The Unabridged Journals of Karissa Gupta

  “ We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering- these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love- these are what we stay alive for.”  - The Dead Poets Society, 1989  If the phrase ‘art for art’s entire essence had to be succinctly encapsulated, this quote above would be the only way to do so. Literature, music, paintings, fashion and films are all forms of art. And the intricate strands of threads that weave together seamlessly to create the beauty of the art forms we marvel at- lyrics, words, streaks of paint and clips that freeze moments in time- have a simple yet confounding purpose. And what is that? It is to allow us human beings to pour our quintessential fibres out, transforming  our essence, our cores from amalgamations of the cells that make us up, into tangible ...

  I must admit, I was fleetingly tempted to conceal the truth with layers of pretentious fabrications. However, it is not only against the inherent trademarks of a writer, but also physically impossible for me to illustrate a setting that is even remotely disparate with reality for secretly, my soul flutters with glee at the absurdity that peppers my life. After all, what is a writer if not mad? As Bukowski said, “ I'm not like an ordinary world. I have my madness, I live in another dimension and I do not have time for things that have no soul .”  And what is my madness? My madness is limitless, seamlessly enrapturing my senses wholly. Yet, it is ironically perfectly encapsulated within this quote.  “Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw,' that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside of literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.” As I frantically p...

 At initial musings, ‘comfort’ appears to be a momentary emotion that envelops us shortly, briefly numbing our pain and suffering. It is often perceived as a goal, one that needs to be attained through disciplined practices aimed at soothing the body and soul. However, I’ve now come to realise that comfort is so much more than just an intangible yearning. It can be manifested into a concrete place, person or even an experience. A mere thought which instantly incinerates all worries with its fiery warmth, fueled from nostalgic reminisce. Comfort is drinking my hundredth cup of black coffee from the same ceramic mug every day, making the same satisfied “ahhh” sound  as the piping hot fluids race to my brain, instantaneously easing it with ripples of peace Comfort is wearing a purple beaded bracket on my wrist and thinking of Ananya, for she too wears its replica on hers. Comfort is nestling underneath layers of soft blankets, laying submerged as waves of calm crash over my subco...