nupeas-vish-ays

[nupeas-vish-ays]

on the way to dharamshala there stands house. it is atop a small pile of earth, the exact size of the base of that house, right at the mouth of a tunnel, and just a few meters on three sides from where it was carved out of.

the people who built the road perhaps tried to buy the land under that house, to make a road into the mountains. they offered an amount of money, some amount, but not enough for a home.

they still built the road, and cut into the rock around the house though it was not necessary. that house however still stands defiant, but alone, for everyone passing by to see.

[nupeas-vish-ays]

up till 2 am I thus re-validate my words

turns out staying up till 3am feels liberating the first time you do it but if you're not doing anything staying up till 3am....you're still stuck just at an earlier time and also more sleep deprived

[nupeas-vish-ays]

anyway I was thinking what is the purpose of this blog, apart from being an outlet for the random stuff my brain deems post-worthy and the little things i write. I did pretty much summarize it but still.

i think one of the reasons why i edit what I write so much is because i am thinking of who will read it, which should not be a problem because duh you're writing so someone will read it right? i don't know really, but I feel that inhibits me somewhat, knowing that someone out there might read what I wrote and form an opinion on me based on it and oh god this is about my crippling need to be liked by everyone isn't it. ugh.

[nupeas-vish-ays]

also in hindsight the whole college-as-a-transition-to-adulthood thing might have been building up some stuff as well

i did more self-reflection in the week after being asked about a lot of different stuff at the interview than i have done in a very long time and this is slightly scary but not entirely inexplicable.

[nupeas-vish-ays]

i guess using a picture instead of text can inhibit my incessant editing tendencies

[nupeas-vish-ays]

the poem i wrote on my og tumblr btw (also kind of weird how I posted this a day before my birthday?)

a less direct metaphor?

if it is not my story, then is it really mine to tell

and if i do it, did i use all the people i met

it is sad, how it inevitably ends up being about myself

am i selfish? do i even want to help?

i keep running after what is -or what feels like - joy

i think they like me? or maybe thats just something they said.

i point with joy at the puddles, laugh at how deep they are, and wonder

when the raindrops stick together, are they nice each other? or are they mean?

(you know, i really do wish they'd like me, that is, if it's right)

pfft. i am obviously the ocean, and in this story there is - there can be - only one.

[nupeas-vish-ays]

mean girls piano riff save me please

[nupeas-vish-ays]

here's the storytime I guess.

i used to write poems (which I considered bad and cringe and no-good at the time) and some other stuff¹ on the Microsoft word app for mobile on my Samsung M01s. I had in fact logged into An account, but I don't think I really got how it worked at the time. I did not backup anywhere, and I guess I thought my work (barely classifiable as writing to the hater I was at the time) didn't need preservation.

so sometime in june 2024, my little brother threw my phone very forcefully onto the ground, and it didn't survive the fall. i still can't be truly mad at him about it, but trust and believe father very much was at the time. anyway the phone's lifeless body is in a drawer back home, and it probably hopefully still has the stuff I wrote. two years worth of it. maybe someday, I'll make an effort to recover it, but till then, tabula rasa it is.

p.s. not all of what I wrote was in the storage of my trusty ex-device. a poem I wrote exists on one of my numerous alts on tumblr. it has been edited quite a few times over the years, but the essence of it still remains i think.

¹ a really long farewell text for my sister before she went to college that I never sent, a thinly-veiled autobiographical story about me and my father and his anger and also my homosexuality and the sunday sabzi mandi for some reason, an essay I wrote about plastic pollution for a competition whose result never got declared which I believe now to have been a front for something illegal, etc etc

I say that I used to write until a lot of what i'd written got lost and then I stopped writing and that is true but also an oversimplification

[nupeas-vish-ays]

I say that I used to write until a lot of what i'd written got lost and then I stopped writing and that is true but also an oversimplification

[nupeas-vish-ays]

if you ever see this poeOnhead you have really nice legs keep cycling or running or whatever have you

i was mutuals with the social media manager of a semi-niche twitter famousperson on instagram some time ago and today i realised they disappeared off all socials.

[nupeas-vish-ays]

i was mutuals with the social media manager of a sort of niche twitter-famousperson on instagram since a long time ago and today i realised they disappeared off all socials.

[nupeas-vish-ays]

i can only stare unnervingly at people i know in the hopes they will come talk to me.

to expect me to initiate conversation is akin to expecting someone buried 6 feet under to crawl out of their grave.

[nupeas-vish-ays]

once upon a time, none too particular as such,

it got too loud, too there, too....much

so i laid down on the bed in my room, put my laptop on its side

watched people move through life, things get done, time pass by

when i realised how long it had been, i restarted all devices

rose from bed and rinsed my face, tried to look less tired, less lifeless

on my way to get food, again everything seemed

too loud, too there, too....much

i did not cover my ears, no music blaring into my skull

instead, just tried to drown my thoughts with songs i hummed

putting one foot ahead of the other was all I could do

repeating to myself "don't think don't think don't think," just move.

a bit later, all said and done, it did get better

but the feeling didn't go away, i think,

it lays there dormant, not waiting, just being.

until we meet again, until again, it starts, being too loud, too there, too....much.

[nupeas-vish-ays]

my leaky paper cup, half-filled with milk

was dripping all the way up the stairs.

I wanted to make instant coffee in my room,

with one of the six little packets my sister sent, and indeed i did.

I drank it then, from a stainless steel glass, which was perhaps not the cleanest.

after, I stayed up till 2.30 am, and what do you know, I liked it.