Pages From My Journal

8th August, 2021

Dear diary,

I do not know about what is fair and what is not.

I do not know where my boundaries start and stop.

I do not know why I run away from feelings and relationships I perhaps secretly/unknowingly? yearn in the middle of the night.

I do not know why certain complexities are deemed normal.

I do not know why I've got to bleed and why the heart burns into flames.

I do not know if I want to fall in love if you're not in love with me.

I hope I knew.

But you know what I do know?

I've learnt that, to write, to make stories, to sew words together and create something worthwhile, you have to feel full.

As the night descends all slows again until the sun ascends and life plays fasters.

The jug of our emotions is similar. At times we are brimming with vibrant thoughts and creativity, joining the forces we possess to pour that into something new. But there are moments in our lives when we are empty. When too many painful thoughts, conflicting emotions and perhaps the feeling of loss overwhelms us; leaving us dehydrated. The jug is drained so what do we pour?

What do I pour?

What can I pour?

My mind isn't like a person who goes and comes, who leaves and abandons. It has its own heartbeat and it takes love and inspiration to fill up again. Sometimes it takes Mumford and Sons 'Woman', or quiet showers and reflective walks. 19 hours of sleep cant cut it always and neither can Pam Godwins trailblazing novels.

I don't know what it takes. I can't define it. But I do know that when the jug starts refilling, there is a penis captivus reaction.

There is love. And there are words.

That love isn't insincere. It doesn't walk away, never to return.

It's like the brown in his eyes. Real, deep and I just need to stare and see the honesty flowing in them.

Self-reflection isnt a strong pursuit of mine when it comes to why and how and what the bloody fuck it takes to write books. I tried reading Justin Baldoni's memoir, and fell asleep within minutes. Because bloody hell, I'd read his book for his face and abs, but I cannot practice that shit. At times I feel retired. As a 14-year-old I also wrote down my life crisis and published that shit. But now? I just hide my face in a pillow and cry or some shit. Who has the energy to look at the laptop screen after 7 hours of online classes any ways lol. So, since I'm not exactly using teenage ordeals or Pink Floyd's lyrics to create romantic heroes, it is a little hard.

A part of my mind is like. "Baby girl, you are not interested in men in a way that you can write about them."

Um No shit Sherlock! It is probably her nose piercing that is stopping me from romanticizing about men altogether.

And I know that he isn't going anywhere. The narcissistic fucker has cut a part all for himself in my heart and I'm all too happy to give it to him. Just like Priest Farrell in the book 'Sea of Ruin.' He is . He is so much. I mean, I don't know what that means, because I'm still learning. exploring. Finding. Always finding.

Sometimes all it takes is a green sweater to write a book, and that's my honest to Chhavi-The-Writer confession. A smile, a touch, a shoe, an experience that leaves you shaking with joy and wonder. Its bred out of negativity at times but like they say, from darkness into the light. Let your words be your lantern. Let go of it and you will behold the sky full of stars.

I hear people around me constantly asking themselves and telling me, "I need to change myself," "I need to stop eating this to lose weight," "I need to find who I really am," and my personal least favorite, "You need to respect people who treat you like shit."

I wonder, deeply... Is changing yourself for someone else or out of pressure or ridicule the right way to go? Is there goodness in that? Is that okay? I do not have answers. Maybe one day when I find myself asking those very questions I will know.

So Chhavi.

I think its safe to say that August has been a storm you find yourself in the eye of.

Revelations, changes, crying, fighting, feeling loved, feeling shamed. Questioned and fulfilled, normal and safe, real and complete.

At this moment, 12:59am 8/8/2021, listening to Sam Smith's Fire on Fire I hope to hear someone say the words to me

Fire on fire were normally killers
With this much desire together were winners
They say that were out of control and some say were sinners
But dont let them ruin our beautiful rhythms
Cause when you unfold me and tell me you love me
and look in my eyes.

You are perfection my only direction
Fire on fire

But if not, I know that I can always crawl between all my 11 pillows and love myself just like I have for 17 years. And I will be content.

Love,
Chhavi

Every side, every turn and every molecule