18 Struggles Of Having An Outgoing Personality But Actually Being Shy And Introverted

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Originally posted on Thought Catalog:

This… this is my soul song, people. This is my Vietnam.

1. You’re not anti-social, you’re selectively social.

2. At any given point, you have one (maybe two) best friends who are your entire life. You’re not a “group of friends” person. You can’t keep up with all that.

3. Social gatherings that are supposed to be “rites of passage” like prom and dances and other such typical nonsense is just… not for you. You don’t understand it. You want nothing to do with it.

4. When you do choose to grace a party with your presence, you are the life of it. You’re dancing on the table and doing body shots until 3 a.m.

5. … You then retreat into three days of complete solitude to recover.

6. You go out of your way to avoid people, but when you inevitably have to interact with them, you make…

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ANONYMITY

This one is for the moments which I savored during my recent travels to Rishikesh, Pondicherry and Puri. Sometimes, its most satiating to be anonymous in a strange beautiful place and soak in everything possible. That wonderful feeling of anonymity when no one judges you by how you look, what you speak, what you wear and you can be your truest self.

SHE..

She lies in the dark corner of the room

Her body still stinking of male obtrusion

Her penetrated soul bearing wounds of shame

Lamenting her birth and existence

 

She shuts her eyes, the darkness is the same

Her eyes have dried, but her heart’s still crying

The why’s, how’s, what if’s, If only’s haunting her

Killing her softly moment by moment

 

She once had dreamed of standing tall

Now she’s in a pit of unfathomable depths

She once was a pillar of love and strength

Now she’s torn apart on the streets of disgrace

 

She once had dreamed of making her nation proud

Now she lies under the dirty smelly feet of her own brethren

She once was the lace tying all the beads

Now she’s broken bit by bit, piece by piece

 

Someone please tell her that there is hope

For she might soon lose the dwindling faith

Someone please bring her on her feet

For she might soon lose the strength to stand up

 

Someone please hold her hand with reassurance

For she might soon forget what a caring touch felt like

Someone please wipe that drop off her eyes

For she is tired of swallowing every tear she cries

 

She is that little unaware  girl

Whose innocence was exploited by her own kin

She is that college going daughter

Who fell prey to the lust of salivating excuses for humans

 

She is that mother of five daughters

Who got killed by someone unable to knock up a Y chromosome

She is that every woman of India

Who trembles when walking alone late on the streets

 

She stood by us all the time

If only all of us could stand up for her

She was given the holy gift of creating life

If only she could get her rightful place under the sun..

 

 

Who Started The Fire?

My room is on fire

I can see the smoke rising

I can smell the burning cotton

I can’t remember a thing

Now I see an empty Chivas

And a few burnt out butts

A pile of torn pages and scattered leaves

Who started the fire?

 

Images flash through my mind 

Wait, let me think hard

I was strumming the G and D chords

In perfect rhythm, humming along

“Shelter from the Storm”

I saw her at the door. 

No, this can’t be.

She’s miles away.

A figment of my imagination.

My thoughts are interrupted.

I can feel the heat on the back of my neck.

The curtains are ablaze.

Who started the fire?

 

I was halfway through the Chivas

And sucking up the neat long burning roll

I grabbed my pad and a pen

And began to write.

Let me see what I wrote.

But why am I unable to move?

Too late. The papers are now lit up like a pyre.

Who started the fire?

 

I was talking to myself. 

Do you know how its like? Talking to yourself?

You may call it insanity

I call it therapy.

Have your ears bled, longing to hear a word that soothed?

Has your skin crawled, longing for a touch that healed?

Have your eyes dried, longing for that tear to be wiped?

I was talking to myself.

My voice comforting my soul.

Quoting words of Morrison and Dylan.

I feel my toe burning.

The bedsheet is now being devoured. 

My precious guitar is in flames.

Who started the fire?

 

The bottle was lying horizontal

There was shiny mirrory liquid on the floor

I caught a glimpse of myself in it

I gazed into my eyes

I lit up the lighter, and tried to burn my reflection.

What happened next? Why can’t I remember?

I am suffocating.

I am staring at the ceiling.

The fan is fanning the flames.

I can’t see a thing. All I see is fire.

Who started the fire?

 

My skin is melting. My blood is burning.

But why am I smiling?

And now I laugh. Loud.

Do you know what its like? Laughing in the face of death?

Have you  felt entrapped in the nothingness of blood and bones?

Have you tried flapping your hands in a desperation to fly?

Have you loved someone more than your life?

You may call it death

I call it liberation.

I started the fire.

