New Mediums

I want to write about grief. Putting it into words is something that I've always struggled with. It is not something that I wish to interpret. Making meaning of it was proved a Herculean task, one I felt I was underquipped to handle. I tried running away, but it followed me like beach sand. And the one thing about it is that no matter how much you try to wash it away, you'll still find it in your pockets. I have been grieving for as long as I can remember. I have lost a lot of things. Friends, pens, kin, and personalities, to name a few. I have grieved them like everybody else- cried, screamed, pulled my hair out, and searched for them in the depths of Hell. It never really stops following you. It monitors you, tells you what to do, tells you how a certain color was a certain someone's favorite, how someone else made tea in a certain way, and reminds you of how you used to walk in the rain without worrying about getting your clothes wet. Sometimes it feels good knowing that...

 You may not agree with how I choose to write. Hell, even I don't agree with it. It is just that I do not know how else to do it. There's this incompleteness that I am used to, that you might want to get used to as well if you plan on hanging around for a bit longer. I have never completed a project in my life. There's this inability to look at a finished product and realise that it is the most mediocre thing to ever have existed. I hate what Grammarly's doing to my text, as I am writing it- the Americanising and the "get premium if you don't want other people to know how stupid you are". I shall not give in to the temptation, even though I like the idea of something taking whatever it is that I am creating and giving it a shot at being something less mediocre. But then I would be making it less me. And I am not not mediocre or whole. I believe that wholeness is a fad. It is what bread companies sell to make you buy their ugly, dry bread. No, think about i...

 I would like to call it inheritance. "Call what inheritance?", you may ask. All of this. All my poems and all my songs, all my strength and all my rage. I inherited all that, you see. My parents did not buy me a bicycle when I was a child. Maybe they thought they wouldn't be around to pick me up if I fell. Or perhaps they did not care about it as well as I would've wanted them to. I inherited exactly this. An indifference. Something like this would've shattered my friends at the time, but it did nothing to me. I wasn't afraid to be seen as missing out on the whole bicycle-riding experience. I was indifferent towards it like I was, and still am to a lot of things.  I realize that my indifference could be mistaken for neutrality. Now that, I am not. I either love things with a passion or I don't. I owe most of this to a personality disorder, but I'd rather call it heritage. My ancestors had this touch of crazy in them. They were crazy to sing love song...