We are part of a generation that has little to no time to pen down what we feel. Like a cauldron, emotions keep simmering within and never get expressed. Whether it is the death of a loved one, the loss of a lover, that one goodbye that you still regret, the fear of growing up, or the questions about love; simple, we keep these 'mundane' things to ourselves, but they change us for the rest of our lives. We let these emotions brew within us and think they will go away eventually.

But ever since Berlin ArtParasites came into our lives, it has become a reflection of our thoughts, opening the tiny little boxes tucked away in some corner. With colours and words, they bring to life all that has been locked up within.

Starting off in 2011, Berlin ArtParasites set out on a mission to bring together emotion, art and writing. With a strong foundation of around 3 million likes on Facebook, the page is everyone's go-to forum these days.

It is tough to pick the best posts, but we tried. Here are 10 handpicked posts that we're sure you'll like.

1. A poem for all those who have a hard time saying goodbye

I have gotten used to saying goodbye
But to travel light
Can be heavier than it seems
You always sell your stuff
Free your stuff
Give away that pair of shoes
Pass over this set of plates
And voila,
Your life fits again in only three boxes.
I have gotten used to saying farewell
I will see you again
Someday
Kiss all the bridges and gates for me
Forget me not;
Gotten used to keeping my mind alert
My baggage easy
And my memories inside my iPhone
To telling myself
The eye has to travel
So that my stories can unravel
But sometimes distance kills the best of intentions
Sometimes the home you find
Is different than the home you dreamt of
I like airports when it’s sunny
They remind me of summer
Serendipity
A life looked from afar
The promise that the Earth is round
And the hope that distance
Is only jet lag
Before coming back.

2. What the burden of adulthood actually feels like

When do you become an adult? At 16, 18, or 21? Is it when you get your first job, when you get married, or when you have a child? I had never experienced a defining moment when I felt like I changed from a child or teenager into an adult. I am 25 years old. It always felt strange to think of myself as a grown up adult, despite having taken important decisions, fulfilling certain responsibilities, and doing other myriad tasks generally associated with growing up.
A few months ago I was thrust into a situation that, for the first time, made me realise my adulthood. And the burden that came with it. The situation: My grandfather passed away. The burden: The fear of losing the people you love.
I believe that this is the burden of adulthood. The fear of losing the people you love, those who you are close to, who are essential in your life, who make you the person you are, and who you think you cannot continue to live without.
Everyone feels various degrees of this fear in their lifetime. But I think when this fear becomes a sudden, unexpected reality, is when you take your first step into adulthood. This could happen at any stage in your life; you could be 5 or 25 the first time you experience this reality. Maybe if you are 5 you cannot process what has happened immediately. The loss of a loved one at a stage when you are mature enough to understand what has happened, then you can truly feel the consequences of that occurrence.
You will be able to feel the pain associated with the passing of that person, and you will realise that it does not end there. There are after-effects, like the little aftershocks of a big earthquake. Every little aftershock reminds you of the traumatic earthquake experience. You will remember the time that has passed, miss the time that could have been, all the things that were said and done, the things that were left unsaid, and those that should have been done. You will cry, or be rendered mute. You may not be able to sleep or may end up whiling away the days sleeping trance-like. You will react to this information in x different ways over y time period. And then you may experience a crushing fear. The little degrees of fear that you were feeling all your life have suddenly come true all at once and you realise that this could happen to anyone you love, at any time.
And that is when you truly feel the burden of adulthood. You realise that this is a part of growing up. As you grow older, the people in your life grow older too. You realise that they are not invincible. And that someday you will have to bid farewell to them all.
Maybe this realisation changes you in some way. Maybe it makes you do some things differently. Maybe it doesn’t. But there is one thing that it definitely does.
It
makes you an adult.

