the threads in her head

To the People at Triple 1:

(Maybe one day if one of you all hit me close enough, enough, I'll send you this)

Talk to me again one day if you can at least understand, a little, the way I think.

I am not your budding saint, whatever you may think. I am a sentimental fool, which some of you have guessed. I can be extroverted, I can be wild, I can do all kind of crazy stuff. I can be frivolous and flippant and joking. Again, some of you have guessed. But usually, amidst you all, I am quiet, pondering, wondering, looking.

Don't mistake it for calmness. It's a storm here inside.

Talk to me again one day when you understand.

Words have a power on me. They always have. I cringe whenever you all dismiss it as "chim". Why? It's a mere difference of dismissing, and going one step further to unravel the train of thoughts. It's a difference between generalising and taking the effort to explore. Actions speak louder than words. If you dismiss it, why should I believe you care?

I can joke, I can laugh, I can have a good time playing games with you all. But stop generalising me as chim. Stop putting me on this non-existent pedestal - or perhaps a pit, for all I know. It's just a difference between asking how did it get here, or just dismissing it as literature-like.

Talk to me again one day when you understand.

What's so wrong about literature-like in the first place? They're not so much literature like but just an unraveling of thoughts. It's just a difference of effort. Just a difference of whether you engage with it or not. Just a difference of whether it makes a difference to you.

Love makes everyone poets. Sorrow makes people write the most heart-wrenching pieces.l I don't believe literature is inaccessible.

Talk to me again one day when you understand.

Good words hit. Some words raw, some stuff professional, sleek, pretty. So pretty, so enchanting, just as wildfire. I get lost in their world. I get lost in their train of thoughts, in their stream of consciousness. I get fireworks, explosions of thoughts and ideas, new insights, a new window of thought, heady, heady, the myriad of possibilties are absolutely endless. Engaging, exploring, getting lost.

Don't you?

Talk to me again one day when you understand.

I will try, to my utmost efforts, not to be frivolous with words. Oh certainly, there are times when flippancy is sweet relief, where the careless and frivolousness of youth and hormones take over. But otherwise, other times, when I see it has specifically crafted, where effort has been taken with every word - how can one bear to be flippant and frivolous? How does one dismiss efforts as "wassup with the literature man?"

Is this too chim? Even the innocent can compose stories of such grace and beauty and warmth. Even little kids know how to excitedly recount their day. Even you would eagerly share certain events with joy and vigour with someone.

Just a matter of effort, or care. Just a difference of whether it makes a difference.

Talk to me again one day when you understand.

Talk to me again one day if you actually have a retort.

Talk to me again... never.