We bomb down civilian planes, shoot in theaters, schools, concert halls, hotels and hospitals.
We kill, maim, thinking that’s the way a point has to be put across. We kill people to protest against killing other people.
We silence, wound, orphan and widow.
We find guns more useful than words.
Bullets more useful than thoughts.
Blood more useful than ink.
We shun peace.
We encourage hatred.
We witness 9/11, 26/11 and the likes.
We witness kids less that 10 being killed in places they called their second home.
We still ignore.
We are Paris, Peshawar, Beirut, Mumbai, new York, Boston, Lebanon, Palestine, Syria and anywhere else that someone has to worry whether he’ll come home safe.
We’re the world.

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99 to 18


In 99 days, I turn 18. While I’d like to consider it a mere number but it weirdly symbolizes the end of my life as I know it and the beginning of something so new that I don’t even know how to describe it.

I’m at  a weird stage of my life at the moment. Where I don’t know how 17 years slipped by, how 12 years of school slipped by and mostly the good part of my life. I stand at crossroads, faced with choices of going with what I wanted to learn, and what I’d like to learn. I’ve come to consider myself unknown. A Marianna trench of mystery that doesn’t know the history of itself.  A dark cloud looking for it’s silver lining.

It’s seems like time has gone by and I’ve grown too slow too late. It’s weird not to encompass in words, what one has felt for days. It’s the fear of the unknown, the fear of screwing it all up, and the fear of actually regretting that I grew up in possibly the wrong way.

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Every time my phone chimed

I could swear my heart echoed it

How could emoji’s

Express what mere words wouldn’t

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What’s with this four-lettered word

That makes the world go round

People weak in their needs

Bank balances fed to rose leaves

High expectations and low esteem

Happy people and sad hearts

Hearts drawn by pen on paper

Cream on lattes

Fingers on dust-covered glass

What’s ironic is, that isn’t a human heart at all

Is happily ever after measured by Ferraris, song references and PDA

By Facebook status’ and social standards

By what the law states

Or religion preaches

Or By what is the general norm

On Tumblr web pages

Are we romanticizing romance

Affecting affection

Terrorizing tenderness

Culling comfort

Screwing everything that’s good.

To make it work?

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And as yesterday turned today,

And the clock struck 12

We turned into something else

Lovers maybe, but who could tell?

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A pessimistic view on love.

Since the closest we’re getting to love is

Romantic novels and movies.

Set in an utopian world of hairspray and botox.

Characters pledged to fall in love,

No matter how far they are.

Endings sealed with a happily ever after,

And kisses perfected from multiple camera angles.

Oh where is the presence of broken hearts and crushed crushes.

Broken homes and divorced marriages.

Lets hope the reels keep on turning,

The pages keep flipping.

For let the romance never end,

Since that’s all we’re getting.

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Why I’m highly demotivated and done with this shit.

I have my half yearly examinations in a week. and I’d rather do anything but open my books and study. All I’ve done all my life is study and you’re still telling me I’m not done with it. It’s stupid. Spend the first 20 years of your life learning, then use that learning to work and if that isn’t enough retire and become yesterday’s newspaper.

I really don’t get where this comes from. Why does society demand education as a minimum requirement for being classified as a member. Why do we study, study stuff written by others, rote learn what they think, and erode who we really are. Why do we fall into this rut. This rut of great grades, and college admissions, examinations and practicals. Just trying to show off the fact that yes, I know the highly complicated definition of something that isn’t really going to take me far in life.

I’m not dissing education. For sure I’m not. I’m just dissing what we call education. We learn history that is written by the victors, Politics that the government wants us to believe and preach, English, where interpretations of only the test checker is valid and somewhere down the line understand that if we want to get into a good college, all we need to do is suck up and rote learn.

and that is where innovation dies, creativity dies, ideas die.

People die.

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Fake Sunflowers.

Took these pictures a few days ago, and felt they needed to be shown off. :P If you do use them for anything, give me credits! Be nice guys!

Also, I’d like to this post as an opportunity to introduce my photo blog, named photowaali at sitarasrinivas.tumblr.com go see :D

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A question I’ve been having since the inception of love.

how can relationships end.

to never begin again.

even in the most tiniest of ways.

from a friendship to a gaze.

how can love stop.

to turn into nothing at all.

finite. by a few.

actions, deeds, or words.

are relationships merely contracts.

clauses of undescribed pda.

love and tender affection.

to end with the demise of commitment.

what happened to the emotions.

to the hand holding.

do you mean to say that it was nothing at all.

just a ruse?

how can two people.

who have been together.

under the bond of what they call love.

cease the existence of the other.

for the bond the brokered.


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I was in conversation with my best friend today, and the general theme was how our lives generally suck and this year was the worst ever. A little background on that I’m in class 12th, the final year of my school life and in a few months I write the All India secondary something something. Essentially write the marching orders for the rest of my life. So yeah my parents, my school teachers my milk man etc are all very chill. NOT. Which just makes me want to rewind to the times when I didn’t have this pressure on my head.

And it’s not like I don’t like this pressure, it’s nice but it’s ALSO WAY TOO MUCH. How much do you expect a 17 year old to handle. Boys, Miley Cyrus, Master Chef Junior blah blah blah and remain perfect all the time. GOSH. It’s weird you know.

Going back to theme, I love-d being a teenager, wrote about it being my Salad days and stuff but suddenly it seems so so hounding. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m looking forward to what’s on the other side of my tests or maybe it’s the fact that Dix Sept is really trouble some.

To sum up, My golden days weren’t my childhood, aren’t my adolescence and may just be my adulthood.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Golden Age.”

Golden Age

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