Too Late.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hello! The following post is a just a rant I thought I would let out in the world, because I feel it’s quite necessary for people to know. Naturally, the words are pretty simple and there aren’t many beautiful metaphors in it either. So, beware, hater or critic, you’ve been forewarned of my post’s amateurish nature and simplicity.


I had a dream
Of a perfect day
With you smiling
All the while;
But,
When
How
Why
It transpired into
A wooden face
With Death etched
In every line,
I couldn’t even
Begin to guess
And now all that’s
Left is the bitter
Taste of words
Left unsaid.

The above poem could be a perfect example of a climax. Albeit a highly strange, twisted one.

But what’s even more strange and twisted is the way we show our feelings of affection towards our loved ones. I cannot begin to understand why we limit our out-bursts of love (in the form of often amusing and grammatically cringe-worthy long messages) to birthdays, anniversaries, etc. Wouldn’t parading our love a bit everyday be better than accumulating it like grime and dirt, resulting in a paroxysm of nasty acne on our face? (Brownie points to me for making it gross.)
I guess re-reading the Harry Potter series, for the 8th time in my 15 year old life, has caused the fear of being “too late” to leech itself on my life.

If only..
Harry couldn’t tell his god father, the excruciatingly handsome, Sirius Black, just how much he meant to him. Surely, Sirius deserved a better idea of how much Harry loved him than the disbelieving look Harry gave him; just as Bellatrix’s death curse separated them further than a gazillion light years could.
Ronald Weasley, Harry’s red-head best friend, couldn’t tell his older brother, Fred Weasley, how much he was fond of him. Surely, they deserved a better good-bye than what they got. And his twin George would have surely told him that he’d be like a Weasley without red hair, had he known about what would happen.
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Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin. If there was ever a pair deserving more time than what they got, that’s them. If there are lost souls and spirits out there, I can only imagine these two itching to find each other and say the ‘I Love You s’ that they missed out on.

My point is (if you haven’t read the Harry Potter saga and are feeling quite confused) that don’t be one of those people with the words ‘if only I had said..‘ haunting them for the rest of their lives. Sure, you might have read hundreds of write-ups with a similar message.

But I’m just doing my job; which makes it one thing less said “too late” for me.

-Kimaya Ingale.

Gorgeous Devil.

There he stood. Laughing with his friends, eyes crinkled at the edges, teeth bared and nose upturned.

What a cutie.” said my mind with an all too familiar tone.

My gaze must have been palpable, for he turned and caught my eye.

Time. Frozen.

I stared back, though, appraising him. Call it the perk of being a Gemini, but I recognized him for what he was, instantly.

A gorgeous devil.

I may not be much of an expert on satanology, but I would fight tooth and nail with those who say devils just as grotesque, horned little blighters. Clearly, they hadn’t seen the finest of them, who was standing in front of me. Tall, smart, hair set perfectly, that tiny little mole near his nose on the left of his face. Perfection.

Our eyes cut off. He took one more step near me, that lopsided smirk already plastered on his face.

Oh, the gorgeous little devil…

But if he was thinking that he’d lasso me into his abode with that irresistible “hello”, he was in for disappointment.

Because darling, I’ve played with Hell all my life.

-Kimaya Ingale.

Haunted House.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m not really sure if I have clearly put out the message I have behind this little poem. And yes, I know the ending is beyond embarrassing but I couldn’t end it well! Sorry. x And constructive criticism is always appreciated. 🙂


Haunted House.

Darling, are you,
Are you afraid
Of your own being?
Afraid of the living
Haunted house
That you seem to be.

Ghosts of your past
Aboding the remnants
Of your scar(r)ed heart,
Possessing your being
Every time you
Turn to love.

Rotten,
Dead,
Bloodied
Hands pulling you down,
When your head dares to bob
Above the storm
Trying to get everyone down.

Monsters under your bed,
Monsters in your head
Screaming,
Screaming,
Screaming,
Never-ending.
Forcing you to put on a smile
When you are breaking inside.

Darling, darling,
Don’t be afraid
I’ll be the one
Turning on the lights
Petering out the dark
(That you are so afraid of)
With love lasting throughout
Your dark, dark, nights.

-Kimaya Ingale.

Story-Time.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hello 🙂 Again, it’s been long since I last uploaded ( I don’t know, even a  day without uploading seems pretty darn ‘long’ to me 😛 ) Anyway, I’m writing a post that is dedicated to a dear friend of mine and one which I had published earlier, however, it got deleted somehow. So, here it is again! Thanks for reading and comments are always appreciated. x


Hi, there. Come, sit down. It’s your female, Kimaya! Right now, I am going to tell you a story. But it’s going to be a bit different. I’m going to give you only the words that constitute broken phrases that are so grammatically wrong that you would probably frown upon them. There won’t be any mention of the emotions I felt, not the tears I cried, not the smiles I smiled. Just words, that you are going to weave up in a story you think is appropriate. Don’t worry, I’ll give you the reason of my doing so at the end! So stick with me, here we go-

2 boys. 1 girl. Boys, the best of friends. 1 girl, the thorn in their friendship. Girl fell for both, hard. Best friends fell for her, too. But, only 1 told the girl how he felt about her. Other, silent. Girl couldn’t decide between both. Finally, went for The Boy Who Declared (Eek, one small interruption. If you were reminded of Harry Potter when you read ‘The One Who Declared’, I love you. Potterhead forever, bro! :D) Did so not because she liked The Boy Who Declared more, but because she didn’t know how the other one felt about her. Meaning, girl liked the Silent Boy more. But continued with the other one. Almost a year passed. Girl couldn’t take it. Was still confused. Received mixed signals from Silent Boy. Told Silent Boy how she felt. Silent Boy told her he has loved her since forever. Girl understood what she had to do. Told Boy 1 that she didn’t like him anymore. Lied. Left him. Now, girl finally happy with Boy 2. 

THE END.

End of the story, I mean, if you can even call it one. Now, for the reason I did so.

You see, it wouldn’t have mattered if I told you this story as it really happened; as a real story. Because even though our emotions, while telling a story, ring the truth, the listener is always going to go with the moral he derives from it. Yours doesn’t matter in the end. It never does, darling.

In this way, there are two morals you can deduce from this little anecdote-

Moral 1: The girl was a hypocrite, an unpleasant young ‘un (read: bitch), a girl who can’t control her impulse to get all the boys (read: slut) and that she was undeserving of them both.

Moral 2: The girl’s condition was pitiful, being in a love triangle and the worst kind, too; with two best friends. She did go through a lot and did break a heart, but that was all she could do. Because that was what was right. Rather than faking love for Boy 1, she went righteously with Boy 2, setting the former free. She deserves Boy 2’s love.

And now my moral to you, for all your stories that you are going to tell is (eating my words quite a bit, aren’t I?) –

“Always, always believe in your own ‘moral of the story’. Never let others’ notions distort your belief in anything.”

-Kimaya Ingale.