Blue. Kettles and tea cups.

The fine lines on that old English wall. The patterns.. no that tiny little smudge on the table cloth. The bed that was not in a parallel line to the wall. Blue. The tiny mismatch in colours in her outfit. Skies. Maybe that cloud should be moved over there. Hope? Extinction. Everything goes full circle. Beliefs. Train yourself to lucid dream and what you believe in will come true.


I have always felt like an outsider. A nomad. Moving from people to people, place to place, changing friend circles, changing the shape of my dreams and changing the shape of my despair. Maybe everyone is an outsider on the inside, but in my brain, only my thoughts register, so, to me, I seem to be the perpetual outsider standing out of the window looking at the merry making inside through tinted windows. Blue, that tint. A bleep when it registers in my head. I realised that being popular and in, and being an outsider are not actually contradictory. I mean, I could be an outsider in my head, but to them, I was the cool kid, always in with the right group, laughing my way through life, hanging out in the hallways, leaning against the wall with one feet propped up casually as if the world was beneath my foot and talking about random nonsense as if I did not have a care in the world. Why would anyone know that I wished that the random nonsense would tilt a tiny bit in its axis so as to align with what I considered my kind of random nonsense. That the acceptance in my friends eyes would shift just a tiny bit in its reference frame so that I felt accepted?


The cravings of being accepted can be the hardest addiction in a person’s lives and its withdrawal symptoms the most dangerous. How do you rehabilitate from this addiction?

How does one rehabilitate from life?

The kettles and the cups, the crack in the wall. They will all be here next time I am here. A little different now, since I have told their story to the world. A little more known, a little more connected. Through me.

Yesterday, I met a girl.

Sitting at the airport, she wanted to borrow my phone to call her family. She was from Surat, i remember. Her face, as soon as I looked into her eyes which were somehow swimming with all the emotions in the world, became to me a beacon which could pull me into any corner of the world. Why was she crying? Could she somehow feel my pain. It certainly seemed so. What I was looking at was my inside face, the face I made in my head and I could not get over the incongruity, the impossible-ness of the situation. A simple shaking of her head to express a simple no seemed to encompass all the empathy i would ever need in my life.

And I wanted to flee. Looking at her eyes brimming with understanding towards me shook me from the core. I would burst out crying. And that would be disastrous.

And so I fled. To be the outsider. Again.