3. When a writer falls in love

Honey you made a mistake,
You fell in love with a writer.
And now be prepared to live forever in the web of her words.
Ah, you see what I did there?
“Web of her words”
A metaphor.
You should get used to these by now – metaphors, similes, allusions, comparisons, and oh so many hyperboles!
Remember a writer’s words are her babies, and her memories are her assets, so be prepared, she will use it to her fullest.
Know that when a writer loves you back, she won’t only love you.
She will love your soul, and be sure to taste it, bit by bit.
So
don’t hesitate opening up to her.
Don’t be shy to tell her how you feel, she’ll love it when you share things with her.
Describe every detail to her, tell her how you felt at every point as you narrate your story, and I promise you she will listen to every word you say.
Not that she already doesn’t know.
Writers know too much!
That’s the problem, they’ll know when yore lying, when broken, when you’re hiding something, they’ll know the secrets that your veins carry, even the secrets your archived conversations carry, they know everything!
Sneaky Sherlocks –
Again…you see what I did there?
Alliteration, pft!
Anyway…
That’s the thing about writers, they love to empathise.
They want to feel what you feel, and place themselves in your shoes.
Yes, there will of course be few interruptions as you speak but that’s probably ’cause your weak grammar makes her cringe.
I mean who wouldn’t know the difference between “you’re” and “your” or “their” and “there” right?
She’ll giggle after she corrects you, ’cause she loves teasing you.
She does it quite often doesn’t she?
And as time passes you’ll think before you speak, you’ll choose your words correctly, and remember what she said and smile.
You obviously don’t want to deal with a grammar Nazi again now, do you?
But what you’ll have to deal with is a lot of drama.
I’m not going to lie to you, writers are overly dramatic drama queens at times, living in their own fantasies, and that’s alright. Isn’t it?
It should be.
You need to handle them with care! That’s hard, I know, so hard it might suffocate you at times, but you’ll make it through.
You need to know how to express yourself in order to love her.
You need to know that whenever she’s falling apart, or bursting with joy, or raging with anger, she will write.
She will not feel complete until she doesn’t put it down to words.
Words are what she feeds on, stories are what make her…reality is merely a nightmare!
Yes I know, this doesn’t sound sane, but you love a writer, don’t expect this to be sane.
You’ll be driven to a point of insanity too.
Which brings me to my next point…
Expectations.
She will expect a lot from you!
It’s going to be insane, I promise you.
Writers usually tend to conjure up life long stories in their tiny little minds, and are more in love with their stories and their own happy endings.
They’re never quite satisfied.
And I won’t blame you, no, not at all.
Sometimes you will fail to understand why she’s having such unrealistic expectations, and that’s okay, writers usually don’t understand themselves or their thoughts either.
It’s just that she pictures things that she hopes would take place, and most of the times they’re not that fancy either.
They’re simple things, like travelling the world together, having and apartment together, or going for long walks on the beach to watch the sun set and the horizon blend from pink to blue.
That’s all she wants.
Is
that really too much?
However, you should also know that writers can switch from being hopelessly romantic to being misanthropic.
There are times when all she’ll want to do is curl up in her hammock with a good book and a cup of coffee.
Those are the days she’ll want to be away from everyone and everything and live in her own fantasy.
Let her.
Give her her space, she’s a writer, she needs it.
For days you’ll have to hear about people and places you’ve never even known of, it’ll take her time, don’t worry.
At
first it may even take her time to get used to you, and trust you, but that’s all part and parcel of who she is.
You will be fortunate enough if she actually falls for you.
It
won’t take her much time to fall for you though.
She’ll fall in love with the tiniest, most simplest things.
Like the way your eyes light up when you talk about some thing you love, or the way you sing to her in your croaky voice. Sometimes she’ll find beauty in the most ugliest moments too.
With her words she will paint you, your freckles, your flaws, and every scar that tattoos your body, and she will love you with all her heart.
She will love you for the way you laugh mid kiss,
And admire you when you praise your mother, and be a strong man like your father.
She will love your habits, and make them hers.
Her lungs will be filled with the smoke that burns yours,
Her coffee will be dark and bitter just likes yours,
And when she sleeps, she’ll sleep for longer hours, with her sheets covering her face, just like you do.
From your likes to your dislikes, your family and your friends, every detail will she imbed in her mind.
Do
not be afraid, she isn’t a stalker, she’s just a writer, she likes to explore and find out more.
Exploring is essential for a writer, in every sense.
When she falls in love with you she will explore you at first,
then your body, your skin, then your taste..and she’ll write about it.
Yes be prepared to hear details…intimate details.
Don’t be embarrassed, it’s just the way she is.
You’ve already guessed by now, you’ll be one of her characters too.
You may not recognise yourself, but you’ll be there in her stories.
At
times she’ll might even invent a whole new you, because of course replicating you wasn’t enough.
She will picture the things you could’ve done, and the words you could’ve said.
Very often she’ll get frustrated too, but that’s because she expects to be loved the way she loves, but don’t get me wrong.
She’ll always love you for the person you are!
Even when times are rough, she’ll stand by your side.
When you choose to ignore her, she’ll choose to write about you.
She’ll bleed ink, but she’ll never show you her work if you ask.
Why?
Because they’re a piece of her – like she’s poured out her soul and all her emotions into words. It’s very difficult to express yourself and find the right words.
Emotions and words go together for a writer. So remember to use your words correctly, say what you mean and mean what you say.
For the words you say will be her gospel, and if you walk away from what you’ve said she will remember them and it will break her, and she will keep pondering on the words you’ve said.
She’ll go crazy, wondering why you said it, and if you really meant it. She cram her feelings onto endless blank pages and there’ll be tears and anger.
Honestly if you’re not willing to deal with all of that, don’t fall in love with a writer.
And if you’ve already fallen in love with her and are thinking of breaking her heart, oh gosh…you’re in for a lot!
You will be immortal now, trust me.
When you leave a writer, be prepared to hear a lot about yourself, because she will cry, and break down just like every other girl does, but she will also write.
There will be smudged mascara and ink, crumpled tissues and paper but that’s her way of letting go.
She will write about you, and about how you were her beautiful mistake.
She will relive every moment to remind herself of you in every possible way – the first meeting, the first date, the first kiss, the first fight.
Then, the last meeting, the last date, the last kiss, the last fight, and finally the heartbreak.
As
much as it will break her, to write about it all, it will also mend her.
She is a warrior, her words are her shield.
Don’t be fooled, she’s not afraid of love or you, she’s afraid of running out of words, and thankfully you’ve given her enough to write about.
Someday, hopefully, you’ll come across her work, and you’ll see yourself in it- maybe not entirely, but you’ll be there,hiding in bits and pieces.
And you will realise how much she loved you.
It’ll take you back to those days when laying in each other’s arms under starry nights skies was all that mattered to her, when your lips intertwining hers was what she believed to have been the best possible thing that happened to her, when she would hold you so tight just for your scent to linger on her and explore the lengths of her skin.
And a part of you will break, because you’ll see it’s too late and all you’ll be in that moment is words on a paper.
Again, you made a mistake. You fell in love with a writer.
You fell in love with me.

