coleoptera

Love. Tender. Dreams. Film. Sleep maybe.
Indifferent. Blogs. Trepidation. Pretense. Other people. Art. 
Colors.
Too many people.
Paper. Tear. Ink smudges. 
Nostalgia. Home. Cake crumbs. Ma. 
Future. Unsure. 
Insecure. Trying too hard. Scaryness.

Random words I want to shout out at the world. 
Not shout as much as speak out to. Whisper even, if there are too many voices in the wind. Let it rustle through. Sometimes a yell is not necessarily heard. And sometimes, there is far too much crowd in the nights.

Somewhere, where things are rarer maybe, I’ll be better. Empty streets, rain-washed, glistening in the halogen lights. Walking alone. Safe. Maybe one of the colony puppies, padding along for company, its paws light on the tarmac. Maybe I’ll talk to it. Ask it if it knew how much I missed this place. It’ll look at me once, probably, ears flapping as it ran alongside. Puppies have such little legs. Maybe I’ll put on my headphones and we’ll walk in peace. Maybe it’ll go away and I’ll feel sad about being such an outsider now that I didn’t even know its name. I’ll pass by houses where I played as a kid. All those houses now have new people, the old ones moved away, uncles retired or got transferred, their kids- my ex friends- went away to different colleges and grew so distant that it became easy to judge them based on their facebook profiles, dislike them even.

There was this friend I had. We went to her place to play hide n seek as children- hell, till eigth grade maybe. They had lemon bushes behind their garage and I loved hiding there because those bushes almost always had caterpillars on them. Sometimes, I’d take them home, feed them leaves till they moulted and moulted and decided to turn into butterflies. The Lime Swallowtail. Beautiful, black and with these perfect wings that were my favorite shape on a butterfly.
I don’t even know her now. I haven’t talked to her in six years. 

We moult and we moult and then decide to turn into these people we never knew we had within us.