Manvitha's Musings

 Once upon a time, we used to be friends. The kind that smiled big and the days never end. Then one day, I thought, "Why not something more?" So I closed the old hinges and opened new doors. Maybe I'm just losing my mind. I told myself that I'm wasting my time. And maybe I was right. I still remember that night. Adrenaline in my heart. That's what tore us apart. I'm not supposed to dwell, I'm supposed to move on Or maybe it affected me  more than I let on. Once upon a time, I used to hear your name and feel butterflies. But now I hear your name and my head is in a chokehold with a thousand knives. And the sharp tip of every blade feels vague. I don't know what feel, with time, will the memories seal? You swore me as an enemy but will it last for infinity?

  A black dress with sunglasses. Glossy hair. A mirror selfie. A post about self worth. An idea to break cycles. And I'm just sitting here, doing precisely the same, and still wondering when dressing a certain way became growth. When self-worth became another classy aesthetic. Every post about it turned into a trend. And I told myself, 'It's not that deep. ' Not deep, yeah. Until representation of the idea of self-worth  mattered. Until the girls were convinced that growth must look a certain way, fit into a certain box to be validated as modern and relevant. You ask why rich girl aesthetic is the new cool, and when original culture slipped away. Well, we were fed the ideas of culture being outdated. It's no wonder everyone's trying to fit in a box. I'm not saying that a modern dressing is bad. I'm trying to ask why and since when we started assigning roles and meanings to a piece of cloth.  Clothes are a form of self-expression and culture, yes, but the...

                                                                                                                Silver and Hazel                                              A tale of a prince and princess                                          Forced to Wound, Destined to Love  Part One: Silver Every slash of my sword is like a dance of the blade. I feel free yet in control, and I feel pride swelling in my chest with every shuffle of  my feet, every pang against the hard metal of his...

 "I am addicted to dopamine." I spew the  words out of my mouth, say each one of them proudly, I wear it like a badge shining on my chest. They laugh. They laugh and mock and say, "Isn't that everybody's problem in GenZ?" Hmm. A problem. And I get why it's a problem. We've seen the screens. We've felt the screens. We've felt the addiction. Swipe after swipe. Scroll after scroll. Easy to reach. All in my pocket. All in my phone. But then, if it's so easy, what is there to feel? What addiction is there to feel? What joy is there to feel? And why can't I stop? It's dopamine. That's the answer. Instant gratification. Easy joy. Swipe after swipe. Scroll after scroll. Keep scrolling, until you can't feel anymore. You can't comprehend anymore. You're not getting dopamine, you're not feeling gratification, you're not feeling joy, you're just escaping your life at this point. Scary, isn't it? Turns out, the ...

Dear self, I want to tell you that I love you and I'm proud of you. Unapologetically. Purely. Genuinely. Wholeheartedly. I'm proud of you for getting through days you thought you'd never get through, I'm proud of you for finding a flicker of light even when everything around you felt dark. That takes an unwavering amount of strength, even if you don't give yourself enough credit for it. Your mind will tell you lies. It will tell you that you are weak, it will make you believe that you are worthless, when really you are just a human being who is still learning. You are not a failure. You are not a disappointment. Your mind will tell you such lies. So many lies. But it is far from the truth.  I just hope you know the difference between feelings and facts. 

 I'm not a therapist. Well, not in the professional sense. I didn't study courses, earn degrees, help people through depression. I sort of learned to read rooms by the way someone drummed their fingers against the table nervously, the way someone's smile dropped when I mentioned a name they hated, or the way someone's voice cracked when they were trying to hold back tears.  I focused on their tears. But no one was there to wipe off my own.  It was always like a gift, this ability to read rooms and make people feel uplifted. This ability to give people hope. But when you looked at how and why I got this ability, it's not as pretty as it seems.  These people I uplift, these pieces of advice I give people, and all the times I told someone that everything is going to be ok, I told myself it was just empathy. Well, I wasn't wrong. But there's another piece I missed.  I knew exactly how it felt to be in their place. Every single time. Every word I spewed out my mo...