4. You ask me about these reckless teenagers

Let me tell you what you don’t know about them.
They are broken. Broken and used over and over again.
Still they are young at hearts and ready to risk everything that’s left of them.
They are immature yet their stories will make you feel like some seventy year old
for they have more to tell than you. They might not have seen this world
but they have felt it with all their hearts
and they have tasted young love on the tips of their tongues in those dark rooms with the scent of whiskey.
“Irrational.” you say? Love does not need any eyes to see.
You ask me about these reckless teenagers?
Let me tell you that they have nothing ahead of them
yet they have their whole lives planned out joining the stars at night
stupid it may seem but your reality is a non-existent dot in front of their dreams
and they look useless wasting their times but listen to them once. I dare you. Listen to them and you’ll realize
what a different universe lies inside them.
Their words will take you places and you’ll lose yourself to their tales.
Tales that are from all over the world, about every different tribe, with a new character every time.
You ask me about these reckless teenagers?
Let me tell you that they won’t give up. They won’t sit back
they are like a huge clan and they are ready to live. Live not just survive.
They are the bad fish that ruins the whole pond yet still are sold in the highest price.
They will not leave any empty gaps rather they will leave a whole legacy behind.
And their death won’t be saddening for anyone. Not you. Not me. Not themselves even.
Their death will be like a celebration. Like fireworks in the night sky.
Yes, that’s right. Their deaths will be the marking of another great life.
You ask me about these reckless teenagers?
Let me tell you what you don’t know about them.
Look at their smiles and then peak inside.
Sir, I bet you, you’ll feel like a little child.

