Thought Jukebox

To you who left an echo of your pain, And to you who needed a corpse to remind you you’re human. This is your tape. Tape 1, Side A & B I know life is not your favourite color right now, but, truth be said, even a black or a white is better than being blind. (Personally, no color will ever be brighter and purer to me than black and white but if colours and broken crayons matter to you, this one’s for you.) The world is not simple enough to accommodate mere shades of grey; it begins with a white palette and hands you the paintbrush. Your life, your easel, the colours of your soul. Tape 2, Side A & B Remember the night you went stargazing? Aren’t stars just carefully bandaged lights, darling? Perhaps, the paint red would suit the town more than your wrists! Or, or, or! Paint your bedroom ceiling with starry skies and the heavens above, love! Mark the memories that hurt you so they can become the stars that enchant you. Tape 3, Side A & B Question. Wonder. Talk. Sho...

Dear Odette,  I refuse to make this yet another story of love, But my thoughts are all over the place. Everyone has heard enough of my thoughts, my odes, my sonnets, my plight. This, is an apology to the way love fades, disappears, Maybe because the world ruined happiness for me, Or maybe because I got so used to making excuses for my love. Love that didn’t love, Love that wasn’t love, Love that didn’t know how to. If I just knew how to love…me. Maybe I wouldn’t ruin happiness for me. I wouldn’t have to make excuses for me. This is an apology- an apology for love letters I never meant. And love letters for apologies I never sent. This is me saying sorry for not believing you hold true to your name. You’re not just a painting; you’re a work of art. This is me saying sorry for not seeing every inch of you is a myriad of colours- shades of lilac painted across a perfectly calm storm. This is me saying sorry for robbing your eyes of their Starr...

"How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?" - Dr. Seuss Dear Eighteen, Lately I’ve been wondering who will be there to take my place, a year- a few years from now, to write me this sonnet of what life has to offer. Trust me, the next year of your life is going to be like a screenplay you’d half expect to be adapted from one of those movies or plays you so endearingly loved. I promise you this- you’ll never want to love melancholy again. Then again, you’ve never been one for poetry of the faint-hearted. You’ve never been one for the eye of the storm. You’re human. And that entitles you to hurricanes and stormy seas, war-torn mind palaces, the survivor’s guilt that comes with surviving. Currents of despair, bullets…and bullet points, roller coasters that can’t stop…won’t stop. The wheels will keep turning, the waves wil...

Did you know that the centre of a Protostar (the star in the middle of a nebula) is called a Nuclear Furnace? So you can call that the star's "heart". The heart of a star is a furnace. Not much unlike the human heart." - C. Joybell C. To my fellow-star tenant,  Thank you for the adventure.  Space and time had a fight. A break in the continuum, a shooting star you wished upon that was already dead. What you believed was infinite, was empty. Empty like the vacuum in your heart when they took a piece of you and you let them. Is there a word for that? Now that you finally understand why storms are named after people and nebulae are not? You, you are made of stardust- they crushed you and you let them. And isn’t that how stars are born? Crumble. Collapse. Burn. Glow. The twinkle in the stars you used to wish upon was replaced by the twinkle in your eyes. Is there a word for that? What you wish for may destroy you, Who you love...