Let’s crash together

Breathe less,

talk a little more,

In a string of words,

like morsels on the road.


by a thread undone.

Hit hard,

picked up by a stranger once.

Take 2,

the scene was dark,

two voices in a dusty room,

only breathing hard.

You saw through me,

I was scared.

I talked less,

we breathed more.


Anxious little heart, be quiet!

Will I be able to drive back home?
Am I worth his love?
Are they talking about me?
I don’t think I can survive a 12 hour flight. 

The questions of everyday life: will I be able to make this work?
While it sounds like a perfectly everyday question, it is not the case if you’re an anxious wonder. Living with anxiety is like fighting the devil from within. The moment an idea takes over your mind, and starts to grow arms – legs – feet – hands – eyes and then a brain of its’ own, you are impregnated with paranoia for a few minutes. In some cases, the minutes turn into hours of pushing this mighty beast that’s sitting on your chest off that mountain of certitude.

Sometimes I’m in a lift – it is a routine exercise. You get on board, you press that button and the lift goes up. Upon reading a few reports of horrible and disgusting deaths in lifts, you tend to recollect the exact same association and merge it with your mortal fears. I do this, quite frequently.

The adrenaline on certain occasions can be strong enough to make you feel dips in your temperature, pains in your chest and often the gnawing feeling of something terrible on the cards. There are many such petty fears; of course petty by your standards. My vision is not microscopic when it comes to your flaws and your fantasies but it sure is microscopic when it zooms into my world of fears. And there are many!

Living with an anxious soul is like being on a treadmill beyond your capacity to run. When the body maxes out on its’ limits, your mind goes into the overdrive thought cycle which wouldn’t let you sleep. I account several sleepless nights to the thought of losing someone when they are not going anywhere. I may fervently detest flying because I feel every jerk in the plane’s response to the clouds, my body responds to the little dips and sways of the monster vehicle.

I’m terrified whether I come of as a friendly person or if I’ve offended the stranger I didn’t smile at, maybe I hurt someone by taking away that last bite of food off the table. I’m taken aback by the inability to voice a few feelings that only articulate themselves as the sound of gasps for more air. The best way to understand anxiety is to recollect the first time you were going to attend school – that is it. Another simpler way to put this would be – imagine you are sitting in for an interview with a panel of 15 people. They are grilling you with questions and you are finding words to match the pace of their arguments and suddenly, in midst of this chaotic flight you realise you want to fart.

That’s anxiety for me. A constant battle in my mind. The german shepherd who wants to bite the head off my sanity, wouldn’t agree to go by days tame. He would bark ideas so frightful that I cannot deny the existence of some. The self-worth dilemmas, that he poops all over and the constant investigation of banal conversations he pees over. This anxious four-legged creature resides in me and for once, I don’t hate it entirely. I’ve come to love it because sometimes the fear of the details can save you a penny or two. The investigation of banal conversations can offer depth. For mere philosophical ideas may have taken birth in someone’s anxious break down. Who knew if A Room Of One’s Own was prepared from the insights of precipitations from a sleepless night.

You can blame me for finding meaning in this dog fight; I would just call it another anxious case of existential epiphanies.

– Just Panda Thoughts

Upon understanding solitude.

Sometimes in quiet whispers to yourself, in midst of chaos and smudged desire you are left feeling warm. Not warm, of the kind when the sun shines. The warmth of how solitary and quiet your mind feels. There’s a rush in being surrounded by a cacophony of voices; like when you hear their stories, see their searching eyes hoping to connect and make sense of what you say. The anticipation of crossing that bridge of judgement and being accepted. The silent ‘yeah dude’ or an itsy bitsy smirk. We all wish for words that resonate a sense of knowing and familiarity, yet the search for something new and different leads us onto a confusing roller-coaster ride of emotive instability.

Here I was thinking of the little sigh of yours, when you heard none of mine.

Such is life; you hear people and pick a few, and out of those few you pick one or two. There’s someone always you need, at an arms reach to bounce a few stupid ideas, or to bum the last few drags of a dying cold cigarette, someone to nod when you complacently rant. It doesn’t have to be one person for everyone. It’s not an idea of the platonic souls coming together. Complexity here lies, not in the lack of ‘one’ but in the abundance – and then comes the railroads that never meet.

I’m often pestered by the look on the face of those squirrels so smug – in pairs, comfortable. They’ve found someone to bounce their stupid ideas of and they look highly amused at the look in my eyes. It’s the way jealousy betrays you to the innocent observer. It conveys to them the emptiness of your soul – hoping to latch on at the first grasp, at the first touch.

The whimper of my wishes turned down, is also someone’s wish fulfilled. There is an order to all things human. I often defying that order seem hapless and close to befriending solitude. It’s a shell to retreat into or out of. It is warm and familiar. It can replace the knowing look of your eyes I couldn’t hold long enough. That’s the ruse I’d pick for today.

– Just Panda Thoughts

I f

Don’t tell them.

I always imagine that the unconscious mind is like an ocean. Coral reefs and the works. There are many known, many unknown species living in there. I always imagine thoughts to be fishes. Some that live close to the ocean bed, some come up to catch the sunlight in their swan dives. There are fishes who like the silence near the ocean bed because let’s just face it – it is least populated. These fishes like the sunken ships and the seaweed that lets them hide till it is time to get out. They can decide the time they wish to take a peek.