5. Do they still fall in love?

do they still fall in love?
or has that gone out of fashion?
like the 60’s style
and radio
and conversations
that meant something,
before social media killed us.
i guess,
loving has become
too cheap today.
and the reasons,
even cheaper.
people have different loves
one for facebook,
the other for instagram,
and even some
for social spaces
yet to be formed.
you can never fall too far away
from where the world is,
can you?
it is sad that
in this age where
everything is paced
at a hundred-miles-an-hour,
we are forgetting how
to steal kisses
and entangle fingers
while letting
the brush of skins
spark a fire
burning prejudices
to ashes,
like the olden days.
and frankly,
nothing can be sadder
than not knowing
what it is
to fall,
madly.
do they still fall in love?
or like us,
has that gone out of fashion?

6. I’m a hoarder and I'm not ashamed of it

I am unofficially the world’s biggest Hoarder of Useless Things.
And the only reason why this hasn’t gone official yet is because I didn’t get to create the committee of Hoarders of Useless Things, where I shall preside in glory until I die surrounded by all the trash I gathered.
I am currently hoarding satin bows, cat collars, smushed wrapping paper, empty plastic cases of bubblegum, thread, broken jewelry, coins, used batteries, envelopes, bottle lids, Christmas cards, meds, carton boxes, colorful rocks, hundreds of cut-ups from glossy magazines, socks, old nail polish, sticky notes, crayons, useless cables, huge shopping bags, and M&Ms I spilled in a drawer and they make this cute little sound rolling around when I open and close it.
As
you can see, I’m no Monica Geller. I’m a mess-hoarder. Open one random drawer and you can find all of the above and then some. I, myself, have lost track of all the things I’m hoarding. Which gives me the wonderful opportunity of stumbling upon some tiny treasure I’d completely forgotten about.
The people I’ve lived with, however, have NOT appreciated these little discoveries. My former flat mate, God bless her, kept stumbling upon these wonders long after I moved out. A box full of Happy Meal toys. An IKEA wooden bed in its original box. Poker cards. A bag of old, moldy figs. A magazine filled with photos of naked women I honestly don’t even remember about. This last one kind of creeped her out.
I’m sure I had a good reason even for hoarding naked ladies. I just don’t remember it. And it doesn’t even matter anymore. What matters is the thought that goes through my head every time I open a drawer and shove something “worth hoarding” inside.
It goes like this:
“When I grow up, I’m going to write beautiful hand-written notes to everyone I love and I will tie every envelope with a beautiful satin bow”
Reality has it that my writing looks like it’s done with my feet. While I’m sleeping. Trembling like a dog dreaming about burying bones. Also, I have never EVER been able to tie a bow in my life. Especially satin bows, those slippery little bastards.
But the image of me sitting at my neat and tidy desk, dressed in a beautiful white kimono with red and pink flowers, writing calligraphic letters to my loved ones, while my bare feet feel the rough texture of the wooden floor… now that’s the kind of daydream that makes me blush with joy.
Of course, my desk is anything but neat and tidy, I have never owned a kimono in my life, and I wear wooly socks even in August. I know this is just another-life-I’ll-never-live, in the form of a mental postcard.
But when I open the drawer and I see the envelopes and the lovely satin bows sitting there, patiently waiting for me to turn into that perfect postcard, the image becomes more vivid. Closer. Tangible. Like I might actually belong there. Like I might actually be that person-that-I’ll-never-be and live that life-that-I’ll-never-live.
Because otherwise, as Jonathan Safran Foer said, “sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.” I hoarded all these lives in my head just like I’ve hoarded Useless Things in my drawers. It’s just as messy up there.
The Bohemian-Artist-That-Paints-Walls meets the Goth-Chick-That-Makes-Her-Own-Jewelry. Then the Interior-Decorator-That-Loves-Pastels competes with the Crazy-Cat-Photographer-That-Collects-Cat-Costumes and when you think it can’t get weirder, the Seriously-Fucked-Up-Kindergarten-Teacher wants to put up a gore puppet show using old socks.
It gets pretty crowded in there sometimes, so I feel the need to clean up the place. The only way to evacuate all these funky characters
From time to time, I clean up and I mercilessly throw out everything I piled up around the house. No sadness, or regret, I’m ready to give up on every single persona that I failed to adopt.
But that’s only because I know I now have SO MUCH ROOM for a brand new collection. That is so exciting! Think of all the people you could be, even though you’re never going to.

