am.

While life goes on endlessly barrelling forward, I skid, screeching brakes, pause, stop, slow down to correct that thought and say, no it does not go on endlessly. It stops. It crashes. It fades.

I pick out a description of a smoky cafe with a pretentious name, a meeting with an authority figure interrupted by a wandering dervish. And I choose it over the conversation about price points at the neighbouring table of the coffeeshop I’m at. I carry it with me as I navigate booking a cab on an app, ordering dessert on another, swiping my train card. At least the last feels closer to the world I have in my head than the other things my eyes and ears feed me.

There is love outside the paan-spattered Bollywood posters and wannabe posers I pass. There is joy beyond the neon lights and darkness past the black humour being traded for attention at open mics.

Can I still seek God where religion interferes with architecture, where faith determines politics? I must. How else can I breathe? Even as my words dance around the easily angered, the quick to violence, I realise this churning, this silent yearning, this is after all, my whirling.
I look away from my book. The image takes a few seconds to fade away. The mood, long after. The whirling, I hope never. Then I remember, nothing is endless. 

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WHIRLING DERVISH Reading Elif Shafak makes me feel like I'm frequenting a world that is not mine and it makes me miss my real place. It makes me look at people and situations I've dismissed, with fresh light. And it makes me wonder why I'm chasing the ones I am. I feel listened to, between the stories of an unwed mother, a talentless poet, a tattooed nihilist, a Sufi mystic and a bored housewife. These are the people I have been, will be, the selves I am. While life goes on endlessly barrelling forward, I skid, screeching brakes, pause, stop, slow down to correct that thought and say, no it does not go on endlessly. It stops. It crashes. It fades. . I pick out a description of a smoky cafe with a pretentious name, a meeting with an authority figure interrupted by a wandering dervish. And I choose it over the conversation about price points at the neighbouring table of the coffeeshop I'm at. I carry it with me as I navigate booking a cab on an app, ordering dessert on another, swiping my train card. At least the last feels closer to the world I have in my head than the other things my eyes and ears feed me. There is love outside the paan-spattered Bollywood posters and wannabe posers I pass. There is joy beyond the neon lights and darkness past the black humour being traded for attention at open mics. Can I still seek God where religion interferes with architecture, where faith determines politics? I must. How else can I breathe? Even as my words dance around the easily angered, the quick to violence, I realise this churning, this silent yearning, this is after all, my whirling. I look away from my book. The image takes a few seconds to fade away. The mood, long after. The whirling, I hope never. Then I remember, nothing is endless. 📸: @hairstories11 🎶: BULLA KI JAANA MAIN KAUN – Rabbi Shergill #theideasmithy #bibliosmithy #dervish #whirlingdervish #elifshafak #thebastardofistanbul #thefortyrulesoflove #books #bookreader #booksofinstagram #booklover #booklovers #bibliophiles #bibliophile #sufi #sufism #spirituality #spiritualjourney #spiritualawakening #spirit

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Architect

We are shaping the span between us, paving roads to each other with ideas, extending word ladders and conversation bridges.

We are co-creators, selecting the best parts from I, me, you, yours to design a new us. We pick lines from stories as diverse as Interstellar and Gravity, sculpting reason and attraction into pillars of truth. We embellish with fragments of our broken past dreams, hoping the other will see art in our pain the way we do.

I bring in my best tools – My smile wiped clean of the dregs of my past and dipped into a fresh coat of all these new emotions that you inspire in me. So here I go setting out to be the architect for our future, building us into castles & cathedrals, space stations & satellite towers, when you turn around and say
You just want some SPACE.

You slide into an alleyway of guilt that I didn’t even know existed in this world of ours – God knows I didn’t put it there. I follow you and I find walls where I expected a skylight or a ventilation shaft. I realise there’s a door only when I hear it slam.

SLAM. SLAM. SLAM.

As you close off, compartmentalise,
seal away, cordon off parts of your life
where I’m not allowed anymore.

