What Should We Call It?

Coming home is what I would call it.

A few months ago, I fell out of the habit of writing. I have had writers’ block for the kind of writing I want to do for a while now (read: since 2015), but where I quit fiction, I began blogging. Through this humble space I created for myself online, I wrote.

I wrote to fill the void that a lack of creativity creates in you. I wrote to make myself feel less sad. I wrote to cope with my life better. And it worked. Beautifully. I came to adore this blog. I put in time, effort, energy. I did the kind of editing I’m not sure I can do now, to make it look the way it looks! And I still love how it looks! That almost never happens. I’m almost never satisfied.

But a few months ago, or over a year ago, I completely lost touch with writing. I stopped opening the WordPress app. I stopped checking views, stopped checking notifications. Earlier, I would write drafts here and there, but then? Reading what I had written and published brought me a great deal of pain.

I was going through a trying phase in life. I had been going through one when I started this blog, and I’m going through one now, that I’m attempting to do this all over again. It seems to me that there is an abundance of those.

The point is, that I stopped writing.

Writing, of any kind, heals me. Did heal me. Made me feel like I had something to do, something to contribute. Lately, I feel like I have the feelings, the emotions, the story; but I can’t say them. I can’t voice them, not in my head, not out loud, not in the written word.

Stopping the one thing that brought me joy when none other did has been painful. It got so painful, that when I got my new phone earlier this year, I didn’t bother reinstalling this app. What was the point? I already suffer enough. Don’t need to be reminded of what was.

But in there lies the catch. People who followed me at the very beginning are no longer here. They’ve moved on, found better things to occupy their time with. Or maybe, they gave up, much like I did. But these are the people who know what I wrote about. Who perhaps understood what the essence of my posts was, what the name of my site meant, what I tried to do for myself in a way that I couldn’t otherwise.

I have nothing but newer, more mature words for people who’re going to read this now. You might not know how I began. Or how I vanished. All you’ll have is now. All I have is now. But the name of this site still means the same as it did in 2015. The essence remains the same.

My sadness exists, and it makes itself known in a way that confuses the shit out of me. It makes no sense, but it still makes all the sense in the world. It is all wrong, but it is so right.

I need to start writing again, in a way that makes me feel whole again. And that is what this is about. Writing. Healing.

Love always,

Sky.

Injustice.

People. 

You would like to believe that they are black and white, but they are not; not really. 

You find some pinks, some yellows, some blues, some greens – people are never just black and or white. They are a myriad of the dazzling colors of the rainbow – vibgyor, roygbiv. Or perhaps a toned down grey, amongst the more dreary end of the spectrum–but never just black and white.

They are puzzles, riddles; waiting to be solved. Waiting to be unmystified. Waiting to be understood. Waiting to be dexterously thumbed through by your gentle hands, trembling as they handle the pages of your intricacies with surprising delicacy. 

Or not. They are also perfectly content with being the fifty thousand pieces three dimensional puzzle of the continent of Westeros which always sits on the shelf, never to be bought.

People are complex. And they are beautiful. And maybe this is romanticising the human species, glorifying them beyond what they truly deserve. 

But I cannot help it, because if I fail, if I don’t do this, I could never even get close to doing justice to the amazingly beautiful human being that you are. 

And that, is an injustice in itself. 

-x-

Since I hadn’t posted in a while, and as WordPress kept telling me I had unpublished drafts, I decided to edit and publish this one. I don’t remember when or why I wrote this. I do like this for some reason, so I’m making do with it. 

Love,

Sky xoxo.

Teachers Worth Gold.

We once had this period in school, called Resource Center. Obviously wasn’t a proper subject, it was a part of the co-scholastic areas, but yes, we did get a grade for that and it was mentioned in an obscure part of the report card, but you know, it mattered.

I joined this school in the seventh grade, and am now in the twelfth. The teacher who took this period left school at the end of my ninth grade. She is now the head of the English department at another school.

Well, let me explain what we did in this period. Here, we were given assignments that taught us to look deep within ourselves, to think out of the box, and to basically make us think in a nonconforming manner. We were encouraged to write from the heart, and put time into our assignments. At the end of each year, the best assignments would be displayed beautifully on the main boards – that are the soft boards lining the main lobby’s wall.

