Manvitha's Musings

  We live in a world that strives for growth. There are souls that want to change. Every new idea, every initiative, it tries to make an impact. And that's kind of beautiful. It really is. But there's something else that fuels this fire. And that's not always enthusiasm, or zeal, or a will to change. Sometimes it's pain. Perhaps the therapists once needed therapy too. Perhaps the songwriters were once heartbroken too. Perhaps the successful were once struggling too. But at the end, despite the heaviness, it became their fuel. It showed them why they started. It gave them a reason to wake up. But I don't think that's beautiful. You don't have to be hurt while healing others. You don't have to be broken while mending something else. You don't need pain to have a purpose. Resilience isn't proof that it was worth going through. But creating something meaningful despite it all is what stands out. Not because it makes their experiences perfect, but bec...

  I told myself to detach. I convinced myself that I already did, in fact. It feels forbidden, these words. It feels sinful. The digging up of the deepest parts of my soul. The part that secretly wishes to reverse time. The part that feels glimpses of the past, better forgotten than left within. And yet I get these flashes. These flickers that tell me it was better. Which is true. Because I hate the sweet memories now contaminated with the poison of betrayal, the bitterness of hurt, the weight of words. But I also feel something else. Hope. Hope for a life bigger than the one I knew. Hope to make the next moment sweet. Because I don't want bitterness anymore. I don't want forgotten moments lingering anymore. I want a future. And most importantly, an enjoyable present.

Hey, pause. Stop right there. Take a deep breath. I've been watching. I've seen your expansive heart. I've seen how compassionate you can be, how much energy you can dedicate to those around you. But one things that breaks me is how you see yourself. I wish you could see yourself in my eyes for one day, acknowledge the depth of your heart, the beauty of your soul. You deserve the same love you show others. You need your own time and energy. It just breaks me to see you cry because you seem to radiate so much light. Yet no one knew about the darkness within. The impossible standards you hold yourself up to. The pressure you weigh all alone. Please don't be so hard on yourself. A soft heart deserves soft care. I'm begging you see yourself in my eyes for once. 

   I smile at a crumpled picture of eight year old me. I smile at the girl who wrote to impress, not express. I smile at the girl who wanted to write big words and make a difference. I smile at the girl who longed to be acknowledged as someone who writes. This smile isn't mocking in the slightest. It's sweet. Because I know very well how much she has grown. 

"What does self-love mean for you?" he asks. "For me?" I repeat, staring into the sky as I ponder the answer.  Images of self love seem to flash through my mind. I can see . makeup brushes. I feel the scent of perfume and smell the vanilla scented candles lit before bed. I can practically imagine the sweaty clothes after a yoga session. I see cute water bottles lined up in my head. But where is the self-love? I know that it is a form of self-love, taking care of yourself and pampering yourself head to toe. But perfume doesn't erase self-doubt. Lipbalm doesn't erase self-hate. Facemasks don't erase guilt. A put together outfit doesn't automatically seal the cracks within. Self-esteem boost, yes. But healing? Not quite.  For me, self-love means knowing all your flaws and mistakes and loving yourself despite it. It means valuing yourself enough to change. It means respecting yourself enough to do things for you. It means loving you for being you. It mea...

  This morning, I woke up with no goal. After a long week of hustling, I simply wanted to pause. Wanted to pause for the chirping birds greeting me sweetly in the morning. Wanted to pause for the cool moonlight smothering me in the night. Wanted to pause for the warm coffee glazing my tongue. And today, it feels like the sunset taught me to take a break before emerging afresh. 

 I was playing golf. One shot. Didn't fall in. "Oh well,"  I think to myself and simply try again. With a swing of my club, I look eagerly just to see that it didn't turn out to be a good shot once again. So I try again. And again. I try in hope of making the next shot better. That made me think. Why can't life be the same way? A game of golf is just a game played with clubs, there are chances to be better, so why not life? But then I think, "We are the golfer. But we can't control the ball." Life is out of our hands sometimes. Choices have consequences way bigger than a golf game. So maybe the real question I should be asking isn't "How do we control the ball?" Not even "How do we hit the club?" Maybe I don't need to navigate my life in one day. We can't change the decisions already taken. We can't reverse the past. So maybe the real question is smaller. Maybe it's "How do we make the next shot better?...

