Books that shaped me: 04

"That time when I was five or six and, playing a prank, leapt out at you from behind the hallway door, shouting, “Boom!”

You screamed, face raked and twisted, then burst into sobs, clutched your chest as you leaned against the door, gasping. I stood bewildered, my toy army helmet tilted on my head.I was an American boy parroting what I saw on TV.

I didn’t know that the war was still inside you, that there was a war to begin with, that once it enters you it never leaves—but merely echoes, a sound forming the face of your own son. Boom."

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I owe this to one of my friends Shweta.

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To be honest, when she first mentioned this book, my immediate reaction was "Such a beautiful title; I bet the book must be great too."

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I just couldn't help myself from reading a book with such a beautiful title and I'm so glad that I did.

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Ocean Vuong broke my heart into a thousand pieces but it didn't really hurt because it was such a beautiful experience reading this book. .

The book is written in the form of a letter written to the narrator's illiterate mother. In the letter he mentions the little incidents and shared memories of his childhood and refers to many people who shaped up his life. The incidents have been mentioned very casually but while you read it, you will feel the great impact it had on the narrator (Vuong himself) as a child, an adolescent and as an adult. .

This book is about war and the impact it left on people who witnessed it; the narrator's family being one of those who escaped the war but couldn't escape the haunting memories. The narrator's family (especially his mother) suffers from PTSD as a result of the war and the effect it has on her life and relationships is what the book is all about.

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The book is so quotable because each line feels like loose poetry sewn together into something more big; more beautiful.

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This book reminded me of all the heartbreaking yet beautiful war poetries that I have read. .

Ending with a very beautiful sentence that I found in the book:

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"When does a war end? When can I say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?"

Books that shaped me: 03

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupéry is a novella with illustrations meant for kids. But, why is it so famous among the adults? I'd like to answer this question in Exupéry's own words “All grown-ups were once children - although few of them remember it.” The Little Prince is a magical book and is highly symbolic. The narration is so beautifully carried out that it doesn't even occur to our minds that this has been written by an adult, sitting far away from the country that he loved, in a world stricken with war. Maybe, it is for this reason that the book provides an escape for people who are tired of living a life of disillusionment.

We're all children in our adult bodies that provide us with the most rational explanations for things around us. This book reconnects us with that child inside. For a moment we can just let go of the real world and it's rationality and dive into the world where planes crash into the desserts and we meet a little boy who teaches us something that we had known all along but were afraid to confront.

The book questions reality, the myth of adulthood and rationality. It is so correctly phrased that you'd shed tears at every page. But that is not the best thing about the book. The best thing is the fact that a child and an adult will enjoy reading it in the same. While a child will get lost in the fantasy world of the little prince, an adult will take some of the best life lessons from the Little Prince and the narrator.

Sometimes language fails. That's where a picture starts to speak. The illustrations are so beautiful and full of imagination. They also show that the adult mind isn't much different from a child's mind.

There are certain books that'll make you feel sad at the end and there are some books that you'll never want to end and that is a devastating feeling. The Little Prince is one such book for me. To be honest, I'll always revisit the book in hope that one day The Little Prince will return and tell us about his new experiences. 

If I had to make a horcrux, I'd surely keep a part of my soul in this book!

Breathing Memories.

A lot about me

Is about death.

My love

In flesh and blood

Died while I watched

And a part of me

Died with it

On some days 

I smell like

Those white flowers

That are placed

Right beside

A dead body

Some days I smell

Like the dying fragnance

Of incense 

I look like sunsets

And a lone tear

Right before 

It exits the corner

Of the eye

I'm all about endings

Unexplained 

And sometimes 

Unfinished, even.

But what is it like 

To live with

A thousand dead bodies

Inside you?

I say,

I've never felt this alive

I challenge death

And its sidekick: oblivion

I breathe

I live with memories

And I ponder often

How strong our memories make us

Remembering is a painful joy

One feeling that I'm quite inept

Of explaining

Probably an abrupt ending will do

Just like everything else

That once was.

Why I write on Love.

I write on love

Because I know

All about it.

But then,

I don't.

I spill my heart on paper,

Expecting it to understand

The feeling of love

Because I'm pretty sure

What love looks like.

But I am still

Hung up on the fact

That I haven't really

Known how it feels.

Maybe it's like

Seeing someone

Who loves you

With all they have.

But then,

You can't comprehend

Why it takes so long

For you to commit

To that person.

Maybe it tastes

Bittersweet;

Almost like

The taste

In the back of your throat,

When you realize

That you've fallen

For the wrong one

Who'd eventually

Break your heart

Or worse,

Leave

Without doing it;

So that you're the one

Who drops on the floor

And shatter into pieces.

Maybe it's like

Making the same mistakes,

Over and over again,

Knowing that

It's still a mistake

Even if

You make it with a

Different person this time.

Maybe it's like

Writing letters

And never giving them

Because you thought

It'd be silly.

Maybe it's like giving

Those letters anyway;

To the person,

Who you know

In your heart

Is the one.