SLAM. Because that’s what doors sound like to you. To me a door exists to let us walk through walls.But these walls are wet with your tears and they crumble at my touch. I look for a conversation thread to help us out of this abyss. I find myself trapped inside a dead-end with no sign of you, imprisoned inside the crushing echoes of your accusations and cut on ropes called promises that we made to each other

I make it back to the threshold where we first waved hi. There you are smiling hello at me, like we did not just create something together that choked and died. I can’t build what you keep destroying, I say. You tell me it’s not supposed to take so much work. Honey, even a sandcastle takes getting your hands dirty

I saw us as a city of the future, full of colour & bustle & culture. But you, my friend, think of love as Stonehenge, smiling at unfinished stones, walking around in our ruins, turning our architecture into history.

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ARCHITECT We are shaping the span between us, paving roads to each other with ideas, extending word ladders and conversation bridges. We are co-creators, selecting the best parts from I, me, you, yours to design a new us. We pick lines from stories as diverse as Interstellar and Gravity, sculpting reason and attraction into pillars of truth. We embellish with fragments of our broken past dreams, hoping the other will see art in our pain the way we do. I bring in my best tools – My smile wiped clean of the dregs of my past and dipped into a fresh coat of all these new emotions that you inspire in me. So here I go setting out to be the architect for our future, building us into castles & cathedrals, space stations & satellite towers, when you turn around and say You just want some SPACE. You slide into an alleyway of guilt that I didn’t even know existed in this world of ours – God knows I didn’t put it there. I follow you and I find walls where I expected a skylight or a ventilation shaft. I realise there’s a door only when I hear it slam. SLAM. SLAM. SLAM. As you close off, compartmentalise, seal away, cordon off parts of your life where I’m not allowed anymore. SLAM. Because that’s what doors sound like to you. To me a door exists to let us walk through walls.But these walls are wet with your tears and they crumble at my touch. I look for a conversation thread to help us out of this abyss. I find myself trapped inside a dead-end with no sign of you, imprisoned inside the crushing echoes of your accusations and cut on ropes called promises that we made to each other I make it back to the threshold where we first waved hi. There you are smiling hello at me, like we did not just create something together that choked and died. I can't build what you keep destroying, I say. You tell me it's not supposed to take so much work. Honey, even a sandcastle takes getting your hands dirty I saw us as a city of the future, full of colour & bustle & culture. But you, my friend, think of love as Stonehenge, smiling at unfinished stones, walking around in our ruins, turning our architecture into history. 🎶: BREAK ME, SHAKE ME – Savage Garden #theideasmithy

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Change Of Weather

We’re running out of things to say to each other. It seems as if you don’t like me very much anymore.

You hate my car, my home, my gadgets, my life – everything that makes me successful. You want us to go back to a simpler life, for me to work harder for lesser. But I have for centuries and millennia and time eternal. Now it’s time for pleasure. It’s called progress. You see green, it was never my favourite colour. I like steel and grey a lot better.

So you turn moody. It’s just like you to want to ruin my day. Starve me by burning it all up. You know, nobody likes someone who’s always raining on their parade. And yet I try, with I love yous and other peacekeeping tactics. Earth Hour. World Environment Day. Special days. Everyday used to be special. Do you remember?
I do.

Summer days where you’d wrestle me to the ground and we’d make hard, mango-scented love. Winter nights kissing me lightly awake, keeping me up talking poetry. Endless evenings standing still on the beach so still, like God stopped breathing and look, that sliver of blood moon, the tip of his big toenail as he says Peace Out.

How bold we were, how brave to play these toxic games of evolution and success, pain and pleasure. We were baiting danger at leisure. We managed to keep love, quite at bay.

Let us try to believe that even when the eyes are cold, the visions behind them are not. We are, after all, the casualties of Life’s war against itself. But you are still angry, your moodswings have given me a cold. I’ve cried all I want to, for you. And you’ve exploded far more than you can afford. But we my love, have never learnt to speak. My poetry, I see, won’t touch you any more. It’s too late to salvage what we had.

So we’ll go back to talking about the weather and you can blame it all on me again. And some day perhaps, long after I’m gone, another lover, another child, standing with you under a different sun, another season, will find lined across your body, the stretch marks of our life together and wonder whether they were not your first love.

