Blank Space (as explained by an introvert)



This is what my silence looks like

A dark room full of unknown faces

All of your eyes on me

Waiting for words that just



These are my hands

Trembling at the thought

Of wading past an ocean of thousands of you

At the end of this night

Swaying me with your tides

Invading my silence over and over again

This is also my space

Empty but for my breath

These walls are my friends

All the same colour

But each with a different heartbeat

Slowly teaching me…. How to be

The space holds in it years

Of avoiding strangers like you

It’s what our mothers used to say right?

But while I was busy warding off the evil

I’ve also kept a few new souls away

It’s a price I pay and I pay it in plenty

And from where I’m standing

Silence is a precious prize

You’ll call me the quiet one

Wonder why I look scared

When you call me beautiful

Sigh when I look away each time you try to smile at me

Wonder why I have nothing to say

When you say my words have changed your life

You’ll deem me just a mystery

Intertwined with your life for no reason

“She’s just shy”, others will say

And you will wonder why I am not that shy on this stage

You don’t see what I see

You don’t see my blank space

This is also my canvas

Where I paint stories

Through relentless strokes of my mind

Stories of unrequited love and outraged fists raised in hope

Stuffed in jars like fireflies lighting up my nights

Where my realities collide

Burning through my dark skies like fire

Until my words like stars turn into dust

You may call me the introvert

Claim I dwell in caves

While I spend my weekends in empty rooms

This mind tethering at the edge of my page

You may even give up and walk away

To never come back again

But this.


This thing u call a blank space

And shrug off because it’s empty

This is my whole world, my masterpiece!

And you…..are just a background.


Art by Julia Popova

blink and I disappear 

My heart only steps out 

For one slight minute 

For just that one second

I express a voice for you to listen 

A voice – my voice 

That very one you have tried to drown

Deep in the crevices of your mind

blink and I disappear 

Suddenly I’m an apparition 

No longer a constance 

But a heavy soul 

Weighed down in this word 

This world – your world 

The world that quietly sits head bowed in the corner of the bar

And swallows awkward conversations mixed in cocktails

blink and I disappear 

I feel myself fading 

With the first of the light 

My rage now a resignation 

Words breathe out their last

These words – my words 

The ones that were penned

On silent soulless nights 

You blink and I’ve disappeared 

Drifting away from a wasted life

You’ve walked away 

Like you always did 

Like it meant nothing 

This life – my life

That only dwells in your darkness 

And embraces your nights like a friend


An Afterthought – 

Nights are like ocean tides where I flow,

Your unending dream.

The Writer: Part 2

He looks back at the day he wrote his first story and smiles. The books they mock him, like pictures in his mind they come back. Here he was the best selling writer in America and yet, all he ever waited for was the next vision. Every word, every sentence was a new life, a new death.
The first ever story got published in the local newspaper thanks to his mom. She was so proud, they even framed the story. He still remembers the picture up on the refrigerator. The story was your average horror story, a couple stuck in the haunted house by the river, the same one he passed by everyday from school, the same one that stopped him in his tracks every evening.
He wrote of what he saw, his deepest darkest dream, it was no more a nightmare. In hindsight, he probably should have stopped. But it was his way out, his big leap out of this world.
The next day, the baby sitter had fallen desperately ill. The writer making the most of it, wrote the story of two young boys stuck all alone inside a house.
Now, alone in his white room, he wonders, where and when should he have stopped. At which dream, should his pen have said enough. He didn’t kill them, he tells himself. They were just coincidences. Only they were not.
His stories were famous, he was a prodigy. They called him King after the popular author. The writer wondered if he too had made a similar pact. There were no bullies in his life. All the beauty had finally dawned on him. His childhood was now exactly what he wanted it to be. Uneventful. No monsters, no scary voices in the night, parks were a joy ride. In the depths of his room, he poured out all his despair and he smiled to the world, everything was perfect.
His mom could tell, she always knew there was something great in him. So she saw nothing wrong in giving herself to him, like all mothers should.
It was only his sixteenth that messed it up a little. He smiles now wondering if it was love. Can an author love a story? Enough to make it come true. It was as if he knew she was his sixteenth story before he even met her.

