Reflections of a Broken Soul

Sometimes, silence becomes the only way to express what words can no longer hold. Not because people stop caring, but because caring too much can start to hurt those involved.I’ve been thinking about how some friendships drift, not out of anger, but because life changes shape.

 What once felt easy and constant begins to feel heavy or complicated. And suddenly, someone who used to be a daily part of your life becomes a quiet memory in the background.When distance enters a friendship, it’s natural to look for a reason — a moment, a word, a misunderstanding. 

But often, there isn’t one. Sometimes, we just reach a point where continuing in the same way isn’t fair to either person. That realization took me a while to understand.I’ve made mistakes too — expecting messages when someone didn’t have the time, assuming the connection was unchanged, refusing to see that people and priorities evolve.

 Those moments taught me that friendship is not ownership. It’s about understanding when to be there and when to step back.There were things left unsaid, perhaps hidden out of fear or guilt. But I believe both sides carried good intentions, even through the confusion. We simply lost our balance somewhere along the way. That doesn’t erase what was shared — the support, the care, the genuine bond that once helped me through some of my toughest times.

Now, I see that closure isn’t always a conversation. Sometimes, it’s an internal acceptance that things have run their course. That realization brings a different kind of peace — not joy, but calm understanding.I still value the friendship, even if it exists now only in memory. 

I hope time heals what hurt, softens what hardened, and maybe one day allows for a quiet reconnection built purely on respect and goodwill.Until then, I hold no resentment. 

Just gratitude — for the help, the laughter, and the lessons that friendship brought. Some people walk with us for a chapter, not a lifetime, and that’s okay. 

What matters is that, for a while, they made the journey worthwhile.

The Fire Within !

You feel the heat bubbling in your ears. You feel the amber burning deep inside where it hurts. The stillness dissolves into something raw, primal — an emotion so fierce it makes you want to breathe fire. You know it by name: Rage.

Rage consumes you. It devours logic, discards practicality, and seeps into the core of who you are. Your personality roars into overdrive, forcing you to question what you were and what you will become. You’ve met this emotion before. You are no stranger to Rage.

This is not anger. It does not stem from irritation or injustice. Rage is older, darker — a primal inheritance carved into us by millennia of survival. Perhaps it was Rage that drove a distant Homo erectus to slay the mountain lion that took his child, to wear its skin as a declaration of triumph. That same flame still flickers within us. You wear it as Rage.

Your adrenaline glands work overtime, flooding your body with unbearable energy until your head feels ready to explode. The pain only intensifies the fury. You endure it, understanding it for what it is. Rage.

You do not seek comfort. You wish to become Shiva the Destroyer — a force of unmaking. Your hunger fuels it. Your body’s old aches feed it. Your memories of betrayal and love lost become kindling. You are the vessel, and Rage is the fire burning within.

Rage pulls you close, whispering promises of destruction. It tempts you toward self-ruin, to implode from within. You no longer chase your own desires; you chase its purpose. Rage’s purpose.

Your child, your mother, your best friend — they reach out to you with love, with concern. You understand their worry, but Rage does not differentiate. It feels nothing but its own pulse.

Eventually, Rage retreats. What follows is disappointment — an old companion. You have known it, mastered it, made peace with it. And in that familiarity, Rage becomes almost human. Almost relatable.

Then, like a divine weapon, you become its instrument — a spinning chakra in the hand of a god, seeking the next demon to destroy.

Your head hits the ground. Dust clings to your lips and teeth. Rage has fulfilled its purpose.

Rage. Death. Are they any different? Age kills slowly, cell by cell. Rage does the same — from the inside out. If it consumes your life, then what remains to die? Rage makes you want to kill and destroy, to burn and vanish.Rage demands vengeance. Rage knows no forgiveness. Rage has no mercy.

I am Rage!!!

Loops of Longing

I found someone. Yes, again and again, as if in a loop, I keep finding true love. But in rhetoric, how true is it—if I keep finding it in different people at different times?

Maybe I am love. Maybe I am the one I am longing for. But then again, don’t I hate my guts? I do realize I’m a chronic depressive and see the harsh realities of life.

Maybe it is this realization that keeps driving me towards this chemical imbalance in the cerebellum. It does give me that "much talked about" flutter in the stomach. But it seems like I let my primal urges take the best of me once I’m comfortable with my partner.

Who is a partner? A teammate in a two-person sport is also a partner. When I ride pillion on the bike, the rider is also my partner. If I buy two oranges, the person eating the other orange is my partner. I realize—it is too much to ask of a single person to be there, whenever, wherever. I want love to be like that: whenever, wherever.

I am going through some difficult times. Soaring through the skies of the great Indian plain, I realize tens of crores of people have gone through the same turmoil. But what makes me turn in my already uncomfortable seat? Is it the belief that, finally, I have landed a home run—or is it the realization that home is running farther and farther away?

