tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24805998585215736362024-03-06T09:58:41.758+05:30Imperfection is individuality.Faith. Love. JoyAastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-46355988588921670952017-03-12T19:53:00.002+05:302017-03-12T19:53:41.253+05:30Day 70<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello, blog.<br />
<br />
I skipped one day but like most days, I was quite tired. But then I slept at 12, which was not great because I woke up feeling very, very ill. I still got on with my day. I am, however, feeling like crap right now. Most of it is panicking 24*7 and some part of it is physical. I can't wait to feel fresh and alive.<br />
<br />
I'm also thinking of re-starting working out because it makes me feel so, so good. I just need to find some time and sort my life out, to be honest. I need to call Samarth, work out, speak to ~~ and be regular with a time table. AND SLEEP ON TIME.<br />
<br />
The other day I was also thinking about a lot of girls in the West decide to not go to college and not get an education. It makes me feel that the whole movement that worked towards the right of women to be enrolled in schools, colleges and universities. It's almost as if people fail to recognise their privilege they are born with, or acquire. It's a really long debate, which we will save for another day but just know that it makes me quite sad.<br />
<br />
<br />
I will now go, chill a little, study and then SLEEP ON TIME. </div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-43707458997323565272017-03-10T22:53:00.002+05:302017-03-10T22:53:32.591+05:30Day 72<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello, friends.<br />
<br />
Today was a rather odd day. I spent most of it panicking and studying. Then my brother and sister came home from college AND GOT ME PRESENTS, which was quite thoughtful of them, to be honest. I miss them quite a lot and it's super nice to have them around.<br />
<br />
We have a lot of exciting things to do this weekend, apart from studying and I'm looking forward to the change. I feel like I get sucked into the vacuum of being alone and it gets dark and scary. For most part of it, I'm fine but then it gets to a point where I just. feel. alone. all. the. time. I'm trying to make a conscious effort of talking more so let's see how that goes.<br />
<br />
I've also been doing a lot of thinking lately. I read Mira Rajput's interview about how destructive feminism is getting and I honestly think she needs to get her read out of her arse and recognise her privilege and respect OTHER women's choices. My mom has 4 degrees and gave up her job to be married and take care of her 4 kids. I didn't realise it then, but it makes me quite upset that she had to do that. I loved having her around while I was growing up but it was extremely selfish of me as a little kid to want my mom to be there for me 24*7. I'm still quite conflicted about how I feel about this whole situation but I respect my mom's choices and the reasons she made them. I think I just believe in people making their choices for themselves- even if they're wrong in retrospect.<br />
<br />
I have also been watching a lot of Youtube and not much TV because my brother is now here. I really wanted to watch Dexter but meh. I also didn't end up doing my full length test which made me feel eh but i didn't do it BECAUSE I was feeling eh. A bad score makes me even more eh. So I did 170 questions instead. It was fine.<br />
<br />
Now I'm going to watch a little more YT, chat with Vasudha, whom I really enjoy speaking to, and then head off to bed.<br />
<br />
See you tomorrow, folks. </div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-85373809547260943002017-03-10T22:18:00.001+05:302017-03-10T22:18:00.908+05:30Day 73<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
Day 73</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
I’m super, super tired. My exam went quite well. I got home and spent most of my time watching YT and/or TV. Should have slept but didn’t. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
I also felt guilty for not studying, but it’s okay to take a break. IT’s okay. It’s okay. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
It’s all okay. It will get better soon. I won’t be guilty for taking a break. Yes. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
Bye. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-29741721649724539082017-03-09T15:19:00.002+05:302017-03-09T15:19:38.834+05:30Day 74<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
Day 74</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
Hello, friends and foes. I haven’t logged into this blog since 2013. That’s 4 years. More like 40 in teenage years. But i’m taking class 12 board exams now, starting tomorrow and I really, really want to document the whirlwind of emotions I will feel over these couple of weeks. 74 days to be exact. I’m starting this journal entry backwards from Day 74 and will go on till Day 1. I will then see if I can (and want to) continue. I’m also choosing this blog and not my new one because nobody significant really reads this anymore. I can be inarticulate here and it won’t make a difference OKAY.</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
SO. A lot has happened since I last wrote here. I got a new blog on Wordpress because that’s what the Cool Kids were doing. I got a Twitter account, a Tumblr account and my blogging shifted to more of photo blogging and I stopped…writing as often. But I do like to believe that my writing has gotten better. I’ve been published in a few anthologies, some of my poems have been published, I’ve been a part of an online publication as their editor, and a print magazine. I was also invited to attend a Literature Festival in Udaipur, which was quite cool. (I didn’t go) But I haven’t been…consistent. And that’s true about most things.</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
I gave up playing tennis in 10th. I wrote a whole post about it. I quite miss it, actually. I want to start playing again after I’m done with 12th. Maybe not competitively initially, but recreationally for sure. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
Then I got into public speaking and MUNs, then debates and now I’m not into anything. Maybe it’s because I’m already juggling a lot of things but whatever. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
I also went to summer school. I became Head Girl. I quit as Director General of the MUN and hosted a TEDx event instead. It was quite fulfilling, actually. I’m still as driven and ambitious as ever and am trying to channelise my energy into different areas. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
