You know back in school I always  found myself asking this-

Why am I an introvert? Why can’t I be an extrovert?Why are extroverts worshiped everywhere?Why are they so idealized? Why is it always so difficult for me or for introverts to do everything and anything? To talk to every single person alive in school,to engage in activities requiring speaking up or being the leader , or to speak up to the question asked by the teacher in class I very well knew the answer too or to just speak up my mind?
I thought maybe you know I just am not comfortable in my skin or  maybe I need to change myself there’s definitely something wrong with me or maybe I just don’t push myself enough or maybe the concept of an introvert is messed up.

Now this problem started back  at the end of 8th grade and  as years passed it started to take a toll on me, and as I reached 11th grade I just didn’t recognize myself .Now, when I say I didn’t recognize myself it means that I was looking for an identity for myself,the individuality and uniqueness that being an introvert didn’t provide me with.

And now I was desperate.Desperate for an identity. Desperate to be an extrovert.

And  as much as I was frustrated about not being able to have that identity I was more infuriated about not being  welcoming and accepting enough of my own-self. So what if I am an introvert?

Surely by pushing myself further and further I would change myself to being an extrovert but why?Why should I change myself?Why is an introvert not acceptable even to my own self?


Part 2: Excruciating solace

So you see I have been at

a war with myself,
a little over 2 years.

I tried to come out of it
I tried to forget about it
I tried to be vocal about it
I tried everything and
But was greeted with only
dejecting defeat.

and I since then I  have

felt solace slipping
into someone else’s

Ephemeral solace but solace.

It gave me a certain kind of assurance;
a certain kind of protection;
a certain kind of comfort;
the kind that I didn’t
find in mine.

But now it has become
I crave to find
own myself.
My own suppressed
and smothered self.

I still yearn and
long for it.
But this ache is
suppressed by
my own “solace”.
By my own
excruciating solace.


Part 1: The unspoken miseries

This is not a love poem
and never will be.

This is rather a
fuss and an objection
about the scars- 

which doesn’t
torture and abuse 
my very own existence.

 The the ones I wasn’t
vocal about,
the ones that
I didn’t dare to
speak about,
the ones which
 left me in torment
and misery. 

But the ones who
whisper to me in
my dreams
in my
midnight  cries-
my own
 unspoken miseries 

Selfhood’s hue

Each one of us are distinct in nature, have a different outlook on life and a diverging persona that discrete us from others, and   we all carry this ‘individualism’ with pride, dignity and honour as if that distinctness in us  encircle and circumscribe us in a bubble, in a globule, of self identify and selfhood but each with its own hue and its own tint of hue.
Nevertheles, this ‘differentiation’ in  self identity has to endure and withstand all the bleak and harsh  conditions and surroundings so it has to sustain and perpetuate its ‘true self’ till the end, but then there are people who mask their appearance, disguise and impersonate themselves and so try to engrave and carve their selfhood on others by splodging and smearing and staining others hues with their own facade  and charade pigment.
But what they don’t realise and comprehend  is that a blue’s imprint on a yellow globule will be green and never be only blue itself.

Ripped and wrenched life

Melancholy came without any notice and yanked off my wings of my power of creativity and my faculty of imagination from me leaving me incapable of flying in the endless horizon of this mind of mine and so, I, had to cling to others for my own survival,for the words which were left unsaid, for the power which was left unused, crept into my skin,slowly and slowly, only to peel and flay off my very skin and leave me all alone, bleeding and hurt for life.