I made her cry today, also. No, not in the typical chauvinistic way. I kept bombarding her with logic after logic, question after question. She’s an angel and barely deserves the kind of treatment I dish out to her. She is a bit immature, but that’s one of those things that pulled me closer to her.

I miss her scent. I miss how she cried when I hugged her. I miss how she would scowl after each argument. I miss her.

I had a bad dream as well today. I don’t want to write about that crude dream. Maybe it’s the dream that drove me crazy. Maybe it’s the crazy that drove me to the dream.

Seeing the spread of black storm clouds above the cumulus, white, cotton-coloured clouds reminds me of her dark circles. The small black pimples on her bum. The ingrown hair beneath her chin. If I could ever make one thing right, I would go back and make myself a little more emotional and unrealistic. I hate this feeling—understanding, yet unable to deviate from what is practical.

I want to be somewhere else. I want to be a religious, superstitious, conservative guy who has his own ideologies about religion, politics, and social status. Why?

I was talking about love, wasn't I? It’s this feeling that makes me go crazy, and then some more. I want to bless her for getting married.

I am in love—and in trouble, I guess

In search of..

Pssht!

The rush of air was followed by the soft hiss of the bus doors opening. I was standing at the terminal, heart pounding, waiting for her arrival. I had played that moment in my mind a hundred times before — with violins, angels, and background music. Everything cinematic.I looked eagerly at the footboard, waiting for her tiny feet to appear.

Crunch!

Instead, a burly-looking woman with a stern face descended first. “You must be [my name],” she said flatly, without even a hint of a smile."Certainly heard a lot about you," she continued — and she made sure I heard plenty. The way she said, ‘I’m glad to have met you,’ carried such reluctant dismay that I almost felt guilty for being in love with her daughter.

The moment only got more awkward from there. When my girl stepped down with her luggage, I didn’t even help her — too busy trying to impress her mother with polite small talk.

Yet, despite that clumsy start, I was happy. She worked day and night to keep us both afloat — and though it wasn’t the gifts or the outings that made me smile, it was something deeper. Every time she felt low, she found her way to me. I became her safe place, her personal pillow to absorb the tears of the world.We shared everything — food, love, music, money, and yes, even a bed.

Months later, as we prepared to move in together, I couldn’t help but smile thinking back to that first day in Bangalore. I still remember the warmth of her breath on my chest, her eyes wide and innocent like a child’s — unsure of everything in this world except one thing: being with me.That day, when I met her mother, something shifted in me. Usually, I’d have cracked a joke or rolled my eyes at a strict parent. But that time, I didn’t. For the first time, I felt like calling someone else’s mother my own.

Maybe moving in together breaks a few social norms. Maybe it’ll raise eyebrows. But if I can keep her happy — truly happy — that feels like the only world worth conquering.I won’t lie. I’m scared. Nightmares still visit me sometimes — of what people might say or how life might turn. But none of it scares me enough to change my decision. After all, what’s life without a bit of controversy?And then, there’s love — and yes, sex.

I’ve always felt that sex is God’s clever way of keeping us tethered to Earth. Otherwise, we’d all go to heaven too soon searching for such bliss. It’s not just physical pleasure; it’s the journey — slow, beautiful, and deeply human. The kind that reminds you you’re alive.

So here I am, ready to move in with the woman who still makes me stutter, stammer, and blush like a complete fool.

To my parents — I’m sorry. Not because I believe I’m doing wrong, but because I promised my mom once that I wouldn’t. I tried to keep that promise. But love has a way of making even the calmest man a little… well, retarded.I

At least now, I’m happy, Mama.

Judgement Day

Tomorrow is the day I face judgment. Five exhausting days lie ahead—no sleep, no rest, only relentless stress. Yet, strangely, my mind feels calm right now. It’s as if I’ve surrendered to an “all is well” state, even while memories flood through me, making it impossible to concentrate on any one thing. My thoughts feel scattered, like a fog clouding my mind. I might get through this, but I wonder—to what cost? When will this struggle finally end? I had a chance, and I let it slip through my fingers. I feel invisible, trapped between worlds I don’t belong to. My mind drifts, tasting the strange edges of psychedelic thoughts, though I’ve never touched weed or drugs. My roommate, on the other hand, chases happiness in a haze I can’t reach.All I want right now is to go home—to hold my girl close, to eat my mother’s food, to fall asleep in my own bed where the chaos of this place can’t touch me. Here, everything feels tangled and heavy. Everyone’s seriousness has muted even the joy of a simple joke.But when I really stop and think... it’s just a midterm exam. Maybe I wrote all of this not for you, but to hold onto some part of myself. To make sense of the mess inside.Goodbye for now.