I also got a new bunch of friends towards the end of 12th. A lot of them I knew but never though would be my friends. I also think I have a crush on one of them, but I don’t know for sure. It’s not something I want to pursue, no matter how much I’d like to. The timing is all wrong. Meh. Bummer. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
I also have a close knit group of friends now but I don’t think I relate to most of them now. That’s a scary thought but 3 of them are in love so I mean. I don’t know. They’re different. But I guess that’s just how I’ve always been. I can’t consistently like and love people. I have waves of love and admiration and apathy and disgust. These phases pass. Much like everything else. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
Anyway, tomorrow is my first board exam and I’m chilling and watching a little Dexter. I really, really, enjoy it. I used to watch it regularly back in 2010ish and have recently gotten back into it. Coming back to familiarity, eh. I also spoke to my friend Samarth, whom I love very much. He also sent me really amazing English notes. He’s really nice. I wish I saw more of him, though. He stays in Bombay and I’ve met him all of two times last year. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
I’m quite excited to start blogging again. It’s like daily vlogging, which is the New Cool Thing. I love watching daily vlogs but I find myself getting way too involved so I’d rather just stick to my own stuff. Ever since I gave up 90% of my social media, I started watching a lot of YouTube. I also got into makeup. I really enjoy it but don’t wear it as often. It’s fun, and it does good for my controlling self. Also, I have a lot of free time. </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
The reason you will be seeing this on what is actually Day 73 is because I don;t remember the password to my Blogger account so I’m going to try and retrieve it after my exam. I just can’t be bothered anymore. If you’re still reading, I will see you tomorrow with more on my extremely unhealthy eating and a little more rambling. Buh-bye. </div>
</div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-68227677253013450702013-08-11T01:14:00.003+05:302013-08-11T01:14:38.711+05:30Words. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Someday, I'll stop writing.<br />
I'll stop feeling.<br />
I'll stop giving physical form to my emotions.<br />
I'll let go of everything that matters.<br />
I'll stop.<br />
I'll turn into a fragmented girl.<br />
I'll stop writing, but until then,<br />
I'll let my words describe my sadness and give beauty to my misery.<br />
I'll let words be the most powerful thing in my life.<br />
I'll let words ensure that there is excitement in my life, and not infinite security.<br />
I'll let words be the thing that destroy me in the end, but the things I love the most.<br />
I'll let my words be poetic and prettily written.<br />
I'll let words be my drug, the thing that helps me get through each day's misery but will kill me in the end.<br />
I'll let words intoxicate me.<br />
I'll let the words speak to me.<br />
I'll let words have the supreme position in my life.<br />
I'll let words flow just like my tears rolled down my cheeks; making the sound of water gushing into an empty glass. Pitter-patter.<br />
I'll let words fill the void in my cracked soul.<br />
I'll let words comfort me when I'm broken, defeated and beaten.<br />
I'll let words numb the intensity of pain I'm forced to bear; as numb as a fossil.<br />
I'll let words soothe my tornado-like mind.<br />
I'll let words be the thing that save me in the end, save me from themselves.<br />
I'll let words be the medium of love, sorrow and pain in my life.<br />
<br />
Until I stop writing, I'll write, even though I'll never be able to write something even close to what I want to, I'll write. I'll write for the mere satisfaction it gives me. I'll write for the sorrow, for the joy. I'll write because it makes me feel alive. I'll write because words let me cling on to them. I'll write...<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">“I write only because t</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">here is a voice within me t</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">hat will not be still” </span><br />
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">-Sylvia. </span></span></div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-31432416261798995632013-08-06T15:45:00.000+05:302013-08-06T15:45:22.711+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There are times when nothing makes sense; when everything feels wrong.<div>
When all you want to do is slip on an oversized tshirt, velvet sweatpants, curl into a ball and let everything slip away..</div>
<div>
When your heart sinks lower and lower with every passing moment, and you let it</div>
<div>
When your soul aches from all the frustrations you have been facing, and you let it. </div>
<div>
When you just lie in bed...longing for some peace. A ray of hope. </div>
<div>
Hoping against hope. Letting the tears flow. Letting your soul ache and letting your heart sink. You lie there, motionless. Cold. Fragile. Scared. Waiting. Anxious. </div>
<div>
You know what will happen and you're not looking forward to it. </div>
<div>
Steaming hot tears roll down your icy cold cheeks. You feel the cold sheets against your cooler skin and you get goosebumps all over your body, so you pull up your blanket to warm up your grieving, cold soul, but in vain.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So...you let go. </div>
<div>
You let go of all the tiny bit of happiness is left in you. </div>
<div>
You let go. </div>
<div>
You let go of emotions, feelings and warmth. </div>
<div>
You let go.</div>
<div>
You let go of your soul, allow it to escape your mortal body.</div>
<div>
You let go.</div>
<div>
You let go of your hopes, aspirations.</div>
<div>
You let go.</div>
<div>
You let go of the power that lies in you.</div>
<div>
You're no more than just a mortal being.</div>
<div>
Lying in your bed...motionless, cold, fragile, scared, waiting and anxious.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You let go. </div>
</div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-82622718429928425372013-06-28T13:42:00.000+05:302013-06-28T13:44:29.636+05:30Unfinished. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't know much about you, except that you're the younger one of the two brothers. Or that your dad is an actor and your mum is pursuing a Masters in an exotic course. Or that you have perfect hair and lovely collarbones. Or that you went backpacking to India for an entire year. Or how much you love your dog, even though these are her last days. Or that the way you draw is magnificent. Or that the way you look at canvas and paints and get completely lost in them. Or that you're going to go for what you're passionate about, no matter what.<br />
