She

Her mind

She was born a sad child, or at least that's what her parents told her. Young, dumb, naive, believing in miracles. Believing in miracles to a point where she saw the world through rose tinted glassess, believed that she needed to retaliate everything and everyone with love.
Love, that she needed so much, love that she romanticized to a point of extreme delusion.
Love because she needed strength to exist, and she understood that everyone did too. In her reality everyone suffered as much as she did.
I'm going to vanish from this auric field, I hope I stop existing. Everything was to her, blur.
She believed in lies, always speaking her truth because she was indeed pure, nobody taught her to understand these lies and what they can do to her sensitive tiny blinding mind. Innocence at its best.
The very opposite to Lolita, if you're willing to believe but with the same charm, but she couldn't see that too. Her eyes were open but her heart was blind. Had it not seen love, only pain. Don't know why? Probably she was indeed a sad child she thought. Her parents took great care of her, or so they let her believe. Always tucked in, fed and dressed up like a doll. Poverty surrounded them.
This nine year old child, crying constantly.
Scared of letting father down, developed a fear of faliure and studies. Panic attacks were her best friend rather than actual human beings. People tortured her, used her.
The bad side of people really came out with her around because she was so tiny, defenceless and sorry to be alive.
She was pain.
An excerpt//

I don’t think I mind toxicity, I think that’s pretty much what I live for right now. I just don’t want to be taken for granted, after all it takes pain a while to leave your system even after it’s gone, and sometimes it never leaves. We call it trauma. You always remember it with a  stammering heart, and if you’re unlucky like me you’ll be kind to pain, you’ll see a whimpering baby who’s never been loved enough, and you’ll fall in a motherly love with that baby.// conversations that you fear/

Enter her mind with grace because she was a timid yet beautiful creature, one of its kind. Breathing was harsh, words were colours, colours didn't have names. Blur.
She was so lovely yet so lost, thought love could save her. Because to a child that's the only apparant thing, the only language that's ingrained in their mind. We're creations of the universe, made with love. Don't you think so? Had the energy and vibrations not been in transcendental  geometry. Not functioning,as supposed. The domino effect would have been at play. Love keeps us going. Love is the reason why every single thing moves, tastes, sees, feels and makes love.
She was at war with herself because nothing made sense.
An excerpt//

Like home?
Yes like home.
I don't know why I even bother to document everything I feel with such obsessiveness and I don't know why I bother trying to acknowledge my feelings either when I can't respect them. I've been on this journey for way too long now, I've lost a stable ground again and I'm trying desperately to find something, anything to consolidate myself with even an ounce of what I once had been. I'm somewhere where I never would have in my wildest dreams (pun intended) would have expected myself to be. This reality tastes so different, it's tangible it's just beautiful how some humans can touch you and you just don't feel so lost anymore. You're existing and the air around you stirs when you walk past, and it's like very much about your existence outside your head rather than your personal perspective of everything that has ever been true. How affection can sometimes be your addiction and then again more than enough of it, poison. Dizzying you to a point you want to scrape away every inch of your skin that has ever been touched because the fire doesn't stop. It started off as pure beauty and it spread everywhere, soaked itself inside your bones and then like acid hollowed out everything you ever knew you had.
This place is borderline real, this place wasn't where I was born. I don't know where I belong. I don't know where I should reside, is it love? Is it pain? It is lust? Or is it madness? Where do I go back home to. I've carved my skin from the brim because I believed that there was too much of fire inside my soul and it was hurting me, these chains. I'd bite my own flesh, I'd try to stab it open because I believed there lived an universe inside of me that wasn't scared. That beneath all this skin I'd be free, I'd love more. I'd be able to feel the love I have more, and I'd be exquisite yet I'd be on fire. The fire madness makes you burn down on, what a poignant demise.And I still can't resist, I still can't stay here. There was a home I had, and I feel terribly guilty of leaving. Now that I have been forced to leave, is it me being disloyal to my love?
I've found myself in very few places, I'm seeking to find some place that makes sense to this reality. I can't believe I'm completely sane now, I'm too erratic for that. And even if I were that would be the death of me.
This is a lot shades away from my origin, I've just stepped into this beautiful weather. Everything is so new, and I don't hate myself so much anymore. There's love in abundance and exorbitant freedom, a lot less mistakes and more sensibility. Do I want to take this back with me so I can heighten my cravings? Do I want to never stop feeling? Will I be able to go back with sense in my being? There's obviously pain, a lot less of it in comparison. I've grown used to pain, I've stopped hurting so much anymore. But the joy is not lively enough, it doesn't make me want to kill myself right after because I don't know if I can do away with this much happiness without guilt. The joy isn't alive. And I'm not alive anymore. But I'm saner, makes me really wonder if sanity is the price of beauty?
In this life, to find a skin that belongs to me, a mind that lets me recall who I am and what I've been through without making me question my identity, a pain that makes me strong but doesn't make me greedy for power, a love that hurts but isn't scared. And which isn't a reason to believe in pain either, a love that gives you a direction and security. A love that you're honest with, you're wholly and completely accepted by. I'd very much like to slice open my lips or to decorate my neck with pools of blood to drown my sorrows in, but I'm not sorry. I'm scared but I'm not sorry. I really really really appreciate my mind, it's beautiful. It's okay if I someday would not live long enough to create enough beauty to satisfy my soul because  all that matters is the present moment, I'd much rather be art to myself right now as I stopped caring who saw me long back.People are too insensitive and ignorant to do so and I'm not questioning their reality because mine is a very different place altogether, I feel people just don't want to work hard enough.
And this, this complexity isn't all I want to be too, I could be so much more. It makes me sad how little I see sometimes, maybe. But deranged has always had an exotic edge to it, the good was never as appealing as the bad. We derive pleasure off acts on the basis of our own perceptions rather than the attributes attached to either, as if things ever worked that way. It would have been such a better world if people understood this.
And lastly, I'm sorry I'm so brutal. I'm sorry I have this need to speak, I know I shouldn't be sorry but I am. I'm sorry I get under your skin, I'm sorry I am possibly just a whore. I'm sorry if I ever do stop trying.//Irony, do I make you uncomfortable?