As one can imagine, making the board was a DREAM. The teacher was quite picky, and quite fussy – I want this like this, that in that way… It was a lot of hard work just penning down the perfect piece! And after your writing was selected, she would tell you what to change and what not to. Basically, help you with the editing process. And once that was done, she’ll tell you how the final thing should look like. OR, if you already have ideas about that, you’ll need to run them by her. There was this thing about her though, she always wanted computer fonts for the heading. It was weird. Well, can’t say much on that. Thanks to all that, I write really good Times New Roman. Anyway, she was quite helpful when it came to helping us out. She would give us hints, so that we could come up with the answers on our own.

Now, she was a no-nonsense sort of person. I know she might sound like a pretty cool person (which she totally was), but she was also very mean. I remember her scolding people for things they never did (ME ESPECIALLY), and I remember disliking her a lot and even crying once or twice because of her. She was quite loud and rude, and really obnoxious at times, and she was disliked by more than 75% of the student population.

But you know why I liked her?

She had the ability to see the raw, unpolished potential in you. It did not matter if you sucked at writing (I know I did), because you could always take suggestions on how to make your writing better. She identified writers in the sense that they knew what writing was about, even if they did not realize that at that moment in time.

And you know, that is just it. Writing is not merely scratches on wood. Writing is not just about stringing words nobody has ever heard together in complex formations. On the contrary, writing is everything. The coolest thing is, it is unique to every person. Writing is taking that one single idea and turning it into a beautiful arrangement of a few thousand words. Writing is transforming the mundane of the everyday mess and into the hip and fast paced chaos of the occasional. Writing is imagining that intense emotion, and making people who read it, feel it too.

Anyway, this teacher prized a select few students. They were her favorites, primarily because they did not take the assignments with a pinch of salt, they actually put some thought into doing it.

I miss her, I do. But also, I don’t. It’s just that you look back and think, oh, that person was not all that much, but they were something. And yes, she was something. She made me believe I could write something worth reading. And let me tell you – having a piece written by you up there for everyone to see – well, it is everything.

So, for that, I thank her. And with this, I sign off for today.

Love,
Sky, xoxo.

P.S.: Yes, she was also the one who signed me up for the workshop on journalism with the Times of India that started my whole reporting for the newspapers shebang.

1 Down, 4 To Go!

I suck when it comes to capitalising words in titles. I’m always confused as to what needs to be capitalised, and what doesn’t.

Anyway, MY PHYSICS EXAM IS OVER! And I’m not failing, how cool is that?! But I should still be cautious, I still have math and chemistry left.

So, it’s English tomorrow, and I’m really not stressing it. Like, not at all. I have three chapters left, writing formats to look at, and four chapters of the novel.

I’m so relaxed right now, it’s almost funny.

So, this is just an update post. One song I’m listening to repeat this week is Sex by the 1975. It’s an old song, but I really like old songs. Not that old, either.

AND I KNOW WHO MY FAVORITE MALE MODEL IS NOW.

Well, there was Joshua Anthony Brand, but I don’t think he’s like a professional model. I think he models for Hollister or something.

But this guy! Lucky Blue Smith is what he’s called. AND HE’S SO PRETTY ASDFGHJKL!

That pretty hair and that gorgeous face, and those eyes!

So to sum up, my favorite models are:
Cara Delevingne, Rosie Huntington Whiteley, Lucky Blue Smith, and Joshua Anthony Brand.

Such pretty people.

That’s all for this post. I know I’m bored, but I still have to study.

Toodles! Wish me luck, folks!

Love as always,
Sky xoxo.

P.S.: I do the hula hoop like a fucking PRO.

English Writing.

HAHA, this is what we do at school in the writing and grammar period:

LOL

Pay some attention to the jingle!

Lolol

And the pictures! Look how the guy’s mood depends on the amount of strands of dead cells on his scalp!

Lololol

That ™ symbol… Maybe I should enter marketing? Basically because ads curated by yours truly are going to attract crowds like stores with 50-60% off sales attract women. 😂

That’s all for this post!

Love,
Sky xoxo.

P.S.: I’m hanging out here because no school tomorrow and no whatsapp and sigh.

P.P.S.: Gujarat is so interesting right now go Google and find out all about why my school’s closed for tomorrow, and why it was closed today and also why it was closed yesterday.