<br />
I don't know much about you, except that you're of Indian origin but have chosen United Kingdom to be your home. Or how alike you and I are. Or how your love for Grey's Anatomy is almost as much as mine. Or despite being raised abroad, you haven't forgotten your roots and still come and visit India every break. Or how you've seen more of India than I have. Or how much you love your friends. Or how much you crave your parents' love. Or maybe, you and I...we're soul sisters.<br />
<br />
I don't know much about you, except that you walked into the tube drunk and almost tripped on the pole. Or how you got so embarrassed that you kept weeping through the entire journey. Or how I think you had a long way to go because you took the Metropolitan line. Or how the lady on the tube gave you a packet of tissues before leaving. Or how your fingers were intertwined in your husband's fingers and everyone on that train could make out how much you loved each other.<br />
<br />
I don't know much about you, except that your parents migrated from Kenya to France a few decades ago. Or that you love Indian tea. Or that you always save green apples for me during breakfast. Or how you love your job of waiting tables at this fancy club only people with salt and pepper hair visit. Or that come what may, you're always full of joy.<br />
<br />
I don't know much about you, except that you moved to UK from Jamaica when you were six and have ever since lived and loved this country. Or how, instead of one, you have two homes. Or how you're so afraid of foxes but love squirrels. Or how, despite of all your flaws and imperfections, you seem perfect.<br />
<br />
I don't know much about you, except that you're the lady at the till in Bershka from Poland who loves Primark and can go on and on about how much you love their clothes. Or how you're so vibrant and full of life with that bright red lipstick you're wearing. Or how, in the midst of the white floor and walls, your pink outfit stands out(just like you in a crowd)<br />
<br />
I don't know much about you, except that you're homeless and sit outside the Sainsbury's in Mayfair. Or that I make sure to leave 1 pound for you every day when I go out to get some dessert/coffee. Or how you smile at me everyday. Or how...deep down I wish you had a home.<br />
<br />
I don't know much about anyone, really. However, what I know is that everyone has a story. An unfinished, incomplete story. A story they're trying to add to every single day of their life...a story even when complete will always be...unfinished.<br />
<br />
<i>PS : The people I'm talking about are some of the people I came across in England while I was there for the summer. It's sort of a travel-blog-post. So, in memory of all the beautiful people I met, I decided to write this. </i><br />
<h3 class="r" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">
</h3>
</div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-82113615535761957382013-05-22T22:34:00.001+05:302013-05-22T22:34:23.484+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm going to spit out my feelings today. <div>
We've known each other for a year and a half today. 18 months. 18 long, long months. I have such mixed emotions about how this time has passed, there are bits and pieces I want to remember and tell my kids about, but there are times that I want to erase. I'm typing this and thinking about how pathetic this post is going to be, but I'm still going to post it because I want to get it all out tonight. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
I still can't believe how close we were last summer, and now? It's all so different, so very weird. Sure, we talk on and off, but it's not the same. What haunts me is, will it ever be? It keeps bothering me and prevents me from sleeping at night, i just stare into nothingness. It's almost like I'm the epitome of inadequacy. Will I ever be good enough for you? Iv'e spent too much time away from you that I've almost forgotten what I was fighting for. I'm reminded time and again, but I still forget. I'm so unsure of whether you're still in this with me, or not. Screw it, I'm not even sure if you were in it to begin with. Without knowing where I finished, I'm unsure of where to start from. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've always loved you. Haven't you known? How could you have not known? Didn't you feel it? I don't know how you missed it. You never made me happy, no. Talking to you never made me happy. But not talking to you made my insides ache. I was as if I didn't only want you, I needed you. I tried to cut off all contact with you, we didn't speak for almost 3 months, but we eventually started talking again. I guess it has something to do with destiny. I couldn't trade you for the mere element of happiness, I would be glad to be in misery and with you than being happy with someone else. It might sound like a cliche, but you and I, we both know it's true. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Despite all my efforts, I still feel I'll never be good enough for you. The inadequacy is eating into my soul, bite by bite. Because, you're perfect. In every bloody sense of the word. So maybe, I'll never be fixed. Maybe I'll always need and love you. Maybe I'll always live in silence for the fear of saying something wrong. Maybe, the only lover I'll have will be the faint sounds of yesterday. Maybe, breathing will always be like punching a bag full of shards of glass. Maybe, I'm not made to be a lover, just a writer. Maybe, I'll always hope for you to return and ache whilst you do. Maybe, the only the ting I'll be sure of is that I can't live without you. Maybe, my eyes will always bleed the taste of your lips. Maybe, I'll always have shattered windshields for eyes...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-35036763213689243122013-04-01T16:36:00.000+05:302013-04-01T16:36:32.687+05:30Joys. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Let me think aloud today, let me speak the words I have always been afraid to say. Let me ponder over how beautiful we are together and so incomplete apart. Give me a chance to look back on all that we have been through, allow my lips to gently curl. Let a shiny layer of moisture trickle down my cheeks today. Please, just let me be free.<br />
<br />
Let me feel every emotion, and experience every kind of pain you left me with. How you were everything I've ever wanted, and how you were exactly my type. You were perfect, in every bloody sense of the word. You liked theatre, poetry, art, books and my type of music. You were all the things I dreamt of having in my lover, you checked all the boxes. You were like the poetry I was afraid to share with the world, or the song I never wanted anyone to hear. You were mine to keep, and mine to cherish. Forever, forever and forever.<br />
