//a list of things I’m learning every day// 

reminders to self//


             (i)   when nine year old me wrote a letter to twenty one year old me 
saying she wanted to save the world, she meant it//

             (ii) there is no space big enough to describe how I feel about anything// 
I feel too much about everything, 

which is to say I've learnt that 
my vulnerability is a prelude to my compassion 
and not a consequence of it//

         (iii) I need to stop being scared of saying what I feel and feeling all that I say// 
An "I love you" is rarely succeeded by a question mark,

which is to say that 
I’m twenty one and I'm still trying to get to know me//


                   (iv)  this is not who I wanted to be when I was nine 
but sixteen year old me would be happy I made it through 

and that I'm here now//
     (v)  I've dreamt a lot, which is to say that thirty year old me 
should positively be intimidated by who I'd be by then// 

I only wish I can remember to water the plants 
and take care of myself//

       (vi)  I'm afraid I'll lose myself trying to be who I want to be//

                     (vii) At fourteen, I discovered a whole new world 
where I was loved for all the things 

I'm still learning to love about myself//

(viii) there is no shame in crying because 
it's too loud or too quiet or not loud enough 

or not quiet enough or not enough//
you are enough//


(ix)  In a letter I never wrote to myself, 
I mourn who I used to be 

and say that I'm sorry a hundred and eight times, 
and call it enough times to grieve a feeling I will never feel again//
I'm still sorry//


       (x)  Eleven year old me wrote her first poem as an escape. 
I'm still looking for an exit,

every single door feels locked now//

 (xi)  I was never taught how to stay// 
"Get ready to leave," feels like a prayer that could have saved me 

if only I had learnt it well enough,
"walk away, there is nothing left for you here, 
and be okay with that"//


   (xii) there are some things that I wish would never change, 
but I know that isn't possible//


(xiii)  I'm here and I'm watching the twenty second sunset of today, 
hoping to learn what I mean when I say, "I’m here now,"

hoping to learn how to stay//

emmess

17/05/2020












Hi,

My name is Muskan and I’m a twenty one year old something. I’m still figuring out if I’m okay with calling myself an artist or a poet. I have been writing since I was twelve years old and poetry’s given me almost everything I have today and I couldn’t be more thankful for all the people and places that led me to it. I started this blog in January 2015, more than five and a half years ago, and it would be unfair to not acknowledge how much I have neglected it in the past year.

This place has given me so much and I know it will always be the reason why I am who I am today and I will always be grateful for it. I know I haven’t been posting regularly, or at all, and I’d really like to change that. I hope you can hold me up to it. I have been posting a lot more on my art page on Instagram (@emmess_art), simply because it’s more convenient, but this place is home and I’m not ready to leave yet. I hope I can keep up my promise and keep coming back here.

To all of you, thank you for sticking around. It really does mean a lot to me and I’d love to hear from you! If you’re still reading, send me an email at sethimuskan@gmail.com and I’d love to write back to you. I hope you’re doing okay and I hope you stay.

Love,
emmess
24/05/2020





06/01/2020

Dear you

It’s 2020 now and so much has changed since I first started writing this blog in 2014, as a 14 year old really nervous and really excited teenager sitting on my dining table wondering what I wanted my first blog post to be about. It’s been six years now and I still don’t know how to write or what to write about today. I have so much to say though. These past six years have been so long and so short at the same time, it’s almost as if if I were to take a step back, I’d be right where it all started, sitting on my rooftop with a pencil in one hand and a yearly planner in the other, that I called my “fancy diary,” trying to write how the sky and the sunflowers made me feel. Today, I have more than 34 actually fancy diaries, yet I’m still typing all this out on my laptop, wondering how the sky and the sunflowers don’t make me feel as they used to anymore.

I wish I could describe these past six years in passport metaphors and height marks on bedroom walls but they’ve been so much more than just that. I’ve grown a lot. I’ve learnt how to spell professor and Kerala, I’ve learnt how to drive without having someone lecture me on speed breakers every two seconds, I’ve fallen in love and fallen out of love, I’ve found an adequate hairstyle that I don’t feel like fixing every two minutes, and I’ve learnt how to dance, without having to think what my 7th grade dance teacher would have to say about it. I can cook myself breakfast without burning my finger on the stove every thirty seconds, I’m singing again and relearning why I started singing in the first place, and I’m laughing a lot more, a lot louder and without thinking as much about it. I write a lot lesser now but I’ve been writing a lot more for myself. I’ve turned experience into poetry and poetry into an experience. I wish I could write about how I’m feeling at this very moment. It’s ironic how I call myself a poet yet I run out of words exactly when I need them the most.