 

 

 

I am often troubled by the phenomenon of suicide. I always feel it is the biggest act of cowardice and escapism. However, I tried to look onto the other side of the coin, and imagined this scene where a guy was taking his life, and what went through his mind. This, in no way, means I am endorsing it. This is purely a piece of imagination and looking at things from a different perspective.

EMPTY PAGES

This one is an ode to all the words that were never written. Dedicated to all those who’ve experienced writer’s block at some or the other point of time. I am sure many of you will relate to this. :)

 

 

That killing urge to share those feelings,

The ramblings of the mind and its curious musings;

That strong-felt need to write it all down,

The deep despair and the occasional frown;

 Fingers they  itch, thoughts they embank;

But words fail me; the page remains blank.

 

 

Playing randomly and fancifully with the alphabets,

In the deceptive anticipation of getting it right;

The quest of finding a language for the mind,

Waiting for that one spark, that special ignite;

Fingers they itch, thoughts they incite;

But words fail me, the page remains white.

 

Too much to share, too much to speak,

The chimney is suffocating, it needs a release;

Frustration mounts, probing for a leak,

The Restless mutterings, the growing unease;

Fingers they itch, thoughts they bleed,

But words fail me, the page lies pitied.

The Journey

This one’s dedicated to all those with a passion for travelling and experiencing life in the rawest and truest form.

Etching out roads in the wilderness;
Carving out paths amidst the crowds;
Wind in my hair, soil on my feet,
I keep walking, going with the breeze;

Ears try to hear the inaudible,
Picking up the music of the waves
And the rustling of the leaves;
Eyes, ever hungry and lustful,
Observe the dead in the living
And the life in the inanimate;

Fingers that started itching
To touch and feel mirages and illusions;
Nostrils that flared up
To breathe in the fragrance of truth;
The senses calm down as the vessel fills;
I keep walking, overcoming new thrills;

Goals fade away into oblivion,
As its the journey that now matters;
The heart and mind are now a sponge,
Soaking in life and all it offers;

Wind in my hair, soil on my feet,
The anxious soul in the drivers seat;
The heart learns and mind wisens,
As I keep walking, pushing the horizons…

 

Jugalbandi

 This is an interesting story. It all started when Khare wished me on my birthday on facebook by posting a few lines on my wall. I replied back by writing a verse as well. And thus this jugalbandi began. Starting at 1 in the night, it continued till 3 p.m the next day, when finally we decided to stop, as the last verse was very concluding.

Here’s the facebeook link to this episode:  https://www.facebook.com/akshay8928/posts/10150717966798968

Starting with a mere birthday wish, we ended up writing about alocholism, false dreams, illusions, god, the crazy mankind, the quest for truth.. finally ending with the backdrop “Its All In Your Head”.  Very abstract,  written in amateurish Hindi, but definitely with a lot of heart.  And yes, there’s a guest appearance by Saahil, who threw in a verse when we were in dire need of it ;) 

ये दुआ करता हूँ खुदा से, के

कामयाबी के शिखर पे नाम आपका हो,

हर कदम पर दुनिया सलाम हो,

और जन्मदिन पे मिले हज़ारों खुशियाँ,

चाहे उनमे शामिल हम न हों

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

कामयाबी का शिखर अभी नज़रों से परे है,

पर ख़ुशी तो इन टेढ़े मढ़े रास्तों में है;

कदम अभी तो लडखडाते और डगमगाते हैं,

पर दिल जहाँ चाहे, उधर ये ले जाते हैं;

छोटी छोटी इकठ्ठा होके मिली हज़ारों खुशियाँ,

दुआ ये है की आप ख़ुशी में नहीं, ख़ुशी आप में शामिल हो.

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

शिखर तो सपनों के नज़रों की उन आँखों में है,

जिनके आंसुओं की लौ से क़यामत बने;

 वो रस्ते जो कभी सीधे साधे न हो सके…

शामिल हुई थी पल भर में खुशियाँ तमाम,

जब इकठ्ठा उन सपनों में देखी हमने मधुशाला हज़ार..

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

 सपने देखते देखते धुन्दला जाती नज़रें कभी,

चंद आंसू आँखों को फिर साफ़ कर जाते;

पीछे मुडके देखना छोड़ दिया रास्तों को,

मोड़ इतने आये की रास्ते पहचाने न जाते;

कह दो तो आंसुओं से प्याले भर दें,

अगर उनकी लौ से क़यामत बन जाए….