That was Anna, everyone loved her even though she perhaps wasn’t the best looking in the room. Her fierceness just took everyone along in her storm. She was mad at everything and yet loved life. It was almost as if she knew no fear. Her story was real. The Writer still doesn’t know if his story came first or the night came after. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. Only it does. 

The Writer: Part 1

He had always been a scared child. Even before he had known of existence he had been scared of things. He assumed the worst when his father drove him to school. His mother protected him of all things evil for she knew there was something about him; something that bordered on greatness and glory. She had dreamt of the best things for him. And, fate as always obliged. Now, 30 years later, Writer thought how true his mother was when she saw all these things for him. He briefly smiled at the thought of his brother making fun of him. “A Wuss!” he would call him, “A pathetic little baby! Afraid of the dark! Afraid of everything!” What irked his brother the most was the friendly ear their mother used to give Writer. “You will never be like him.” she used to say.
Little by little the affections started seeming like a terrible curse to Writer. Every time his mother would take his side, the punishment would reach him in the dead of the night. He still recalls the ugly dark and jeering face of his brother in the middle of the night. The smile widened. How afraid he had been! How terribly afraid of the dark!

“They….will…catch…you!” his brother chided. “They will catch the little Writer and KILL HIM!” The fear paralyzed him. When you are ten, you believe everything your brother says. Writer remembered the days he would hurry under the bed hoping his brother would leave him alone. He began to hate his mother for inflicting the pain of her affection on him.
Years passed under this torture, Writer still afraid of everything wrote of the beauty he was missing. That one day he wouldn’t be scared of roaming the nights and actually embrace the moonlight. He wrote of the thrill of riding the bikes in the parks like other children. He wondered what it would be like to not be afraid of falling. He wondered would his world have been different had he not been scared of making friends in the neighborhood.
Life had dealt him a tough hand, he told himself. Why else would his hands shiver at the mere thought of stopping somewhere on the way from school?
But nothing stays; everything is taken away by time. One fateful walk in the park changed everything for him. The day had gone well, as far as good days go really. His brother hadn’t found the right moment to pick on him; his bus had broken down so he was in fact walking in the park with his schoolmates. He was almost close to enjoying the fine view of the nature that had evaded him for so many of the days.
Suddenly, it seemed like the voices of laughter around him were gone. “You are still afraid. Aren’t you?” someone whispered. “Still afraid of the dark?” he asked. It was his brother’s voice. Only it wasn’t his brother speaking the words. How could he? He was miles away at his football game! “Come with me to the woods and you will never be afraid. All you have to do is ask. Imagine! A life full of power! The power to instill fear in those who scare you! The power to overrule the ones with the jeering dark faces! All you have to do is…write! Spread the word, the stories of the darkness you see! The darkness their minds seek. Come with me and you will be the fearless and the great!”
The writer wondered, could this be real or maybe his forlorn mind conjuring up another spell to cast him off his fears? But the more he thought more he got convinced of the deal. It was almost as if the voice could read his mind! It could tell what he was seeking. The power to make others feel the fear he would feel. The power to spread stories of horror and mystery.

He heaved a long sigh and asked, “What do I have to do?” “Nothing!”, The voice said. “Just write what you see.”
That night, tucked away in his tiny room, he waited in the darkness for his brother’s voice.  The room came alive in the night, emptiness turning it red. With a bated sigh, he picked up his pen and without a thought began his journey.


My Morning Star

 I wished for you
in a morning star
beneath the ocean floor
like a distant dream
You looked back a while
and lost me in a haze
and we moved on
leaving behind teary eyed screams
We walked the maze
leaving footprints on the sand
You remained my morning star
my wish my distant dream
when the waves of sorrow
engulfed my wounded soul
I drowned in the ocean floor
yet you heard my muffled screams
Now out in the early sun
you hold my hand
and walk me out on the beach
my faded faith’s new found gleam
The storm’s run out
seas of faith on our side
we now look back
and our fear is now the distant dream