<br />
Your black fully rimmed specs fit perfectly on your face and your slightly curly hair was so soft, and I knew you loved it when I caressed it. Your eyes were big and brown with lashes probably longer than mine. It felt like they had universes trapped inside them. Your nose was so perfectly proportionate, it almost made me smile whenever I looked at your face. I loved how my fingers danced on your long slender neck when you kissed me with the softest lips I've ever kissed. How you kissed me so gently, yet so passionately, and then looked at me like I was the most beautiful being you'd ever seen. Then, you brushed away my hair from my eyes only to kiss me again. I felt a lot of emotions at that very moment, the most overpowering one being love. I felt love. Immense, immense love. And I never could recognise what else I felt.<br />
<br />
Everything was overwhelming. In a good way, or not, I do not know, but it felt nice. It also felt strange, but nice, mostly. It felt serene, it felt pure. It was something I always wanted to remember, but somehow, it faded away. Slowly, slowly, you faded away.<br />
<br />
So, today, let me remember how perfect we were and then help me forget.<br />
Only to remember again. </div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-77621192165969200772013-03-10T15:34:00.001+05:302013-03-11T15:00:50.558+05:30Dancing shadows. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't remember how I got here. What led me here, or who, more appropriately. I'm back where I started, it feels like I'm running in circles, trying to escape everything, but failing miserably. The memories are coming back. Those memories dipped in gold, and of course, the ones dipped in black paint. I'm trying to pick up the bits and pieces I never want to forget, the tiny fragments of happiness, but the only ones I'm managing to pick up are those tiny pieces of misery. Everything feels like a faded polaroid. I don't want to live in my memories, but I can't help how I feel. Sometimes, everything comes back to me, but some days, I feel so confused, dazed, as if there isn't a purpose I'm fulfilling. It's like, you were home to me. but I don't recognise this street anymore. I'm constantly running away from my words, and running into yours. I'm trying to find you in the sunlight, despite knowing you'll always dwell in the shadows. I'm tying to comfort myself by saying we're under the same stars tonight, but it doesn't even mean anything anymore. I'm trying to write beautiful verses, lovely stories, but they just end up being unfinished poems and scribbled articles. I'm trying to be kissed by the sun, but I can never cheat on the night. I'm trying to tell myself you wouldn't have been lovely to come home to, but we all know that's not true. I'm trying to hate what I've always loved. I'm trying to find a new definition for marbles, because 'trapped universes' reminds me of you. I'm trying to take back my soul from you, but you've locked it away somewhere so safe. I'm trying to paint a portrait, a portrait of all that overwhelms me so greatly, I'm shouting colours. I'm spitting paint. I'm trying, I'm failing. I'm trying, but my mind is a collection of hastily made euphoric decisions and constant give ups. I'm trying, but I'm too afraid I'll fail. I'm trying, but it feels like I'm using bits and pieces of others' personalities to form my own. I'm craving success, but I'm facing failure. I'm facing pain.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There is, however, this thing about pain, it demands to be felt. Without it, you don't feel alive. Or maybe, pain is just a hard way of knowing you're alive. Pain reminds you that even though you tried so hard, you failed at replacing your heart with an icebox. </div>
</div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-71018841268947031522013-03-10T14:29:00.001+05:302013-03-10T14:29:18.986+05:30Happiness and little joys. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
That girl. That girl who was so afraid of relationships, commitment, allowing someone to love her unconditionally. She, who feared being in love only because of the power it gave the other person over her. To make her, love her; break her. She, who thought she was happy in her own little bubble. She, who thought tennis and fashion were the only things that mattered. That little girl who never sought comfort in anybody but her own self. She, who counted her blessings. She, who thought the power of silence was much greater than the power of speech. She, who was content, if not anything else. She, who stopped expecting anything from people only because she knew it would lead to disappointment. She, who was beautifully fragile. She, who would crack even with the slightest pressure. She, who was cold and lost. She, who found solace in books, long walks and silence. She, who wasn't affected by parties and all that jazz. She, who thought naps and long hot showers could solve all problems in the world. She, who wanted to go to a fancy University.<br />
<br />
She changed. For the better, or worse, she didn't know. What she did know, however, was that she felt different. She looked different, her scent, her hair, her clothes, everything was different. All the times that she thought she would never forget now seemed like another person's memory. She let herself be loved, and cared for. She let herself go. Instead of books and walk, she found peace in his words, his scent. She was changing into a different person, she didn't know if she liked it or not, but she was at peace.<br />
<br />
She was happy. </div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-34352077950933162492012-12-29T20:31:00.002+05:302012-12-29T20:31:50.211+05:30That. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Maybe we'll meet after 10 years, and you will be reminded of how beautiful we were together. Serene.<br />
<br />
You will be reminded of how much you I cherished you, and your hair, among other things. I just hope you revisit your past and be reminded of all the things I think about every night before sleeping.<br />
<br />
The times when you made me laugh so much that my stomach ached? That.<br />
When I needed someone to vent and you were there, always? That.<br />
When you told me it's okay to be me and love fashion, tennis and food so much? That.<br />
When you made me believe I was beautiful? That.<br />
When we kept going back to the boy and girl who had trouble written all over them? That.<br />
When I was happy, in every sense of the word, all because of you? That.<br />
When I would want to say something but used to end up saying random shit and you would totally get it? That.<br />
The countless memories we made? Those.<br />
When you were in a different city and broke down and chose to call me of all people and I could do nothing? That.<br />
