On why I haven't posted anything lately.

It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. My mom says some days are like that. ~ Judith Viorst

I don't know what's happening to me. Sometimes, I feel so much that I cry all day, sometimes so less that I'm almost robotic. Mostly, I feel lost.

And no matter how I'm feeling there is this constant sense of emptiness. It's like somebody has taken away a part of my heart and now that place in my heart is empty. I think it'll always be empty.

I'm not even sure I want it to fill. Mom occupied that space. Now her memories will. Forever.

I can't write these days. Generally, I can't write when I'm not okay.
Because when I'm okay... I think, I ponder, I hope, I dream, I create.

Now, there aren't many thoughts in my head, and not half as many epiphanies as I used to have. 

I'm not me.

It's unfathomable why sometimes I want to tell everyone about what I'm feeling and the next instant, I want to guard my privacy fiercely.

I get defensive easily. I cry easily. Well, I used to cry easily earlier too... but not many people would find out. As I would quickly gather my composure (Mum always did though. She'd see my eyes and she'd be like... You've been crying, haven't you? And then she wouldn't leave my room until she felt satisfied that I was okay.)

Now, it's different. I'm unable to gather my composure. The other day, I was in college and just because of a small issue, I broke down into a puddle of tears. And I had to run to the washroom to cry. I cried there. I couldn't hold it in. It felt like my heart would come out of my throat. I wanted to sit down and cry. Cry hard and loud.

I cried. Quietly.

Then, after a few minutes when I got back to the classroom;  thinking I'll be okay now, I broke down again. My friends asked me as to what happened suddenly. And all I could do was ask them, not to talk to me for a while.

For I couldn't have told them that I'm hurting, I'm hurting because I'm missing my mom and I'm hurting because I didn't get to bid her goodbye (I hadn't seen her for 5 days, when she left us. And I didn't think I would regret it in the long run. But I do. I fucking do!), I'm hurting because I'd give everything for a few more moments with her. But the sad part is, even if I give everything away; I can't have her.

I don't think anyone can understand the desperation I feel at times, to just be with her.

I didn't think they would either. And I didn't have the strength to explain.

I'm very vulnerable these days. Smallest of things make me want to cry. Cry Hard.

The other day I was coming home from college and I saw a girl holding her old mother's hand and helping her cross the road. It struck me that I wouldn't ever be able to do that and I broke down into a puddle of tears.

Nani (grandma), at times talks to me about mumma. I have recently realized that mumma and nani shared such a close bond. Nani talks about mumma as if she was her little girl and not a grown woman.
Now, I've realized the true meaning of the statement "That a child is always a child for a mother".

I also want what nani and mumma shared.
But sometimes, you can't get what you want. And that fucking sucks.

Things have changed.
Mumma always gave me the first chapati. I'm a slow eater.
And when I used to cook at times; I used to cook for everyone and then would ask her to make chapatis for me. I hate cooking for myself.

Or should I say I used to. I sort of don't anymore. Not with that intensity at least.

Now, I'm the last one to eat and I have to eat what I cook. Sometimes, I have to push the food down my throat. It bloody won't go in.

I don't talk about all of it to many people though.
Not only do they, not understand but people eventually get tired of hearing your shit.
And maybe that's why people write. Paper never gets tired.

So now, that you know the background story. This is why I haven't been posting anything:

1. I can't write much.

2. And when I do write something, all I write about is mum.
And there are days when the thought of people knowing what I'm feeling, terrifies me. It makes me too vulnerable.
So, I don't share what I write.

3. Writing about anything other than mom feels wrong. Why? I don't know.

And then there are days like today, when someone compliments my writing and tells me to write more. (It just makes my day!)
Those are the days I find myself able to write.

How?

Because it does something to me.

And somehow, again..
I hope. I dream. I create.