 ……………………………………………………………………………………………

यूँ कहते कहते ही तो जाके

वो अदबुध आंसू प्याले पर पड़े;

जिसके अमृत के संग हम तुम

आँखें हमेशा धुंधलाते रहे;

क़यामत को देखने की जुर्रत के लिए ताकत मिली

जब इकठ्ठा हुई हज़ार आंसुओं की वोह तपन अदबुध…

 ……………………………………………………………………………………………

आंसुओं से सींची आग ऐसी लगी की बढती ही गयी,

यह न मालुम था की खुद इसमें जलने लगेंगे;

वैसे तो क़यामत देखने की ताकत जुटाई थी,

यह न पता था की मौका आने पर पाँव उठ न सकेंगे;

सपने देख देख कर पलकों पर इमारत थी बनाई,

नीव तो खारे पानी और कांच के प्यालों की ही थी;

पलक झपकते ही गिर पड़ी वो इमारत,

आइना देख लेते तो दिख जाती क़यामत…

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

क्या हुआ अगर आईने में वो क़यामत न दिखी;

 कांच के उन प्यालों में ही सही,

क़यामत धुन्द्लाते हुए जन्नत बनकर जरूर दिखी;

हर झलकते पलक के साथ,

 आग बुझी और तपन बढ़ी…

 ……………………………………………………………………………………………

वैसे तो लोग प्यालों में क्या कुछ नहीं देख लेते;

अपने जीवन की कहानी और उस कहानी का अंत देख लेते;

पत्थर में मोहब्बत और कविता में व्यंग देख लेते;

आँखों से निकले पानी में सातों रंग देख लेते;

खुदा नाज़ कर तेरे उन बन्दों पर,

जो अपनी आग में तपके मौत में जन्म देख लेते..

 ……………………………………………………………………………………………

पत्थर में भगवान् को मोहब्बत,

और कविता के साज़ के राज़ को व्यंग,

भूल से हम समझ बैठे;

आँखों के पानी से बना इन्द्रधनुष का आठवा रंग,

 पानी के सच्चाई का बेरंग ही तो है..

 …………………………………………………………………………………………..

देखो उस पत्थर की जान को, हज़ारों सालों से

जिसने दुनिया का बोझ लेना सीखा है;

सुनो उन लहरों की आवाज़ को, दर्द भरी गहराइयों से

निकाल के लाती हैं जो सबसे सुरीले गीत;

हमने अगर दुनिया को कुछ दिया तो बस झूट,

आँखें खोल कर देखो हर तरफ खुदा है, सच्चाई है….

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

क्यों व्यर्थता दिखाते हो खुदा की तलाश में;

सच्चाई ढूँढ़ते हो, टकराते हो तन्हाई से;

ये लहरें, ये सुरीले गीत तो बस एक सपना हैं,

एक भीख जो तुम खरीदते हो अपनी तन्हाई से.

 …………………………………………………………………………………………..

अक्सर दर्द सच्चाई के दरवाज़े खोल देता है;

दिल के उन छुपे कोनो की अनकही बातें बोल देता है;

झूट और अहंकार के चलते फिरते पुतलों की जगह,

हवा से बातें करना और लहरों से गीत सुनना सीखा है हमने;

खुद के बनाए हुए पिंजरों में रहने वालो,

एक बार बहार निकलके देखो, की कौन जी रहा है तन्हाई में…

 …………………………………………………………………………………………..

जब तन्हाई बन बैठे बनिया,

तो भीख में मिले गीतों की कीमत;

पिंजरे में रहने वाले क्या समझे,

निकल कर ही तो वो समझें कि लहरों में है तन्हाई

 जिसकी कीमत गीतों में है…

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

ख्यालों में इतने खोये कि हकीकत भी सपना सा लगने लगी;

दर्द मलहम बनता रहा और तन्हाई से दोस्ती होने लगी;

क्या हम भी किसी की रचना का किरदार हैं;सोचने लगे किसकी कल्पना है ये,

कौन हैं हम सपना और हकीकत में फर्क करने वाले,

कुछ दिन के मेहमान, कौन हैं हम खुदा को नकारने वाले;

राजों से भरा समंदर और सवालों से सजा आसमान है;

नापने चले थे गहराइयां और चूमने चले थे फलक;

जब आँखें मूंदी तो देखा, अपनी ही रचना है ये,

सोच के बीजों से बोया हुआ, मन के अन्दर ही यह सारा जहाँ है.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

 एक है किरदार, जिसकी सोच है रचना वही;

जो सीमित फलक के सवालों से या समुन्दर के राजों से नहीं;

 क्यूंकि वो किरदार है मन, हम नहीं