But you're too scared

To put a foot forward.

I write about love

Because I know 

That this world needs it,

Even if it is not really 

A good place for

Love to exist.

I write about love

Because without love

Things would fall apart,

Never to be joined back again.

On grief.

When my tongue gives up

I pick up a pen

To write poems

And letters

That I'll never send

You always marvelled

At my intense expression 

While penning down a thought

You once clicked a picture

Of me writing

That was not a pretty picture

Because that day

I went back home

And cried myself to sleep

Because our love was falling apart

And I didn't know what to do

So I felt grief

In the most vulnerable way

It can be felt in

I felt it

And wrote verses

That never made it

On my Instagram feed.

Do you remember

How I used to read

Poems to you?

And how I used

To talk about dead poets

As if I've lived their life

Before they ended it

As if my soul died with them

As if their grief was mine to keep

Forever, inside the pages

Of my worn out diary

People say poets are sad

And they know nothing else

I tell them

That grief is a poem

Written for a beloved

And recited

Over and over

By an ignorant world

Not realizing

It was written

On her death

Grief is difficult

Like Nietzsche

Grief is a series of suicide notes

Known to the world 

As art

Grief is like Plath

Wanting to be loved

And yet dying alone

Grief looks like 

Dried flowers

That once lived

And yet were plucked

To be put on graves

Grief is me trying

To understand my own sorrow 

Through a list of words

Grief is a countless number

Of things that might not

Be related to death

Grief is very much alive

It lives and breathes

In all of us

Hence, grief is a poem 

Because poems live forever.

We are damaged goods.

 We are one broken generation.

We are Icarus' offsprings,

Flying too high;

Too near the sun.

Hence we drop down on the ground;

We fall,

Without a dull thud,

Without blood.

We fall,

With a million meteors

Accompanying us on our doomed journey,

Making it appear beautiful

To the people looking up at the sky;

Ignorant of the number of deaths

It requires

To create something so beautiful.

We are a generation of dreamers.

We never break from our slumber

Even though the world is screaming

At our ears,

"Too sensitive!"

"Too honest!"

"Too brave!"

Yes, we are a bit too much

Of everything

Normal people can't take in

And will never understand.

We are too real.

We are a generation of artists.

Each one of us

Is art itself;

And the artist too.

We have never believed 

We couldn't be both.

We are mad;

We are wild;

We are living,

Making this wretched life count;

One breath at a time.

We owe it

To the million chances

We have given ourselves

After gulping down pills;

And slashing wrists.

We deserve every bit 

Of this life;

However sad it is.

We are a generation

That has more to give

Than grainy monochrome photos,

That people mindlessly scroll through.

We give pictures to captions;

And not otherwise.

We shout;

We spill;

We rant.

We cannot compromise,

Because our conservative households

Want us to.

We are voices

That will scream

Until we are heard.

We are a generation of the dark.

Dark thoughts;

Darker souls.

We spill ink

In place of blood,

On blank pages.

We are made of busy days;

And suffocating nights.

We struggle with every bit

Of waking up in the morning,

But don't let the world know

That we'd hoped of not making it

through the night.

We hide;

But with SOS signs;

If anyone would just care

To look for them

In the depths of our eyes.

They scream;

"HELP!"

We are a generation of lovers,

Waiting to be serenaded;

To be cared for;

when we can't do that

For ourselves.

We hope a lot

And that's one of the reasons

For our misery.

We keep our eyes open,

But we do trust a lot.

And when hopelessness visits us,

In the form of heartbreaks

Or betrayal,

That is not quite a pretty sight.

But we are a generation of believers.

We think we can move mountains

And change the course of rivers.

We think the world will change;

For the better.

So we sit,

And wait

For the day

When we'd start feeling alright.

Till then,

We appear as a generation

Of Admirers.

We look at pretty skies

And compose imaginary verses.

We try to shape our mess

And pose for group pictures

We are anxious people

We are too good

For this bad world.

But that's the catch;

We know there are others;

Just like us,

Waiting to be recognized

From a distance.

We live on;

In hope of meeting the one

Who would see us for us

And pass a knowing smile

"You too?"

"Yeah, me too."

Image: Pinterest

Notes to Self: 01

You.

Well, you were made

With care.

The right proportions

Of ingredients,

Mixed into a beautiful whole.

A spoonful of stars;

Half a cup of dreams;

A pinch of sorrow;

Mixed into a bowl full of chaos.

So,

Whenever your eyes twinkle

With unsolicited happiness;

Know, that it's the stars,

Shining in your existence.

You are, because they are.

They are, because you are.

When people tell you,

That you dare not dream;

Tell them, you're brave enough.

Because, you were made with them.

When you feel sad

About a void inside you;

That you never created,

Let your tears fill that up.5

Because,

You, of all people,

Would know,

Even sorrows are beautiful.

And when you feel

That your whole world is

Falling apart,

Stop;

And

Look.

Maybe things are just

Rearranging themselves.