The Unabridged Journals of Karissa Gupta

  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...

Crimson sparks shooting through my bursting veins, flames mercilessly erupting from every fibre of my being, churning my mind into an endless abyss, anger and resentment being my sole companions. Whenever I let my emotions overpower me, whenever I succumb to the mighty forces of my crippling ego, whenever I fall to my knees before the haunting shadows within, the same words always cascade upon me like relentless rocks. The same five words are hurled at me, tackling the exploding animosity with a splash of cooling serenity, stabilising the broken pieces of my mind’s constitutional parts. My mother, the greatest symbol for tranquillity and peace, always tells me “Hate is a strong word.” Younger me always rolled her eyes when she heard these words for what felt like the millionth time. But now, it dawns upon me that my mother was right (don’t tell her). She always knew, and what I now realise, the complexity and multifaceted nature of the word ‘hate’. Hate is intricate, interwoven with a ...

 Dearest readers,  I’ve delved into countless fictional realms, plots and relationships. Yet, I’ve mostly steered clear from the most important tale of all, the tale of m life and how individual events accumulated together and finally culminated into the creation of this blog. Before i get not my entire life story, let me give you the basics. My name is Karissa, a Greek word which means love and grace. I am currently an 11th grader, studying the IBDP curriculum (lord save me). If i had to describe myself in just a few words I would say, confident, passionate and just the right amount of inane. As this is a blog, my introduction wouldn’t be complete without me talking about my favourite pieces of literature. If you haven’t been able to tell, The Secret History by Donna Tart is a novel that is so close to my heart that I have countless copies of it and i refuse to leave the house without a copy in my bag. “It is better to know one book intimately than a thousand superficially”, ...

Friedrich Nietzsche once wisely said, “ A young man cannot possibly know what Greeks and Romans are. He doesn't know whether he is suited for finding out about them.”    To sum up an intricate journey full of madness, idiosyncrasies and frankly, borderline sociopathic behaviour, let me just say, I have a profound desire to reverse the ticks of the clock which my ears have already heard, and magically engrain these words of Nietzsche into the abyss of my mind, igniting the much needed realisation that an obsession with the classics is akin to selling your soul to the devil. It seizes control over your life, clawing into your brain and, ensnaring your mind, relentlessly forcing it back to the same thing over and over again, no matter how hard you try, only one era runs through your subconscious, while you sleep, while you breathe and even while you lie on the ground perfectly still, intertwining with the soil and reaching another dimension that lies amidst the heavenly tapestri...

  Imagine walking for thousands of kilometres, held at gunpoint, as the scorching heat radiating from the sun melts your face off, morphing you into an amalgamation of sticky beads of salt and grime. Imagine having to brave rugged terrains, mighty waters and vast swamps, whilst your muscles ache as if a thousand arrows are piercing your skin; leaving you feeling lifeless and strung onto a fragile thread liable to snapping at any second. Imagine embarking upon an exhausting journey, with a parched throat and a rumbling stomach, unable to see the destination your journey leads to, only witnessing a brief glimpse of a hazy future, clouded by uncertainty. Imagine being coerced to endure hell, solely to arrive at a place you will never be able to truly call home. Imagine living life restrained, a sense of icy disconnect always enveloping you and your blurred surroundings.  This jarring description may appear a terrifying nightmare for us, but for the indigenous people of the Easter...

  Frenziedly gulping down a burning cup of black coffee, frustratedly staring at the google doc opened on my iPad, the date on the left corner mockingly reflecting 22nd July- the day I was supposed to submit this very piece. As I was desperately racking my brain for an epiphany and praying to Oscar Wilde to magically plant a eureka amidst the myriad of dead thoughts, I hoped to find an intellectual take on the theme assigned to me, ‘forgiveness and revenge’. Yet, despite my best efforts and the lethal doses of caffeine I was ritualistically consuming, I found myself to be betrayed by my own self, it seemed as if invisible ropes had strung around my brain, suffocating it and preventing a single cell from functioning.  Bursting with rage, I clamped my fists together, morphing my rosy palms into slabs of icy white. Yet, by some stroke of luck, amidst chaos enveloping me with its embrace, I found myself to be distortedly singing these lyrics;   “Maybe I shouldn’t try to ...