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CHANGE OF WEATHER We’re running out of things to say to each other. It seems as if you don’t like me very much anymore. You hate my car, my home, my gadgets, my life – everything that makes me successful. You want us to go back to a simpler life, for me to work harder for lesser. But I have for centuries and millennia and time eternal. Now it’s time for pleasure. It's called progress. You see green, it was never my favourite colour. I like steel and grey a lot better. So you turn moody. It’s just like you to want to ruin my day. Starve me by burning it all up. You know, nobody likes someone who’s always raining on their parade. And yet I try, with I love yous and other peacekeeping tactics. Earth Hour. World Environment Day. Special days. Everyday used to be special. Do you remember? I do. Summer days where you'd wrestle me to the ground and we'd make hard, mango-scented love. Winter nights kissing me lightly awake, keeping me up talking poetry. Endless evenings standing still on the beach so still, like God stopped breathing and look, that sliver of blood moon, the tip of his big toenail as he says Peace Out. How bold we were, how brave to play these toxic games of evolution and success, pain and pleasure. We were baiting danger at leisure. We managed to keep love, quite at bay. Let us try to believe that even when the eyes are cold, the visions behind them are not. We are, after all, the casualties of Life’s war against itself. But you are still angry, your moodswings have given me a cold. I've cried all I want to, for you. And you've exploded far more than you can afford. But we my love, have never learnt to speak. My poetry, I see, won’t touch you any more. It's too late to salvage what we had. So we’ll go back to talking about the weather and you can blame it all on me again. And some day perhaps, long after I’m gone, another lover, another child, standing with you under a different sun, another season, will find lined across your body, the stretch marks of our life together and wonder whether they were not your first love. ——————————————– I wrote this for an event about climate change, a few years ago. #theideasmithy

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Holding Hands

You’re uncomfortable in silences
In sighs
In whispers
In conversations
In wide open spaces and people
So you find your solace in moving

And you tell me,
Make it quick, this love thing
Or you-and-I just might stick
Hug me like it doesn’t matter 
that it’s not a kiss instead
And I do

Together, we learn
to use charm as our tools
Insight as currency
Armed with both,
we storm the marketplace
Sellers looking for love, peace and wisdom

We craft airbrushed relationships
And plastic sentiments
Indestructible and neon ranged
Our love and laughter chip and flake
On each other
And we bleed byte-sized poetry.

Bartering words
Duelling with sentiments
We are warrior poets
Traders of such dramas
With love however,
We will have no dealings

Packing trophy experiences
Boarding passes in hand, we wait
Hoping that the call that comes for me
Will be yours too
No strings attached
No expectations, no commitments
No messes, no fusses

But there’s nothing in our contracts
that says we can’t hold hands.

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Meeting My Feminism

I grew up feeling like my life would follow the same path as other people – work and you shall achieve, be and you shall receive. It baffled me when I was attacked or called entitled for this, when the boys I knew, weren’t.

I wrote about this often. I created a comic about a little girl in a green dress, throwing barbs and smiles at a world trying to put her in a gender box (The Idea-toons). Humour became an easy way to deflect the always present horror about the idea that people have tried to impose on me all my life – that I don’t deserve what I am/do/have.

I resisted the label of feminist for too long because I didn’t think I deserved to be categorised with people who ensured that I had a vote, an education, the right to a job, to not be an object of ownership. I didn’t feel that important. It would be years before I realised living that belief is far more important than a label.

I wrote this piece on a whim, sitting in a coffeeshop waiting for a friend. It had easy witticisms and sharp edges because it was only for fun, not craft like my other pieces (Paper Plane, Goddess, Flamingos). I would perform it on my first time at a stage that would go on to be my favourite. The creators of that space would notice me and friendships would be born, bringing me support for my work. I would also get marked as a target, by other people’s misogyny hidden under camaraderie. I didn’t know it then.

In 2017, Simar Singh would tell me about his idea to promote poets and poetry and ask if I’d open his first event for Women’s Day, with this piece. Sure, I’d say, without much thought. Later, they’d find technical glitches in the footage, teething problems for a first-time team and decide not to use it. I’d shrug. There were other battles I was fighting.

In August 2019, UnErase Poetry put up the first ever video they shot at their launch show – mine. It crossed 75k views in a week. 😄 I still don’t know – which battles I can win without even realising I’m in a fight and which ones I’m doomed to perish in. But I am a feminist.

Watch the video on YouTube or Facebook on the UnErase Poetry channels. Have you met my feminism? 