 "But you don't look depressed."  You say it to me like it's a fact, peering into my eyes as though searching for the sadness etched across my face.  "I know," I reply emptily. "But I am." I give you a faint smile, a small curl of the corners of my lips, but it doesn't quite reach my eyes. My stomach doesn't hurt from laughing like it used to, my throat doesn't scream k-pop song lyrics until raw. Not because it forgot how to, but because it just doesn't see the point. My friend, I know that I don't look depressed. Because depression doesn't always accompany puffy eyes, dark circles, constant tears streaming down your face. Sometimes it's this vague numbness. The point where you feel too much until you can't feel anything anymore. Your heart is full of nothingness, you dreams buried deep inside the complicated layers of your mind because your thoughts made the path too foggy. It's like you can't see a way forw...

   This is about eggs. Sunny-side up, yolk runny yet soft, edges brown and crispy, texture smooth and indulgent, temperature warm and not scorching, just how I like it.  It's funny, right? The fact that I gave an egg its whole character arc when it was nothing but a piece of food gliding over my tongue.  Yet it felt like comfort. No deafening personality, no twisted words, just something to keep me company.  I usually never like others' company. And yet I enjoyed the egg. Until I realised, this isn't about eggs anymore. This is about people. Those who stayed even in the bad, those who left for good. All of them.  Including those who hurt me. Including those who used me for gain. Including those that were harsh. Including that that never really had a connection.  Why couldn't you be the comfort I so desperately needed when I could no longer see the light for a while? Why did you wait for me to initiate before calling my name? Why didn't you simply glide...

  One coffee shop. Same aroma of fresh coffee beans, same traffic honking through the window, same plants dangling from the walls, same tables, same straws, same cups. Yet it's crazy how every person sitting here has a completely different experience of life. One sipping the warm drink and letting themselves bask in the sunlight peeking through the door. Another feeling grateful for life. And there's the last one, wishing that they were never here at all. They don't enjoy the coffee like the others, they feel the bitterness of the drink glazing their tongue, while the bitterness of their thoughts washes over their heart until they wonder where the sweetness went. They wonder when it was the last time life felt sweet for them, the last time they could savour the sweetness without breaking. The last time they could feel bitterness pass without letting it contaminate the sweetness too. The last time they could look at themselves in the mirror without searching for flaws. The l...

  I laugh at your jokes until my stomach hurts. The old ones, the new ones, the ones only we understand, all of them. Because I don't know if I'll be quick enough to catch my breath the next time I shake with laughter next to you. Quick enough to realise that life goes on, people get separated and grow apart. It's bittersweet, all these years of friendship, all the spaces of comfort not being as direct as it used to anymore. I'll have to move to a new home. We'll have to schedule our meet-ups from now on. And part of me is scared that we'll just become another guest. That physical distance will distance our souls as well. I wonder if we'll ever be able to giggle the same way, that's why I laugh right now until my throat is raw. But one thing I realised is, this isn't goodbye. This isn't the last time. It's simply...distance. Our meet-ups being less accessible. Going on with our lives. Except it doesn't mean you have to stop being in mine,...

I saw someone on the internet saying that to be cringe is to be free. And yet I suck my stomach in, straighten my spine, adjust my hair so that it falls into perfect curls on my left shoulder at a party just so that I don't get called weird. Although civilized would be a better word. It's funny, the irony of it all. The things society tells us to do versus how it reacts to those. Yet there's that little smirk curling up at the corner of my lips as I stare into my fizzy drink and play with the straw, eyes on the crowd around me, mind somewhere else entirely. A world of my own. A world where I don't need to be civilized. Or cringe. I can just be..me. I won't wipe my makeup off after going home, for a start. I know that. I know that I'll spend a considerable amount of time staring into the mirror, playing with locks of my hair, the laces on my dress, acting like I'm walking a red carpet. And the audience is my own reflection. And it makes me laugh, how I know m...

  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.