𝑷 𝒆 𝒂 𝒓 𝒍

Eleven years ago, a friend of mine told me about an orange app. I didn't pay heed to it until seven years ago, on a random evening — I was getting bored. And I was like, let's download this app. I will delete it when I get busy again.
          
          Cut to 2026, I am here as Pearl. As a wannabe Poet you see in your everyday life. Did I know that day my life was about to change quite literally?
          
          I grew up in this orange land in front of everyone, basically — from mapping out my vision to be a doctor to being called a doctor of words by a friend, I have come a long way.
          
          Life happened, arguments happened, in fact I got lifetime friendships, the best people from this orange app that I should be grateful for every day.
          
          And today, I am feeling nervous. Feeling all jittery in my bones as if I have returned to being the girl on her first day of school again.
          
          I will just ask one question — even though mostly three people will give me side eyes now, because I have pulled up this move instead of reaching out to magazines as I promised — "Hypothetically, if my writing stayed with you in any way, will you be willing to buy a poetry ebook by me?"
          
          I'm still a Writer, I'm still a Poet, but I am just a little scared today.

No one can ever hate me as much as I hate myself.
          
          Whenever I read this line from her, my heart skips a beat. I mean, how freeing can it be—in the sense that you don't have to wait for someone else to hurt you?
          
          That's quite liberating and dangerous in itself, but I adore her. I adore her words.
          
          So there must be some truth in it. Most days, after checking and rechecking with many tools—even through journaling, writing out my story, or mapping out my vision—all I can see is that the answers are right in front of me.
          
          I know everything. I know, maybe, what I need to do, but it's my own fears that are stopping me from growing.
          
          I have been spending days on this project, months in procrastination, while doubts gnaw at my soul—maybe nobody will ever care about it.
          
          But what about me?
          
          Who am I without words?
          
          And this is why I had to write today. This is why I am writing today—in a hole, and as a reminder that writing hasn't given up on me, even though most days I'm on the edge of giving up on myself.
          
          When I posted about this on another platform, I didn't expect it to blow up. Then today, I saw the news of someone who had taken his own life.
          
          And it only reminded me of one thing:
          
          "Do you think they will care about you after your death when they're not caring about you while you're still alive?"
          
          That day, his words rang out.
          
          Who are you actually dying for?
          
          You want to cry? Cry your heart out. You want to scream? Scream aloud. Punch the pillow, and do everything you need to do. But when you're done, get up.
          
          You have to get up—for yourself.
          
          This isn't the end.
          
          Only you can love or hate yourself the most, so why are you letting someone else dictate your fate?

Thank you so much for your vote and support.

My birthday poem, "June: mía, y solo mía" has been added to my latest poetry collection. Give a read if your few seconds permit. 
          
          And Anurag, this is also your return gift. 
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/1633584531-traveller%27s-heart-june-m%C3%ADa-y-solo-m%C3%ADa

If you die today, who do you think would stand the longest at your grave?
          
          Not just for showing up — but who would be the last one not ready to leave you alone when everyone has already gone home?
          
          Can you answer it? If you have that person, I would pray and wish that you cherish them forever.
          
          My grandma always feared being alone in the grave, and so do I, as her granddaughter. Today, I turned a year older. I'm not happy — instead, I was on the verge of crying just a few minutes ago, but okay, women don't cry. At least, not me.
          
          My mum became a mother of three children by my age, and here I was, about to cry over a stupid thing.
          
          Exactly one year ago, I didn't know what life had for me — and yeah, it sounds surprising today that the same woman writing this message once forced herself to stay awake countless nights because she feared she would never wake up if she slept.
          
          Yes, I have seen death too many times — not by my choice. I'm not saying it was to end my life, but health issues, because as I said, there are so many things going on behind a screen.
          
          I also said many times that I know my death won't affect anyone. The sun will rise again, the moon will peek again, you will go to work like usual. And it's fine.
          
          But I am so selfish — because when I die, I want you to cry for me, sob for me uncontrollably, so hard that the world will force itself to cry because something would shatter that day. I want you to stand the longest at my grave because you know I fear being alone there.
          
          And for that, I have to earn it.
          
          I have to live the life that was given to me as a gift. I have to honor this life without caring who is wishing me well or who is wishing for my death. Because at the end of the day, I have only me.
          
          (Part II of it, is pasted below)

Happpyyy birthdayyy

Always isn't infinite.
          
          Recently I got this comment when I said that I believe I will always have my community beside me.
          
          So I kinda smirked after seeing it — not because it got on my nerves — because when I say always, I mean that I believe in my ability to turn around at least one person for me.
          
          What I meant is that I believe in my ability so much that I start from scratch everywhere. And today, proudly, I can say I have my people everywhere — I earned it.
          
          Although there's a side project. It will show me the reality when the time comes.
          
          No, I don't go viral anywhere. My writings don't get thousands of reactions the moment I publish. But I can count on my fingers who would always be there no matter what.
          