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MEETING MY FEMINISM I grew up feeling like my life would follow the same path as other people – work and you shall achieve, be and you shall receive. It baffled me when I was attacked or called entitled for this, when the boys I knew, weren't. I wrote about this often. I created a comic about a little girl in a green dress, throwing barbs and smiles at a world trying to put her in a gender box (The Idea-toons). Humour became an easy way to deflect the always present horror about the idea that people have tried to impose on me all my life – that I don't deserve what I am/do/have. I resisted the label of feminist for too long because I didn't think I deserved to be categorised with people who ensured that I had a vote, an education, the right to a job, to not be an object of ownership. I didn't feel that important. It would be years before I realised living that belief is far more important than a label. I wrote this piece on a whim, sitting in a coffeeshop waiting for a friend. It had easy witticisms and sharp edges because it was only for fun, not craft like my other pieces (Paper Plane, Goddess, Flamingos). I would perform it on my first time at a stage that would go on to be my favourite. The creators of that space would notice me and friendships would be born, bringing me support for my work. I would also get marked as a target, by other people's misogyny hidden under camaraderie. I didn't know it then. In 2017, @simarsinghtrolled would tell me about his idea to promote poets and poetry and ask if I'd open his first event for Women's Day, with this piece. Sure, I'd say, without much thought. Later, they'd find technical glitches in the footage, teething problems for a first-time team and decide not to use it. I'd shrug. There were other battles I was fighting. 10 days ago, @unerasepoetry put up the first ever video they shot at their launch show – mine. It crossed 75k views in a week. 😄 I still don't know – which battles I can win without even realising I'm in a fight and which ones I'm doomed to perish in. But I am a feminist. Watch the video on YouTube or Facebook on the UnErase Poetry channels. Have you met my feminism? #theideasmithy

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Paper Plane Pilot

I was a diarist through my teens. When I was 24, I discovered blogs which I learnt was short for ‘web logs’. And my diarying transitioned online. Because I wrote under the then anonymous identity of IdeaSmith, I could pour my unvarnished feelings into writing, things I didn’t feel at liberty to say in my daily life.

These were my 20s and I was accumulating new experiences faster than I could process (post-graduation, first job, recession survival, new love, matrimonial pressures). There was fear, worry, anguish and grief for what I’d left behind – things that I was not ‘supposed to’ feel or dwell on. Writing anonymously allowed me to examine each feeling and experience at leisure.

Before I knew it, I had readers and IdeaSmith was a personality, an entity built by me but also by what my readers wanted to read. Possibly because my dark emotions and experiences were not permissible in my offline life (Nobody wants brooding, angry, grieving or annoyed women even in 2019), these writings were more poignant than my cheerful work. Maybe they just suited the mystery persona of an unknown woman on the internet better.

I had a revelation in the early 2010s. I realised each time I wrote or spoke or even read a piece, I relived that memory. So in my dark, brooding words, I was keeping my pain alive. Writing, I concluded, was cathartic, not healing. And in 2014 after abuse, a broken engagement, a nondescript startup, I decided I needed healing. I needed levity & light. Words matter so much to those of us who wield them. It’s hard to bring them to destruction. But the image of a paper plane flew into my imagination.

And from that came a healing philosophy and a tattoo for reminder. This was my first performance as a stage artist, a wordsmith with flight, a new me.

Watch the video on and fly a paper plane with me.