When you shouted at me after a bad match because you knew I didn't give enough? That.<br />
When I wore white shoes with bright orange laces and you still didn't disown me? That.<br />
When I told you that I want to spend all my evenings with you? That.<br />
When you said you'd never give up on me (even after I got married to a rich dude with a Bentley)? That.<br />
When you said you loved our curly hair? That.<br />
Sandy? That.<br />
When we tried to talk in funny accents and ended up falling off our chairs laughing? That.<br />
When you became the only person I idolised, the only one who actually got me, saw right through me? That.<br />
When you said you'd never ever ever ever leave, but left anyway? That.<br />
<br />
All that, and so much more. </div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-43734803478487666602012-11-17T13:52:00.000+05:302012-11-17T13:52:11.835+05:30You are you.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Because you taught me it's okay to be me. Because you inspire me so much. Because I changed my blog's title for you. Because you taught me it's okay to wear whacky clothes. Because you taught me it's okay to have curly hair. Because you taught me it's okay to lose. Because you shouted at me when I was depressing myself over futile things. Because you also made up by singing random songs in a funny voice. Because I can't write more because I'm crying too much. Because you are special, and I miss you.<br />
Because you are you. </div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-71228075867923459122012-10-07T13:15:00.003+05:302012-10-07T13:15:53.132+05:30Come here.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Come here.<br />
Caress my wounds.<br />
Heal my wounded heart.<br />
My sore body.<br />
My tarnished soul.<br />
Come here.<br />
Save me.<br />
Don't let the darkness engulf me.<br />
Come here.<br />
Keep me.<br />
Don't replace me, it's not pretty.<br />
Come here.<br />
Find me.<br />
Don't let my soul go wayward..stay with me.<br />
Come here.<br />
Don't lose me.<br />
Give me directions.<br />
Promise to be beside me.<br />
Walk with me.<br />
Run with me.<br />
Sprint with me,<br />
just always..stay with me.<br />
Come here.<br />
Listen to my bleeding heart.<br />
I'm lost without you, you know it.<br />
Come here, numb the pain.<br />
Don't let me be caged. Set me free.<br />
Come here....<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Come here.</i><br />
<i>Save me.</i><br />
<i>Keep me.</i><br />
<i>Find me.</i><br />
<i>Don't lose me.</i><br />
<i>Walk with me.</i><br />
<i>Ignite me.</i><br />
<i>Love me. </i></div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-83833433308339032232012-08-30T15:49:00.002+05:302012-08-30T15:51:42.711+05:30Masks. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Sometimes all you see is the glittering surface. The cracks are very intricately concealed. Each flaw, each imperfection is sealed with beauty. Everything that isn't perfect is hidden. Every little detail is taken care of. It's like make up, you can conceal all your wrinkles, the lines on your face and pigmentation, but what lies beneath all that is what YOU really are. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Everyone wears a mask. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Multiple, maybe. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">But none? Not possible.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">However, in due course of time, there will be one person who from beneath hundreds of layers of perfection will dig out a human being. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">An imperfect, flawed, clumsy, forgetful, but a very beautiful human being, nonetheless. That person will accept you for who you are, without judging and they will be there. To hear you out. To let you cry. To listen to what you want to say. To make you feel...secure. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">And, when you find that person who can see right through all your fake masks and love you for who you are, you know you have achieved all there is to achieve.</span></span><br />
</div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-32842236381084541982012-08-26T15:26:00.000+05:302012-08-26T15:26:29.104+05:30The fine line between giving up and hanging in there. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Her ankle had never been under so much pain. This was a new kind of pain. She doesn't know how to describe it. Whatever the odds may be, she was determined to fight till the end. Her skin glistened with sweat, her blue Nike tshirt was as wet as it could get, her hair were neatly tied up in a ponytail and she wore a matching blue Adidas cap. Her physical state was in ruins. However, she was strong mentally, hopes were soaring high, the will to play was at a new level, and she was at peace. She gave it everything she could, but it was not enough. She was upset. But she swallowed her fears. She conquered them. She was raised to do so. She lost, but this wasn't failure. She was raised to be a strong-headed, strong willed and courageous girl. She was raised to win, even if it meant tackling defeat in the way. </div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-67508061610630149802012-08-26T14:28:00.002+05:302012-08-26T20:39:16.136+05:30Idiots. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Idiots.<br />
Idiots, they call us<br />
Idiots for being us<br />
Idiots for laughing away our problems, dancing away the pain<br />
<br />
Idiots for singing out our sorrows<br />
Not caring about the stress that follows<br />
For falling asleep staring at the stars<br />
Gazing into each other's eyes for hours<br />
<br />
Idiots for the words we say<br />
And the emotions we feel<br />
Our quirky ways<br />
And our methods to heal<br />
<br />
Oh, Idiots they call us<br />
They create such a fuss<br />
"Idiots", they say<br />
"Laughing away their problems, dancing away the pain
<br />
Kissing away their miseries,<br />
Dancing in the rain."<br />
<br />
They laugh, they criticize<br />
Never do they say anything nice<br />
They hate, they ridicule<br />
They never embrace, they condemn<br />
But what the don't understand is that the joke is on them. <br />