The past two years have also been the most challenging of my life. I’ve experienced moments where I’ve forgotten what taste felt like, I tried learning how to mourn and I mourned so much I forgot living for a while, and I’ve had to write an obituary, my hands trembled so much more with each letter I wrote yet I’ve had to stand in front of the world and read it out, word by word, holding tears back with every syllable. I’ve experienced moments when I’ve wanted to unlearn poetry, forgetting why I ever wanted to learn it in the first place but I’ve made it through them and I’m here now. I’m here now, but I keep having to remind myself what here means.

I’m proud of myself. It’s taken me a long time to understand what that means and I still have a long way to go, but I hope I have my poetry with me, at every step, because it’s a long journey and it sure as hell gets lonely a lot.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this honest in any of my blog posts yet but I’ve been learning how to be more honest with my poetry, and with myself, and I really hope that this honesty stays.

Today, my blog completes six years, and I feel like I’ve completed my own little journey with it. Thank you, to all those of you who have read and supported and loved my poems, over the years. 

Thank you for staying and making sure that my words feel complete in this world. It does mean the world to me.

So thank you.  
I hope to write more and I hope to write soon.

Love,
Emm Ess
06/01/2020

I don’t know a lot of things
but I know this
and I want you to know this,
that on days the Sun refuses
to not shine,
I will throw out all the lights,
buy a hundred curtains,
and break all the clocks,
just so that
all the time in the world stops
and only your heartbeat takes away
from the silence.





you can stay there
for as long as you want,
and as long as you need,
and I will make sure
that there’s never any sunshine
and no tick tock either.
there’s only you,
in the moment,
and for a moment there,
the world will stop,
just for you.

28/11/18
//too much sunshine.

emmess



I’m always locked in a room, large enough for only myself and I'm always running and sometimes I wish I wasn’t running as fast or as much. Sometimes I wish I could look at myself in the mirror and see who I really am, not just the crossroads of a road that I’m standing in the centre of. There are no red lights here, only go’s. It’s the kind of chaos that refuses to listen to me and I keep saying the same words over and over and over again, hoping it’d hear the urgency of a heartbeat in my syllables. But all I get are jammed breaks and a broken clutch, in a car speeding off a bridge. The bridge I refused to scribble my name on, as a kid because I didn’t have enough crayons to engulf its darkness in its entirety. I refuse to listen to the universe call out my name in the middle of the night. I’m not walking back home, tiptoeing on ash and glass. today, I’ll stay a bit and remind myself why I ever wanted to.



//jammed breaks and a broken clutch

emmess
12/11/18




//old crayons 

thirty three sketchbooks, 
a class of thirty four, 
forty nine different art-kits, 
a pack of crayons, 
seven shades on the same page, 
conversation, 
laughter, 
words, 
more words, 
silence, 
more silence, 
the other side of laughter, 
thirty eight sketches, 
silence, 
words, 
more words, 
laughter, 
one shivering hand, 
trembling fingers, 
spilled paints, 
smudged sketches, 
words, 
more words, 
less laughter, 
more silence, 



a circle around a square, 
a scale, 
mismatched edges, 
a lot more laughter, 
silence, 
a lot more silence, 
scrapped edges, 
torn sheets, 
papers, 
paper planes, 
empty sketchbooks, 
lost art-kits, 
spilled paints,
broken crayons,
empty rooms, 
bruised fingers, 
unheard stories, 
lost silhouettes, 
silence,  
more silence. 


_a circle around a square
//emmess
24/10/18


(i) How do you rationalise loss?
Is it okay if i mourn a month when I do not know how to mourn a person?

(ii) Emptiness isn’t the lack or absence of something.
It’s a heart that does not know how to beat like it used to before.

(iii) How can you ever know if your heart is relearning how to beat?

(iv) What is the other side of a forever called?
(v) How can 17 days ever be enough to mourn someone?

(vi) I wish I’d recorded more of your laughter.
(vii) Is the 18th day supposed to make it all go away?

(viii) How can time ever decide when you stop mourning?
(ix) How do you mourn without letting it take away all of you?



//mourning october
22/10/18
emmess.