Aniesha's Musings

“So can I ask you something invasive personal?” I ask.
I can hear the exasperation in his voice as he sighs and says, “All our conversations are invasive and personal. Because I don’t think you’ve ever learned to draw the line…”
“Hush!” I say, propelling myself onto my left elbow and covering his mouth with my right hand, “I have no sense of personal space. But you signed up for this shit. You know that!”
I can see his shoulders relax as he lets out a deep breath. He pushes my hand away from his mouth and says, “You’re absolutely right. I signed up for this shit. What’s your question?”
We are lying side by side on his bed, our heads resting on the bolster that was wearing a Garfield cover he had once picked up from a flash sale on an online store. I have turned slightly to ask him my invasive personal question, but he still lies on his back, staring straight ahead. He has that half-annoyed half-amused expression on his face: a look that has been especially reserved for me.
“What?” he asks…

For as long as I can remember I have never been good at talking about my feelings. But I have been pretty damn great at writing my heart out. My sister always said that it would do me a world of good to date people who were a little unlike me. She said that if both of us would write – it wouldn’t really help either of us much in the end.
She’s been right about a lot of things. But she was wrong about this one. You see, it doesn’t matter whether a person likes writing or doesn’t like writing. You become an annoying nuisance if you keep running off into the arms of poetry and hide behind a veil of words every time the world remotely hurts you. Yet you cower in the shadows and wonder if they would come and join you, talk to you, take your hand and lead you back into the world. Or if they would ignore everything and just wait for you to show up when they expect you to!
Every fight inspires you to write. Every heart ache births yet another verse. And sometimes you stop talking in the middle…