I'm sure you have seen by now that, she wasn't borne into the same level of consciousness as the "general audience" that's going to read this book, prose, whatever it's going to turn out to be. The story hasn't started yet, our protagonist is a complex person, we're just getting to know each other. Because of this lack of vision, she worked hard to find what works for her. But she burnt out, we all do. Grew sadder, and sadder.
You can call her an alien, to the human ways. And leaving home for the human ways was quite an interesting and clashing decision for her.
She even started self harming in every possible way, she hated love by the age she reached nineteen. Why and how she was alive after many suicide attempts, God knows why.
She was alive and growing, but still blurred.
She knew she's gonna ruin herself someday because,
//Excepts are added in this book, to help you understand her vision, and also to add some poignant poetic flow to how you're going to interpret her story, after all.
It's her story//

Forgive me profusely, my knees are starting to burn and tear down there is just so much blood. I don't understand how to explain the blood to you it's everything I am, I'm the self proclaimed embodiment of resurrection I agree because I love to play with fire, that's very apparent I guess. I don't mean to be misleading, anyhow.
This is who I am, this is my religion.
I don't know how to live without this, I don't think I would be able to do that anyhow anymore.
Some women aren't truly meant for love, they have so much to give that it shatters their minds and ruins their own lives. People want more, and more and more and it feels like a dream, was a dream.
This is brutality, this is life. This is how I feel safe with love.
Love never was mine to be coveted, at the first place I always knew this,  always have known that all I had was everything that came to me by design. If I've reached out to make it come at me that's just how things happen, that's life's laws.
That's not nature, that's not love. If you have to beg for it, it's not love.
Love is comfort and peace, serene understanding that comes from a selfless place inside yourself that allows you to do everything you possibly can in your power to make sure people know that they belong. That they belong everyday and every moment to be in your narrative of life.
Love is for me just to prosper without a sense of fear attached to it, your narrative matters too. You're not a commodity, you're not just a pretty little thing. You can be so much more.
I think my life is and always was going to be a tragedy. Forgive me for I really love the blues, the black and blues.
Red was never mine to start off by, that's why I guess I wore red on my lips oh so often knowing that there was a hole in my heart and I knew this is the farthest red could travel within my soul. Red wine too perhaps.//sirens, siren

Dedicated to you my loves, Kanupriya Bundela and Deepali Bhat, for always standing by me. I love you.