          Yes, I know that always is finite. Everything has limitations. One day these people will be gone as well. And it has happened to me already, on many occasions.
          
          Because forever is a lie.
          
          But I think, therefore I write.
          I write, therefore I live.
          I live, therefore I document.
          
          Dennis said his life is boring, so he doubts his next generation will be interested in hearing his story. I beg to differ — because I know my life isn't boring, even though I make it sound like one.
          
          You will get horror, thriller, suspense, and everything in between.
          
          And I am here to live every one of those words. So that when I won't be here anymore, my words will carry on my legacy — and I can only wish that my future generations will have many generational chains I broke for them.
          
          All I need is just one person to believe in me. And I believe in myself that I would always find that one person, everywhere.
          
          I'll write anyway.

A new poem, "My thirsty love" has been added to my latest poetry collection. Give me a read if your few seconds permit —
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/1630718383-traveller%27s-heart-my-thirsty-love
          
          _____
          
          Before I leave, I want to applaud @Ajay-Kumar's courage today. Undoubtedly, he is the finest and gifted poet I have ever met and I adore his words. 
          
          In my whole lifetime I have only seen only one guy who has the courage to admit his vulnerability, his flaws, and that's what makes him so humane, I feel. It's rare to face your own truth, to have an acceptance of your identity. 
          
          Because you cannot be better without facing your truth, I believe. 
          
          And today, I saw it in Ajay's poem. Someone said it's just okaish? And I was stunned for a moment. Because it's not just okay, it's devastating and so beautiful in its way I cannot explain. 
          
          I cannot explain the courage to be vulnerable like this, to be open to the whole world. I, as a poet, as a woman, when I tell you this isn't easy, believe me. It's not easy at all to bare your soul like this to the whole world. 
          
          Each and every line held so much truth and conviction that it almost made me tear up and I just wanted to give the biggest hug to Ajay if it was possible. 
          
          Not because he is perfect, or the poem had stylist metaphors but it holds the truth, and vulnerability in that way, it's devastating, it pierced my heart in a way I cannot explain. 
          
          Ajay, my respect for you has increased even more today. Not because you're perfect but because you're so humane, and brave enough to have an acceptance like this, today I can say that you're undoubtedly the second person after my friend, who held vulnerability like this. 
          
          Please read this poem —
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/1580494339-begin-again-%7E-poetry-fragments-of-a-letter-to

I'm not a poet. I'm just a woman.
          
          And most importantly, I am exhausted. So many of you cannot imagine how much — because behind a screen, you're only seeing a woman holding her calm composure.
          
          I had a lot of thoughts lately, and they included the hot topic of love. My generation has done something to it. They mistake availability for interest, confuse talking every day with actually knowing someone.
          
          I was having a conversation with my dearest friend today, and at some point he said, "Don't ever fall in love with someone who doesn't love you back."
          
          Which makes sense. Because yes, I love meeting people even though I'm an introvert. I observe people — it's one of the things I believe is a great asset for any writer. I've had many heart-to-heart conversations too, but does that mean we fall in love with each other?
          
          Attraction is something that fades. And if you ask me about the seven stages of love — no thanks. I don't think my generation is into that kind of devotion anymore. Meeting new people is interesting, but why would you want chaos in your life when what you need is peace?
          
          You can tell when a man is in love by how he views his mother, then his wife, later his daughter. And the day his daughter falls asleep in his arms mid-story — I think that's when you fall in love all over again.
          
          So it's true. You're not just looking for your better half. You're also choosing a future parent for your children.
          
          Choose wisely, boys and girls.

Once, after seeing one of my birthday wishes written as a letter to my friend, someone said, “Your friend must be really lucky to have you.” To which I replied, “I try.”
          
          The truth is, maybe I try to love in the way I have always wanted to be loved. Needless to say, I would do anything for you when I love you. You have no idea how many oceans I would cross or mountains I would break for you.
          
          I grew up like a mountain peak hidden within the clouds. So when I was told to dance around the misty globes, I spun, skinned back as if I were back in my anatomy class. Spinning as if I could forget the coffee table, so I wouldn’t have to relish what I once was back then. Memories are like this—old, forgotten, but still there.
          
          So when you showed up again and your name was called, I looked up too. We locked eyes as if we were challenging each other to avert our gaze first.
          
          Eventually, you did before I could read your eyes, and went on pretending as if we hadn’t even met in this lifetime. What was there? Guilt? Unsaid words?
          
          Then we started to dance again in the same space, going in circles as if that was how our destiny had actually been written—round, but not round like this world. As if it would only take the sun’s wrath to destroy the world—our world—and that is exactly what happened.
          
          I still remember your favourite colour. Your birthday is etched into my memory in a way I cannot erase, no matter how much I try.
          
          We’ll meet again in another lifetime. That time, you will be the wanderer begging in front of my door, maybe.
          
          “In a world full of abs and biceps, I would break down into stars for you”—find someone who will read you as though you are the only poetry they have ever met.