<br /></div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-11858568682291833442012-08-19T15:29:00.000+05:302012-08-19T15:29:36.376+05:30I don't want to feel confidence. I want to feel rage-all consuming rage<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It was a bright sunny evening, two friends-the best of friends- and one of the friend's brother and cousin decided to step onto a tennis court. They wanted something fun to do in the evenings and tennis seemed perfect to their parents. Their parents decided to enroll all four of them in a tennis academy, the best in the city, that is. They picked up their junior rackets which their fathers had brought from Canada, Head Radical Junior, and entered the court. With two very understanding and helpful coaches they began playing. Both the coaches were very patient with the four of them, they explained every little detail that was required for a second grader to hit a tennis ball. They did not only make the kids hit balls, but they also made them do all kinds of stretches and fun-games, as they put it it, after all, they didn't want to push the kids. It was a tedious job for 3 of them..but one little girl decided this was what she wanted to continue doing for the rest of her life. No, she didn't aspire to be a professional, she just wanted to be able to play tennis till she was very old. She wanted to be able to experience the thrill of hitting a ball perfectly till she breathed her last.<br />
<br />
This was 6 years ago.<br />
<br />
It's still the same today. That little girl is now a teenager, and a budding tennis player. She still loves tennis. Loves it even more, probably more than anything she loves now. It's her passion. After all, she has sacrificed hang outs with friends, parties, late night-outs, movies just so that she gets a chance she loves to do the most- play tennis. The bestfriend, and the cousin decided to stop playing because they figured they didn't like it anymore, and studies took a toll. The brother decided his heart was in football, and came to a conclusion that he had wasted all this time playing tennis, when what he actually wanted to do was play football. The little girl stayed determined, determined to play each and every day. In the process, she injured her elbow, her ankle, her knees. Her ankle injury was so severe that her physio almost warned her to be careful otherwise she wouldn't be able to...well, play anymore. She hated herself for loving the game so much that it was affecting her physically, and emotionally.<br />
She hadn't always been this serious about tennis. Some days, she just went to the academy just for the heck of it. There were times when she absolutely hated tennis, but hate requires passion, and there has been deep, undying passion, always. She hated tennis because there was a time, September 2011 that no matter how hard she trained, so matter how much she put in, her game wouldn't get any better. It would just get worse, as a matter of fact. So, she gave up. She gave up putting her soul. She gave up playing whole heartedly. She went to the academy, everyday, but just because she HAD to, not because she wanted to. It was very hard on her. And then came October'11. After a lot of mental counseling, ways to control anxiety, new techniques, new tactics..she started playing well again. The emotions she felt inside her could not be put into words. It was beautiful to fall in love with tennis all over again. She went on a winning streak, getting a Silver medal at the CBSE zonal meet, and a bronze at the National meet in Maharashtra. It gave her a new high. Winning a match didn't make her proud of herself, it just gave her a lot of motivation, it drove her to achieve more. Her parents have always been supportive of all her interest-be it art, tennis, or photography-but they have never let their children (she and her brother) be arrogant, or cocky. They have always taught them it is not necessary to be successful in life, but to be a good person. You could lose and be a good at heart, and that would be important. She knows that her mother wouldn't love her less if she smacked her racket after losing a point...but her mother wouldn't be proud to know that she did. It wouldn't be fair on her mother,really. After her coaches, it is her parents who are her inspiration. Even after achieving so much in their lives, they still believe in simple living and high thinking, and they have taught their children the same. It is important to soar high, but also to keep your feet firmly fixed on the ground. Words to live by.<br />
<br />
She has never liked summers. Essentially, because it is very hot, and she loves the cold. <br />
But the summer of 2012 has been different. She has woken up early each and every day of her summer break to train. To train her heart out, to take out all her frustration by playing well. It meant no late nights, not many hang outs, a lot of tan, so much sweat. A little blood, a lot of water, even more Gatorade.A little less of BBM and Facebook, and a little more of fitness. But, she didn't mind.<br />
Who would mind not being able to have fun when they could do what the loved doing the most? Not her, most definitely.<br />
And, undoubtedly, the Summer of 2012 has been the best, so far.<br />
<br /></div>
Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-57587974470924617082012-07-21T22:14:00.003+05:302012-07-21T22:14:52.400+05:30Being Number Two Sucks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Stupid. Me & I. We're stupid. Absolutely stupid.<br />
<div>
I love the adrenaline, the butterflies in my tummy, oh God, how I love to win.<br />
I live to train, hate to let my coaches down.. Tennis is my only religion, and practice my only prayer.<br />
Soreness is my way of life. Injuries, oh take them in stride.<br />
Oh, I'm stupid. Stupidly in love with tennis.<br />
<br />
I'm a sucker.<br />
A sucker for a good game, a ball hit dead perfect. Oh, I'd give up partying for hardcore fitness.<br />
I love to see my opponent going down, however at the same time knowing the tables can turn after any shot, any volley, any serve. It's the beauty of the game, after all.<br />
Oh, I'm a sucker. Sucker for the uncertainty of tennis. </div>
<div>
<br />
I'm an idiot.<br />
An idiot because when I'm on court, I really can't figure out what's happening outside. The court is my temple.<br />
I love my tan and how I'm always asked if I hate it(which I don't, its a part of who I am,now). I love how I feel after coming on court after recovering from an injury, and how I'm at my best after it. I love how after 2 weeks of not playing because of severe injuries, the physio finally says, "You can now play."<br />
Oh, I'm an idiot. An idiot to get lost in the violent action taking on place in an atmosphere of tranquility.<br />
<br />
I'm a winner.<br />
A winner because I will give each shot my best, serve the hardest serve, hit the most perfect ground-stroke, volley my best and smash the ball dead perfect. I love how I was always told I fall down 7 times, I will have to get up 8 times, and now I'm actually beginning to understand what it meant. I love how I have to give each molecule of my body to this beautiful beautiful game in order to expect something in return from it. I have to give this game each tiny bit of my soul.<br />
Oh, I'm a winner. A winner because now my losses teach me more than my victories do.