Everything makes sense. The whimsical childhood spent without a care in the world. The adulthood spent figuring out the sudden weight of responsibilities on your shoulders. But what about the in-between parts of life? What about the messy teenage years where nothing seems to make sense? Where you need to be independent yet somehow are expected to fit in at the same time. Where you feelings and dreams are considered too much, your effort considered too less. Where every word hits harder than it used to, like it was meant for you. Where every moment spent trying harder only made it more stressful. We need to talk about it more. Because before you spank them for a low grade or outburst, maybe it's worth considering that this is their first time being a teen, navigating a life that's sometimes heavy, and being handed a world that feels like theirs to fix when it wasn't particularly them who made the cracks. 

 One thing that will never make sense to me in a world that almost never does is that crying is considered a weakness. It's crazy how every damp eye, every salty tear spilled is immediately wiped off, every bit of grief pushed away, filled with something to stop your eyelashes from being coated with it. It's almost as thought tears were the problem, sadness was a sin that must be pushed away. It's almost as though we've forgotten to simply sit with our emotions, let our souls feel it to the core before gently returning to bliss. Because crying was never the problem. Bottling it up was. 

 You keep telling me, "Distract yourself." You keep telling me, "Stop crying" As if it were that easy. As if suffering was just a choice between crying and not crying. So stop telling me that. I'm tired. Tired of people dismissing my sadness. Tired of blaming myself for everything. Tired of crying myself to sleep. Tired of acting normal. Tired of never feeling enough. When I listened to all these sad songs as a kid, sadness felt like a vibe. Like something to be romanticized. Those sleepless nights, tears in the flower garden, the scribbles on paper. But the funny thing is, that's me right now. Someone else's art became my reality. And that's when you know that you're not as ok as you're pretending to be. 

Do my downfalls make me unworthy of rising back up? Ah, sheesh. What a dramatic way to start a poem. Do I still have to answer that question, though? A question that you yourself might have been holding back? Even after the days you got through despite everything,  even after the eyes that sparkled with hope, even after crying,  even after the goals you achieved despite nearly quitting,  even after the breaths you took despite feeling heavy--- you dare ask if you are unworthy? Sweetie, no. Just no. 

 I saw you as though you were a drop of sunlight Laughing through moments, a friendship so sweet I loved when you celebrated my wins all night Encouraging and kind like how birds tweet. And then it went dark, I made a mistake. You disappeared. And I wondered,  Was it all fake? And I can love you for the memories you shared and still despise how you left me for the bad ones. Maybe I really am the villain. Attention-seeking, expecting too much.  Or maybe I was a girl who was crumbling, without somebody to hold the pieces together. And I still wonder, was I the one in the wrong? But that voice in my heart sings a different song. Does the laughter make up for when things got bad,  and I had to push through, alone and sad? I wish there was someone who saw my flaws, yet stayed through the tough times,  abiding by no laws. I still think our friendship was too bright,  but the flame was extinguished the moment it was hard to shine.  I'm sorry. 

We've all seen those motivational videos. We've all seen clips of people bouncing back, seemingly stronger, after going through a hard time. It looked empowering on the screen. It looked awesome. It looked like something worth living for. Maybe that's why it hit harder when things weren't like that. When I had tears before the comeback, emotions before the strength, and a heart too restless to breathe, yet too tired to begin. For me, that comeback didn't look like one dramatic moment where I decided to just fix it all. Maybe it's because that's just how life is. You can't force change. You can't expect the rainbow to shine on you when the rain is still quietly pounding in your ears. And yet I don't understand pain is considered a great teacher, an unwavering strength. Because I've learnt from mistakes many times. It just never felt so....glossy and simple for me. I still repeated the same mistakes. I got hurt by the same things. I stayed quie...

             Finding Clarity Amongst The Fandom Noise: Harry Potter And Hermione Granger Hi, I'm Manvitha, a girl who reads books as much as she writes them. You know me; the messy poetess, the young writer. But I really don't want to brag. I've never written something like this before. This is not a story or poem, like I usually write in this blog. It's sort of like---a collection of my experiences and thoughts on......... Harry Potter. Yes, you heard it right. This not a fan fiction. This is rather something about how I got into the Harry Potter series in the first place, what I felt like after being introduced to the Wizarding World after being a Muggle (and also a bookworm) for several years, and whatnot. But this isn't entirely a summary either. This is a representation of my thoughts of a very specific aspect of Harry Potter: the friendship between two of the most important characters of the series----Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.  Now-...