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PAPER PLANE PILOT I was a diarist through my teens. When I was 24, I discovered blogs which I learnt was short for 'web logs'. And my diarying transitioned online. Because I wrote under the then anonymous identity of IdeaSmith, I could pour my unvarnished feelings into writing, things I didn't feel at liberty to say in my daily life. These were my 20s and I was accumulating new experiences faster than I could process (post-graduation, first job, recession survival, new love, matrimonial pressures). There was fear, worry, anguish and grief for what I'd left behind – things that I was not 'supposed to' feel or dwell on. Writing anonymously allowed me to examine each feeling and experience at leisure. Before I knew it, I had readers and IdeaSmith was a personality, an entity built by me but also by what my readers wanted to read. Possibly because my dark emotions and experiences were not permissible in my offline life (Nobody wants brooding, angry, grieving or annoyed women even in 2019), these writings were more poignant than my cheerful work. Maybe they just suited the mystery persona of an unknown woman on the internet better. I had a revelation in the early 2010s. I realised each time I wrote or spoke or even read a piece, I relived that memory. So in my dark, brooding words, I was keeping my pain alive. Writing, I concluded, was cathartic, not healing. And in 2014 after abuse, a broken engagement, a nondescript startup, I decided I needed healing. I needed levity & light. Words matter so much to those of us who wield them. It's hard to bring them to destruction. But the image of a paper plane flew into my imagination. And from that came a healing philosophy and a tattoo for reminder. This was my first performance as a stage artist, a wordsmith with flight, a new me. Watch the video on @kalart.ists YouTube channel. Link in bio. And fly a paper plane with me. #theideasmithy #paperplanes #paperplane #origami #inspiration #motivationalquotes #motivationmonday #motivation #healing #movingforward #lettinggo #lessonslearnedinlife #anonymous #pain #performanceart

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Hey You In The Dark

I’m talking to you. That part of you behind closed eyelids. Inside a deep inhaled breath. Tucked away into a memory so intense, you don’t look at it often so it becomes a secret. Who are you in that darkness?

I think we’re all the same. The same disproportionate halves of a body. The same anxious uncertainty. The same disorganised desires. The same imperfection that makes comfort and poise look like two opposites.

Is it a good thing or a bad thing to be seen away from the light? Is there something slightly magical about the eyes adjusting to darkness even as the mind adjusts to incompleteness? Is it intrusion to be seen in the dark?

I guess that depends on you. Me, I crave being understood. I am terrified of being misunderstood. I fear being miscounted, being left behind or being carried along with a people and to a place I don’t belong. I burn to fit right, to find my tribe, my home, me.

I also know the tricks our minds play on us (before each other). I know about camouflage. About defence mechanisms. About confirmation bias and seeing only what one is looking for. About becoming fluid, chameleon, mercurial and being whatever the eye demands. And I know these are the endless games of living, the repeating charades of relating. Maybe clarity is possible only when a story is over. Or maybe not. Thank the universe for a sun that shines on us all equally.

Hey you, with the bored shadows rising in your eyes. Hey you, fallen into the cracks of your own fractured dreams. Have you looked my way lately? I exist.

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HEY YOU IN THE DARK.. I'm talking to you. That part of you behind closed eyelids. Inside a deep inhaled breath. Tucked away into a memory so intense, you don't look at it often so it becomes a secret. Who are you in that darkness? I think we're all the same. The same disproportionate halves of a body. The same anxious uncertainty. The same disorganised desires. The same imperfection that makes comfort and poise look like two opposites. Is it a good thing or a bad thing to be seen away from the light? Is there something slightly magical about the eyes adjusting to darkness even as the mind adjusts to incompleteness? Is it intrusion to be seen in the dark? I guess that depends on you. Me, I crave being understood. I am terrified of being misunderstood. I fear being miscounted, being left behind or being carried along with a people and to a place I don't belong. I burn to fit right, to find my tribe, my home, me. I also know the tricks our minds play on us (before each other). I know about camouflage. About defence mechanisms. About confirmation bias and seeing only what one is looking for. About becoming fluid, chameleon, mercurial and being whatever the eye demands. And I know these are the endless games of living, the repeating charades of relating. Maybe clarity is possible only when a story is over. Or maybe not. Thank the universe for a sun that shines on us all equally. Hey you, with the bored shadows rising in your eyes. Hey you, fallen into the cracks of your own fractured dreams. Have you looked my way lately? I exist. #theideasmithy 🎶: VIENNA WAITS FOR YOU – Billy Joel

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

All That You’re Not

Don’t hang yourself on the noose of someone else’s attachment. It’s nice to feel needed but nice is an illusory trap. You are the sand and the ash inside a dormant volcano. You won’t be held inside a fist or even an embrace that breaks at the first sign of heat.

Do not shatter over the sound and fury that is the face of a person’s humanity turning on itself. You are not glass, not paper, not wood, not stone. You are the center unbound, holding the chaos outward. You are the eye of the universal storm. You won’t be snuffed out by a few angry breaths.