<br />
<br />
But most of all, I'm a lover.<br />
A lover of the swear, tears and blood shed. Lover of the injuries. Lover of the pain it brings. Lover of the exhaustion I face. Lover of sleeping late after completing school-work and then getting up early to train. Lover of the fact that I'm a proud student-athlete. Lover of knowing I'm sore only because I gave 100 percent while practicing. Lover of physiotherapy. Lover of knowing that there is always a tennis session to look forward to. Lover of knowing that tennis is my reason to get up and work hard. Lover of knowing that this game, now, isn't only a sport, it's my passion. Lover of knowing that I want tennis more than anything I will ever want . Lover of knowing that tennis is an addiction I will never let go.<br />
Oh, I'm a lover. A lover because playing tennis means its me...me against the world, battling it out, sweating through,<br />
<br />
and winning. </div>
</div>Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-20960375583361482402012-07-10T22:06:00.000+05:302012-07-10T22:06:06.228+05:30Change&endings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Change is the only thing that in constant in this ever changing world. Change is very hard to accept for some people, like me, while others are very comfortable even when they're forced to live outside their comfort zone. It's not like that with me. I hate change. Once I get used to my surroundings, I want them to stay the same forever, but then forever is a very strong word. Everything in this world changes-people,feelings,circumstances, ambitions, dreams, hopes, aspirations,tastes- you name it,nothing but change lasts forever. Pushing my boundaries and doing something that my comfort zone doesn't allow me to has always been a difficult task for me. I like to live in my own happy world, with my own happy people. I don't like unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar voices, unfamiliar, uncanny eyes, or unfamiliar places. I know I should change, for the better, but its like I'm so comfortable in my own skin. I like myself. I'm proud of what I am, but I really need to learn how to cope.<br />
<br />
I've always hated endings,too. The ending of a movie,a book, a relationship, a memory, a trip. Reading the last chapter of a book, the last few minutes of a movie, the rush of emotions I feel when I know a particular friendship is coming to an end, the guilt I feel over a certain things, the really bad feeling that doesn't even allow me to enjoy the last day of a trip...It haunts me. Everything feels weird. The sad kind weird. I hate it,so much. It drains me out, emotionally. It's sad.<br />
<br />
But nonetheless, change and endings are inevitable.<br />
<br />
And I will have to cope with change and learn to say goodbye, someday. </div>Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-69428948122232701572012-06-23T13:32:00.000+05:302012-06-23T13:32:53.818+05:30I think..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I like my food a bit too bland. I think people who honk are stupid. I think boys are stupid. I think The Mentalist is a pretty cool show. I love Pretty Little Liars. I think BBM's getting annoying now. I hate my ankles, they are so weak :| Teenagers might have a really short attention span, but we do remember what you said to us 4 years ago. I think I love trolling people. I think I don't trust easily now. I think I'm falling in love with tennis all over again. I think I love Indian Weddings. I also love good food, and Delhi. I really love to run. I also don't like AC's much. I love winters, and hate summers. I love people who smell good, and are hygienic. I love pedicures. I'm downright bitchy at times. I'm VERY rude if you provoke me. I'm a snobby bitch if you make me behave like that. But also, I'm very sweet to you if you're nice to me. I like people who have good conversation skills. I don't mind silence, but what I do mind is awkward conversations. I love, absolutely love Sheldon Cooper. I think people should stop bragging about how they're donating so much money to charity, charity stays in your hearts, people. I think my whole life can be defined by quotes. I really believe in 'YOLO', and 'Carpe Diem'. I think boys who write cheesy captions for their male friends are really weird. I think I do not like men(boys) who disrespect women(girls) I think doing drugs is highly uncool. I think I love romantic comedies. I don't believe in ruining my mood over someone who's not worth it anymore. I think 10 year old girls are not ready for relationships, they should just stick to Hannah Montana. I think people who are humble are great. I think kids with silly parents who don't respect money and don't think their children should don't have the right to exist. I think I really REALLY want to do my bit, and open an NGO for sexually abused children. I really want to crack CLAT too. I also think I really appreciate texts that are spelled properly. I think blogs are pretty cool. I really want to be able to write all the time, you know? Beautiful things, somehow I can't. I think London really is my favourite city in the whole wide world. I think having a boyfriend is really overrated, enjoy your freedom,bitches! I think I use the word 'really' a lot, really. I think now I'm just gonna post this :)</div>Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-13648082438579604092012-05-19T15:34:00.000+05:302012-05-19T15:37:20.878+05:30Crappy writing. Read it anyway.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Do we get everything we deserve? Or let me put it this way, do we get everything we think we deserve? Does good always win? Does evil always lose? Does the power of goodness over evil prevail? I don't know. What I do know,though is life isn't fair. Of course not. It it was, the world would be a much much better place. But it's not. It's imperfect.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, playing tennis isn't fair either. About 75 percent of children who play ranking tournaments are overage. It's a fact. All 16-17 year olds play tournaments meant for children and players under the age of 14. I mean, who are you kidding,people? What are you even getting by lying about your age? Just so that you can play more tournaments? It's amazing to see how children, and their parents are ready to stoop to a level so low. If you don't think you can play with children your age and you need to get your age in written records decreased, it's just sad,my friend. If you're really serious about tennis and have an undying passion for it, don't cheat, man. It's not cool. Give it your best, and if your best isn't enough, train. Train some more. Get better, then try. Cheating has never taken anyone anywhere.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY I'VE WRITTEN THIS. IT'S SUCH BAD WRITING. I'M GOING TO POST IT ANYWAY. </div>