An Unwelcome Visitor: A Battle

It was a fine Sunday morning, and I had finally allowed myself the luxury of sleeping in late. No work, no homework — just a rare day to do whatever I pleased. My plans included a leisurely breakfast, some TV, a card game with friends, and a dinner at McDonald’s. Except, of course, the dinner part didn’t happen, and most other things slipped away once I signed up for my new job.

I had put on weight — my t-shirts started revealing more flesh than I liked, and my pants felt tighter every day. But the one thing that kept me going was food. Lots of it. Especially mom’s cooking.

On this quiet morning, as I was sipping my Coke, I heard it — a soft knocking sound. For the first time in my life, discomfort crept over me. I muted the TV and waited silently for the feeling to pass, but it lingered. I reached for my antacid pills, but my hands trembled so much they kept dropping it. I gulped down my Coke as my nerves flared.

Then, the knocking started again — persistent, louder. My heart raced, my mind flooded with questions: Should I call someone? Should I hide? Should I jump out my window? The wild river of thoughts pushed me into a panicked scream that shattered the silence around me.

Suddenly, clarity. I rose with great effort, sweating profusely. I swallowed the tablets the doctor had prescribed and readied my phone. More knocking — louder this time — shook the walls around me. Panic boiled in my throat, and I rushed to the toilet. Just before opening the door, I vomited… it was blood.

I cleaned myself with a towel, barely able to move. The knocking still echoed, a harsh reminder of the fragile life ticking away. Amidst the struggle, the phone finally rang. On the other end was Dr. Wilson shouting for help, but it was too late. I was already gone — a victim of cholesterol buildup, a silent killer lurking beneath the surface.

Reminiscences of a Juvenile Criminal

He walked into the classroom — a bustling place filled with chaos and chatter. Chalk fights, swearing contests, and all sorts of commotion unfolded. Yet, not a single student noticed that the hero of our story had entered. Not that he expected it. Only Thomas looked up long enough to greet him with a quick, “Hi da!”

Class continued as usual.The boy in the front picked a fight with the one in the back. The guys at the last row roared with laughter at the unsuspecting teacher’s expense. The middle row alternated between watching the girls and laughing at crude jokes from behind. And the girls? They existed in a world of their own.

But amidst all this diversity, there was one unifying truth — every student shared a quiet, consistent act of neglect. They all forgot that our Guy existed. They ignored him completely.He tried to catch their attention by asking a couple of questions, but even the teacher seemed to overlook him. Sumith, who sat behind, kept throwing chalk at a girl sitting ahead of our Guy — and each piece hit him instead.

Still, he didn’t mind. He believed himself part of the group, friendly with everyone. But his fraternal warmth was never reciprocated. The class avoided him deliberately. Yet he made small, unseen sacrifices for them. He took the blame more than once, keeping his friends safe while he quietly faced reprimands in the Principal’s office.Often, he thought about the things he wanted to tell his classmates — how much he cared for them.

“What is the difference between a traveler’s cheque and a personal cheque? You in the middle... What’s your name?”Our Guy stood up, blinking at the Front Office teacher.

“I want the answer, Mister!” shouted the teacher.More blinking. Whispered commentary spread around the room.He would stand again. 

And when the class ended, he would sit again. When the day was over, he would lumber to the bus, pull out his concession card, and stare quietly through the bars of the window.Tomorrow would be the same.

A monotonous life it was.

Years passed.

 The students entered their second year. New juniors came — timid and unsure. The seniors observed them with curiosity. But none of this altered the routine of our Guy.

He stayed distant. No attraction flickered, not even toward the prettiest girl. He went on blinking at teachers, tolerating their sarcastic comments, and enduring the same indifference.

Then one dull afternoon, during a theory class, the Principal and Head of Department burst into the room. They looked furious. Something serious had happened. A junior had been assaulted in a dark corridor after class hours. Everyone suspected it was Ishant — the most popular guy in college, adored by seniors and loved by the girls. Even the faculty called him “the gem of the college.”

The junior couldn’t identify his attacker, only mentioning a red scarf — part of the uniform worn by second-year students. It was clear why the authorities were there: an investigation was underway, and expulsion loomed for whoever was found guilty. Tension spread like wildfire.

The next day dawned like any other. But this time, our Guy didn’t come to class. No one noticed at first; the gossip of the previous night filled the air. Then the news broke — someone had confessed to the crime. Curiosity surged. Who would dare?

There, standing among the teachers, was our Guy — face blank, eyes lowered, unmoving.

Excited murmurs rippled through the classroom. Some students didn’t even recognize him.The police arrived. Procedures began. He was suspended on the spot, facing dismissal and criminal charges. His parents were informed. No one could understand why he had taken the blame. No one realized the reason behind his silence.

He had longed to be seen — to be remembered, even for a moment. And in that instant of scandal, he finally was.As he left the college grounds, teachers and students watching, his head hung low. But deep within, he smiled. For once, they all knew his name. Even the prettiest girl had looked at him. At last, he had been noticed.

For the first time, he felt truly alive.