Don’t string yourself together on other people’s definitions. Those thoughts are full of knots, ones they’ll never care to disentangle because they’re about someobody else. You are the water of churning whirlpools. You won’t be contained in a net that tears and loops so easily and is discarded like straggling threads.

Do not find yourself in tatters when toxic thought and poisonous words infect your being. You are not the wastelands laid bare in these fumes. You are the chemistry that gives everything a place, a season, an identity. You are all that was and also all that comes after – the death, the survivor, the guilt, the redemption and the reprise.

You are more than can be imagined. Take the rest of your life to find out what all. 

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ALL THAT YOU'RE NOT Don't hang yourself on the noose of someone else's attachment. It's nice to feel needed but nice is an illusory trap. You are the sand and the ash inside a dormant volcano. You won't be held inside a fist or even an embrace that breaks at the first sign of heat. Do not shatter over the sound and fury that is the face of a person's humanity turning on itself. You are not glass, not paper, not wood, not stone. You are the center unbound, holding the chaos outward. You are the eye of the universal storm. You won't be snuffed out by a few angry breaths. Don't string yourself together on other people's definitions. Those thoughts are full of knots, ones they'll never care to disentangle because they're about someobody else. You are the water of churning whirlpools. You won't be contained in a net that tears and loops so easily and is discarded like straggling threads. Do not find yourself in tatters when toxic thought and poisonous words infect your being. You are not the wastelands laid bare in these fumes. You are the chemistry that gives everything a place, a season, an identity. You are all that was and also all that comes after – the death, the survivor, the guilt, the redemption and the reprise. You are more than can be imagined. Take the rest of your life to find out what all. ———————————————————————— 🎶: BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER – Simon & Garfunkel #theideasmithy

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If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Memory Diving

You may look back more often than the world tells you that you should. You may linger in places you’ve already spent too many dark moments in, with no increasing clarity. Why did she leave? Why did he stay silent? What were they thinking? Did they ever consider how you feel? Do they ever think of you?

Your past-diving may be more than your body can bear, even if your emotions are hungry. Your gaze may sear across unresolved incidents and unnamed feelings, seemingly never reaching conclusions. Why. When. What.

You may plumb all these depths over and over because you are the boundless universe. Your life has had fathomless lessons that are too big, too nuanced, too glorious and too stark to keep up with time. It is true. You may need to read a story again to make sense of it. A joke could make you laugh no matter how often you hear it. And a song may ring on in your head for years without your ever understanding its words.

Maybe some day clarity will come. Maybe the answer will materialize in the sky that you look up to, for guidance or the sea that you gaze at, hoping for a reason to hope. Maybe knowledge will find you in a book or a conversation or a new teacher. Or maybe the lessons will just seep into your skin, more mist than rain and settle on your bones.

A lesson in letting other people live out their crashes. A lesson in not get hit and run over. Lessons of goodbye. Lessons in silence. Shh.

You can look all you want. Underwater, no one hears you scream.

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MEMORY DIVING You may look back more often than the world tells you that you should. You may linger in places you've already spent too many dark moments in, with no increasing clarity. Why did she leave? Why did he stay silent? What were they thinking? Did they ever consider how you feel? Do they ever think of you? Your past-diving may be more than your body can bear, even if your emotions are hungry. Your gaze may sear across unresolved incidents and unnamed feelings, seemingly never reaching conclusions. Why. When. What. You may plumb all these depths over and over because you are the boundless universe. Your life has had fathomless lessons that are too big, too nuanced, too glorious and too stark to keep up with time. It is true. You may need to read a story again to make sense of it. A joke could make you laugh no matter how often you hear it. And a song may ring on in your head for years without your ever understanding its words. Maybe some day clarity will come. Maybe the answer will materialize in the sky that you look up to, for guidance or the sea that you gaze at, hoping for a reason to hope. Maybe knowledge will find you in a book or a conversation or a new teacher. Or maybe the lessons will just seep into your skin, more mist than rain and settle on your bones. A lesson in letting other people live out their crashes. A lesson in not get hit and run over. Lessons of goodbye. Lessons in silence. Shh. You can look all you want. Underwater, no one hears you scream. PC: @professor.shonku #theideasmithy #memory #nostalgia #movingon #lifelessons #sentimental #feelings #emotions #healing #hurtinginside #thepast #lingering

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