Let me tell you what depression feels like
It's a black hole sucking your happiness dry
It is darkness where there shoud be light
It is the feeling of dread and wanting to die

Sadness for not knowing how to live
or how to behave
and who to believe
it's feeling unloved and unwanted whatever they say
it is madness surrounded by pain

It's staring at the void
and let it in your brain
Swirl in a storm of self hatred and shame
believe you are nothing
and nothing is gained

It's disappearing into yourself
and falling deep into the abyss

it's a broken record of 'you are dead anyway
so why stay?'

depression is hell in my brain.


And with maturity comes a sense of unknowing what was known. A loss of sweetness and gain of sadness. A darkness that grows at each passing day, crawling under every crack made. You hope for joy, you get undone. You long for freedom where there is none. You crave for love that isn’t there, you feel the void of emptiness. You bare your soul for hopeless tenderness. You bare you body for desire and compassion. What is there but disappointment and despair.

What do you live for if not for death. 


​I’m nothing

I’ll never be anything but this pathetic mess of a human being, too needy, too sensitive, too fucked up. Honestly, I want to die. I think of it constantly. The funny thing about it is that even when thoughts of suicide go through my head, I can still smile at people, pretend, strike up a somewhat decent conversation. 

But I want to die. And then again, I don’t. 

I’m not well. I’m not sure if I ever was. I can’t remember. But I can remember bits and pieces of fun and laughter and happiness. I remember kindess.

But dear god, I feel so empty and alone. Self-destructive. Unwanted. Unloved. An utter failure. I have achieved nothing in my life. Nothing worth remembering. Never touched anyone’s lives. Made no difference at all. 

I’m not well. 

I need help. 

Reach out. 

Hold me. 

Tell me something nice.

No need for love, just understanding will suffice. 

Smile at me. 

Tell me I make a difference somehow, if just a little. That I’m not just a waste of space. 

Help. Help. I’m drowning. 

What am I good for

What am I good at

What is my place in the world

Why am I still here

And why do I still care. 

Please, lie

There is a river of tears around my self

Never ending darkness in a deep scary well

I breathe but am I alive

And how am I still here if I’m anything but fine

I have so many scars drew upon my soul

So many silent battles hardly ever won

So many dreams undone

I do not want to leave, though

No, not just yet

And yet… And yet it is hard

To take that leap of faith

To live another day

To stay…

It is hard if all you want to do is cry and hide

I’m not sure how much longer I can endure

So please hold me

Say I’m special

Say I’ needed, loved, wanted

Stop making me cry

Just for a second, lie

Then I’ll stay for just a little while.

Let’s suppose

Let’s suppose I am fire and you are Earth

I am water following you as you go

I am dirt wherever my mind wanders

Chemistry when I think I am element

Physics when it all blows

I am everything and nothing

But let’s suppose I am everything

As I barge into your heart

And fill the cracks within

Let’s suppose I am nothing

As you walk by you go through me

I am a ghost

An annoyance

Hope and wonder

Everything and nothing

Everywhere and nowhere

I am History playing with time

And time playing with hearts

I am Literature, I am wine

Drink me, pour me as you see fit

I am blood

I am bleeding

Let’s suppose I am what I should have been

But nothing is what it means

My heart is just clay, shaped by love and hurt

I am sick

But let’s suppose just for a moment

That all is what it should be

And all is me


The seven chapels sanctuary

Thank the heavens for blessed places where you can go to recharge your strength and inner peace. The Seven Chapels Sanctuary is one of those places for me. It is located in Ribeirão Preto, Brazil, at Morro de São Bento. The chapels are disposed in a semi-circle surrounded by rocks, and each bares the name of a saint. The first was built in 1948 and the last in 1955. They were envisioned by monks and built by locals. It is a great place to go even if you’re not Catholic if only for the pleasant atmosphere.

I always take pictures when I go there, so here are a few. The app used was photolab.

Dame Agatha Christie

Agatha Christie, surrounded by some of her 80-plus crime novels.

My memory is quite unfortunate in the sense that it always plays tricks on me. The bad stuff is often imprinted hurtfully everywhere in my brain, making me constantly remember those awful memories I would give anything to erase. The good things, on the other hand, are fuzzy, almost ethereal-like creatures that greet me every now and then from a distance while the traumas laugh around.

That is why I am not sure the exact day I became obsessed with Agatha Christie’s books. I vaguely remember I was about 11 or 12 at the time. I have always been a bookworm from an early age, but till that point I had only read ‘light’ stuff, if you can call The Three Musketeers and Robin Hood light reading, preferring books full of adventure and romance rather than murder and mystery. So, it was a delight to find what I now call fondly as ‘an Agatha’. In fact, I was fascinated from the get-go.

I’m also not sure which book was my first (this sentence sounds kind of dirty in my head). Perhaps it was a slightly tattered copy of The Seven Dials Mystery I found in my parents’ bookcase. Don’t know why but this book stayed in my head for a very long time as one of her best, though after a while I changed my mind upon reading it a second time. Still, at the time I was 12 and highly impressionable. It is a book full of adventure and romance (?), but the mystery and murder, those two made all the difference. I was at awe from beginning to end, and even more at the end. All the twists and turns, the good who turned bad and the bad who turned good… Agatha was not just queen of mystery, she was queen of plot twists. And what wonderful plot twists I have read over the years thanks to her. And Then There Were None, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Murder on the Orient Express, Death in the Nile… There are so many of them! And imagine how happy I was to find out that she had written at least about 80 books. I was in book heaven. Now that I am 36 years old, I can proudly say I have read not all but most of her work. I am glad I haven’t read all of them. It means I still have some Agatha to find out there, with new ways to surprise me.

I just finished reading her autobiography, something I had wanted to do for quite a long time. Until now all I knew was Agatha, the author. I was most curious about the person behind the author. I guess it is always the case once you admire someone’s work so passionately. All I knew was that odd story about her disappearance after she got divorced. Apart from that, nothing at all. So, there I went ready to discover Agatha, the woman. Happily, I was not disappointed.

Agatha is just as good at telling her own life story as she is at writing her mystery novels. She takes you for a ride down her memory lane in her own terms, choosing what memories and aspects of her life she wished to share with her readers. It made her a lot more human. Agatha had a fantastic, if a bit lonely, childhood. Her family’s portrait is poignant and their flaws endearing rather than annoying and traumatizing. Even when she speaks about her brother, a rather difficult person, she is realistic but not judgmental. Her own flaws are exposed, only making you want to have met her more.


As for that disappearance after her painful divorce to a man she loved dearly, it was left out rather elegantly. I believe Unfinished Portrait, under the penname Mary Westmacott, was probably her answer to that ordeal.

The only painful moments shared with us are from missing loved ones, and even then, those are presented as facts of life rather than with dramatic literary undertones. Life and death are treated equally, as just parts of the ride. Such is her take on both wars as well, though at some points she gets very emotional, as is expected in such situations. Still, despite the downs she was always game for new adventures, to try on new things, to even start writing as a dare with her sister, or taking risks because that is how life is supposed to be lived.

Her work and life are an inspiration, now more so than before. I aspire to be like Agatha Christie someday, both as a writer and as a person. I hope that by the end of my life I can look back like her and be thankful for everything.