Gods of crazy worlds

On being creative, and insecure.

I am a storyteller.

Romanticized delusions festoon thoughts and ideas that infest my mind.

It is a parallel existence where everything is exaggerated. And every emotion amplified; a cry turns into a heart-wrenching scream, and a smile breaks into hysterical laughter.

It is a world where time does not have wings; she is never in a rush. So the sun rises for an eternity. “Just 5 minutes more,” he says.

And the moon lingers for a moment too long.

When it rains, it never stops. And when it does, the sun clamours for my attention. So I wear my skin two ways — pale and shriveled, or burnt sienna.

It is a case of extremes with no blanks in between. The darkness is blinding, and the light, more so.

I revel in my contradictions; ecstasy and nostalgia walk hand in hand. It is just another Ferris wheel ride. The view changes way too much, and way too soon. And just when I start making sense of it all, it starts again.

But it seems real. At least to me. It is after all, a world that I have created. And it is hard to let people in. How can it make sense to anyone but me?

But sometimes I take a chance. And hand over a kaleidoscope to anyone who wants to sneak a peek. Perhaps, it makes no sense to you…

I am a storyteller. Or so I have been trying to convince myself lately.