</div>Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-87997453285764297862012-03-08T15:46:00.005+05:302012-03-15T15:34:05.530+05:30Because I have my Hindi exam day after and I am bored.<div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">These are 10 random facts, which are a result of acute boredom. I just had nothing better to do. These are very very very random, and also very very very true. </span></span></div><div><span >Here goes nothing</span></div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div>1. I like bland food. Yes, I'm Punjabi. Yes, I live in the land of tandoori tikka and rogan josh, but I still like bland food. Guilt as charged. Give me boiled chicken with mashed potatoes and I will love you for the rest of my life.</span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">2. I absolutely loathe Holi. Why? Because it is gross. It gives you dirty hair, pink teeth, a blue face and yellow arms. There was a time I used to look forward to Holi the entire year, and then people started playing Holi with everything except colours. Eggs. Mud. Grease. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">3. I hate Maggi. It's yellow, slimy, and looks weird. Enough said.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">4. I cannot, like CANNOT brush without the tap running. It's something I've always done. Hehehe. (PS- You can kill me for that,yeah,really)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">5. I have a thing for black and white photographs. I will love anyone who gets a portfolio in black and white. Yeah. (Future husband, are you listening?)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">6. I'm a feminist. A proud one, that is. And I don't think 'women dressing like sluts', or women going around the city 'after 8 pm' cause rapes; Rapists do. And and and, I HATE MALE CHAUVINISTS. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">7. I don't like anyone touching my hair, my face,or my phone. It's just uncool. I' m not the touchy-feely types. It just pisses the hell out of me when someone touches my hair/phone/face, is it that difficult not to touch?</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">9. I cannot take a shower when the water is cold, even when its 45 degree </span>Celsius outside. It's just too cold for me. </span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">10. Also, I can't sleep without a blanket. I will switch on the AC, but I will never sleep without a blanket.</span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div>Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-56122377758116511722012-02-17T16:40:00.000+05:302012-02-17T16:41:09.365+05:30Never seen-THIRTEEEEEENAs I look back, I finally realize I've grown as a person. I've left parts of me behind. I've become a lot less judgmental in the past year. I've started appreciating the good things in life and I've started counting my blessings. This time, last year things were bloody different. I was close to so many people I'm not even in touch now, and trust me, it feels so weird. I'm not saying that it was all their fault, because it was not. I just don't know what happened..we drifted apart. There was nothing much I could do to help it, either. The good part, however, is that I came to know who are the people who've been true to me, not only on my face, but also behind my back. Let's get real, people, everybody is bitched about, no matter what you do, you will be judged, but you know what? It's entirely your choice how you take it, you either let the people bring you down or, you just don't care and smile and live life like everything is perfect. I chose the latter, I did. What is the point in being sad about comments made by people who don't even matter? Whatever mistakes I made in the past, I regret nothing. Absolutely nothing. They helped me grow. I've realized it's okay to be weak sometimes. It's okay to cry. It's okay to be low. But, in the process, we must not forget how to be happy. We must not forget there's much more to life than one person. We must cherish I chose to be happy with the people around me. I chose to stop finding faults. I chose to love. I chose to smile. I chose to live.<div><br /></div><div>Here is to new beginnings,</div><div>to happiness,</div><div>to love,</div><div>Here's to twelve beautiful trips around the sun</div><div>Here's to my thirteenth trip.</div><div><br /></div><div>Happy thirteenth to me :D<br /><div><br /></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"></div>Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2480599858521573636.post-74326768357591325722012-02-04T23:56:00.004+05:302012-02-08T21:13:10.892+05:30Back to life<div>Today I saw this girl. She must have been around 7 years old. She wore a pink GAP sweatshirt and jeans, her beautiful hair tidily tied up in a ponytail. Her high-cheekbones, fair colour complimented her. Her eyes shone so brightly, they screamed innocence. I couldn't help but smile at her. Thousand dreams were reflected in her glistening eyes. Hundred aspirations. She was so full of life. She played around the store, picking up the footballs and tapping them, and calling out for her mother who was shopping somewhere around. She looked happy, but more importantly, she looked content. She was happy with what she had, unlike most of us, obviously. She wasn't inquisitive like I am. She knew all the answers she needed to know. That girl loved colors, I could see. I could see how she would get fascinated by the smallest things. That girl didn't care what people thought of her. She paid no heed to what she heard because she was so busy in her own little world. She was very unlike me. I have always been an inquisitive child, always wanting to know more, sometimes, even more than I needed to. If someone wouldn't tell me something, I'd somehow manage to dig out what I wanted to know. I was never ever in my life content with what I knew. The hunger to know more and more kept increasing day by day. My eyes reflected only the need to know more and more, and a little more. </div><div>But maybe, those inquisitive eyes DID reflect dreams, hopes, and aspirations. Maybe, just maybe, everybody, along with me, failed to see it then. </div><div><br /></div><div>But then, today I did. I realized something I should have realized quite some time back.</div><div><br /></div><div>..somewhere deep down, in those eyes of that little girl, I saw me. I saw the girl who loved to dream, and believe. I saw the girl who was content, but somewhere I knew, that little girl in me had died. </div><div><br /></div><div>And, I'm trying to bring her back. Bring her back to life. </div>Aastha Malhotrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06981909495552332552noreply@blogger.com0