Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

 Another day is done, Another night has passed. And we go on still, Ants in a cardboard box, Fencing the same perimeters, Fighting the same old fears. Sometimes we fight and scream, Sulk and accept, cower and submit. Then come the adrenaline rushes, We charge to proclaim what is ours, Reconquer our lost territories, Go to war with our nasty demons, And thump our chests to declare victories. Then the slump and back to realities. Circling in boxes that don't budge. And we collapse happily in the dark. And we dream of hands that set us free.

 "Hi Dr Ray." "Hello." "Do you remember me from last year?" "Yes of course, you had food poisoning. Came in with your boyfriend. Is he outside?" "Erm, yes, no. I have a different boyfriend now. He's outside." "Lucky you, to always be accompanied when you are sick. I assume they take good care of you." "Yes Dr Ray." "You can call me Loksh, Ms Kiara." "He he Dr Loksh. Dr Ray. Loksh. Sounds so odd to not give respect to a doctor." "I'm not that old. Just 37." "Yes. Not old at all." Awkward silence. "So, Kiara, tell me what's up?" "Nothing serious. I think I have GERD." "Oh is it? How did you come to that diagnosis?" "I think. I'm not sure. I could be wrong." "Did you Google it before coming?" "Yes. But it could also be esophageal cancer." Loksh snorted and laughed out loud.  Kiara smiled too. "Just ki

 Love has many languages, some expressed, some unexpressed, some loud and some quiet as a mouse. Some people are romantic on the outside, but duds in the bedroom. Others seem as boring as thermocol but are simmering volcanoes underneath. We all love in different measures, but we all have loved or continue to do so. Unfortunately human relationships are rarely uncomplicated, and we feel if we love, that's enough and everything will be hunky dory. Until you hit adulting, then things aren't that simple any more. We become more defined and stubborn and set in our ways. This is a rather honest post, because that's the only way I know how to do it. The time to hide under the garb of, we are married, and hence don't talk about certain things is past. I want to especially talk about the stuff I'm not supposed to talk about. I'm aware that most men don't talk about such things, but most women do. Most of my friends are married, and we talk about things like sex or th

  There's an ice cream shop, Ably named Fat Unicorn. Meant to conjure magical images Of rainbows and ponies, Fairies and chocolate covered sprinkles. But it's 'fat'! Why oh why? Can you imagine a fat unicorn, With a jelly belly and a double chin? A butt like pudding and candy floss balls? This is what happens when You ruin fantasy with reality, Dissect desire and inject  It with a double dose of destination. In this case, the copywriter wasn't sure If unicorns eat ice cream, and what if they do? Do they become chubby and cute? What happens when you take The high road to imagination, But don't want to lose your way? Oh come on, I know many such people, Who don't understand the joy Of letting it all go. Fantasy isn't  Meant to be practical or sensible. Unicorns aren't horses, they are perfect In our mind, glitter horn and  Pink, blue colours et all. Imagination can never cause  Disillusionment or pain, it exists For us to escape into what can never Be

  I used to hate my hands long ago. In 9th grade, the first one  With slutty red nails. The girls talked behind my back, The boys were too scared to talk at all. Then over the years, they changed. Only the left was feminine, the right Cooked and cleaned, and typed and slaved. One scratched backs in throes of passion, The other packed the shreds away. It was like I was two different people in one. Crazy and sensual, plebian and analytical. I switched to pastels and browns, Tried hard to be someone and  Yet keep someone, I just couldn't let go. But time decided the long ends were done. They had to bathe and feed, Stop the sharpness from cutting delicate skin. For once, I was bare, stripped away  From all pretensions of what I tried So hard over the years to be. I looked at them, they were ugly. My hands did not belong to me. I envied people with long fingers, I looked away when I saw others, Manicured and pale, like a trophy, That men like to hold; I couldn't  Decide who I was an