All my unconscious thoughts are these little fishes. They like to stay away from the consciousness of real, practical and boring details of life. Too banal, right?
My repressed thoughts are pleasing. They often surface during the day or sometimes on a rainy night, when I’m so quiet that I can hear the pulse along my neck throb. Mostly, it is when I dream that these fishes come to taste the shallow waters. They feel safe suddenly. That’s when the happy unwinding dreams transform me into a human log. I am just there. I’ve let my mind wander off so far that it feels comfortable never coming back. Mornings thus are always difficult. Inadvertently late, I always am!

Dreams are where I’ve fallen in love with so many selves. I could be anybody there. I don’t want to be someone famous; just many different versions of my own self. When you have a personality that never took form, you feel like jello. I am jello, for all intents and purposes of this discussion. My mould mostly demands social conformity but my heart betrays the cause of society. My shrewd tongue makes me talk to much. But dreams!
What a miraculous place of being and becoming. Imagine a grassland where every square inch of grass was made of a wish you’ve hidden, where every animal is a version of your personality you wanted to materialise, where the sun rose to actually make you feel bright and suddenly the emotional intensity you naturally feel is acceptable. Dreams are so consuming! I dream of falling of cliffs, buildings, being run over by buses. I also dream of hotels without doors, old abandon caves, dead bodies and plane crashes. It is not knowing what I’ll dream tonight that makes me want to close my eyes quicker.

Mostly I dream because the moment between falling asleep and deep sleep is this black blur. Silence suddenly takes over and you race through a few hours, almost hallucinating unimaginable ideas that are so beautiful and fleeting. In my dreams I can turn around and leave people without any guilt; I could be jobless and I don’t owe anything to anyone. In my dreams I could be a unicorn? Fuck that. In my dreams my body, mind and soul aren’t bound by social ties, customs, bonds and more. In my dreams I’m retelling tales battered to hide in a corner, I’m recreating imagery that partially washes up against my shore once in a while. Why do I keep going back to the ocean? There is no better place to be than the ocean bed. I can scream my heart out and not be heard. It is my peaceful place.
Dreams are fascinating because when I’m asleep for those few hours I do not belong to anyone – I am no one’s daughter, no one’s sister, no one’s girlfriend. I may not even be me. Tonight I could be the lady who has a big typewriter. I’ll never know, till I am her.

There is one more thing about dreams. When you get so hurt that you can’t take it, you can wake up. When you get hurt that the pain is too much, you can wake up. I love dreams because you’ll never know what I dream about and I’ll never be able to recreate them in words.

– Just Panda Thoughts

Dear Convenient Arrangement

Such honesty and confession; she talks a fine argument! Lovely piece by Dipalie!

Mashed Potatoes

Couple black and white

It’s not the same, we could pretend all night, playing charades of being lovers in the moment. Sometimes intoxicated and sometimes, regrettably not. But I’ll never make you feel the way she can, she who can kiss away the frowns on your forehead and unclench your stubborn fingers. She who can melt into you like wax in flame and ice in rum, who can leave without leaving a trace and still leave your soul as hollow as a pitted walnut shell.

And nor are you he. He who can walk into a room and change the very air it contains. Who can make my guts clench into a tight pleasant knot with nothing more than a half hug, he who makes me want to crumble into a heap of peanut brittle in warm chocolate, whose hands on a discarded earring feel like a warm patient caress down my bare back…

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To not give a fuck?

When the going gets tough,
shout “I don’t give a fuck”.

When love begins to hurt,
shout “I don’t give a fuck”.

Two fucks down,
few more to go,
while you delude,
prepare to exclude,
all those who gave a fuck,
for such a miserable rude.

When someone lies to your face,
say “I don’t give a fuck”.
No one, really will know, friend.
Your cries are in a corner, safe.

Jump down,
don’t sit on a block of ice.
Don’t drown in muddy water,
while you can hail a cab.
Find your way out, friend.
The tunnel was never there.
You resurrected a few demons,
and with a few flying fucks,
no one now dares, to care.

The Collector

They call me, Collector. 

Antiques, I say are best broken and scarred.
I find,
I search.
Sometimes, I hurt. 

I cut my finger, last week.
The inhuman, sculpture says to me,
“why, you asked for every piece”.

They call me, Collector.

Of names, and places
lives and stories.

I cannot but give in,
to helpless pleas. 
Paintings, that are snug, 
Yes, they call themselves Modern Art.
I find it interesting to look at their farce.

They call me, Collector.

Ideas, and words,
Of unsung heroes and underdogs.

I met one, beaten in an alley.
A carcass, that little mutt.
Repeated to myself,
I cannot give in. 

I can, not give in.

The cries, and tears pierced my heart.
I brought him home,
like all the other stuff.

I have found, 
Treasures of filthy, fake, precious items.
I now, shy away.
I know, what I brought home.
Of broken, scarred and those charred,
I loved most, 
the everyday farce.
I played my own game,
I made them call me, Collector. 

Dear friend.

If you do have a friend who is hurting, pay attention sooner than later. That’s what friends are for. Beautiful thoughts, by the mocking minion. Read.