7. A letter to the guy with whom I lost my innocence

Love,

I do not know what exactly is happening to me but I had constant sleepless nights after the day we slept together for the first time. I can’t sustain this strange feeling as what happened to us kept on running in my mind. Why am I feeling so weak? I know we’ve gone a bit far. I was never one of those I’m-going-to-wait-until-we-get-married type so don’t you worry, I didn’t have any doubt doing it with you. We’re now on our 333rd count of our unlabeled relationship and I thought I’ve already reached the deepest feelings I could have for you but love, it feels different now.
I never understood that we were actually just fascinated with each other all this time. I do not mean it in a foolish way but I can say that you mean the world to me simply because I loved you to the deepest deep. Little did I know, there’s this way that would pull myself even deeper to you.
I thought the most magical seconds I had was kissing your lips the first time. I was wrong; it’s when you tell me how you’d want to fondle my skin as well as its imperfection.
I thought telling all the best about me was the perfect way to make you fall harder. I was wrong; it’s when you have witnessed my darkest fears.
I thought it would mean so much grasping for your presence every now and then. I was wrong; it’s when you’re not here but the memory of your touch could still be felt.

Love,

Forgive me that I have given everything to you. I was so sure keeping it safe from who have came before but now, I’d like you to have it all.
If ever you’d bother thinking how much you’ll have to take care of it, stop. I don’t want to see you like that — do whatever you want to. It may appear blurry for now but I assure you, it’ll get clear when us are no longer us.
For if our memory has to die, it would also witheringly die with me… and only me.

8. The mysterious boy with a cigarette

The sky painted itself like the strokes Van Gogh at its finest, an ombre of oranges and purples, it couldn’t have been anymore magnificent.
He tucked his tussled rough curls behind his ear as he drew the Marlboro pack out of his ripped smeared denims, his hands working them out as if it were an art that required greatest of his attention. He arched his eyebrows stretching his right eye while crinkling his forehead, once again his hair fell out of place, delicately falling over his eyes. Eyes that spoke the language of intensity, narrowed and sharp, darkest of the browns and the most royal gaze.
Drawing a cigarette from the pack, he carefully placed it in between his fingers, sucking in the raw nicotine, as the lighter flared up, burning the cigarettes half way across its peak. He then, withdrew the cigarette, paused, threw his head back in anticipation and finally let go. His squared jaw awashed in the cloud of smoke, he opened his eyes to reveal a totally different aura than his usual rigid self, an aura of utter and reluctant evil joy.
He was there, standing, distant, in his own little heaven, temporary little heaven, of sedation. Conspicuously spying on this beautiful creature, I stood amongst the crowd, thinking to myself, how can a bad boy like him notice a girl like me, I was in love.
Just as he took another round of his daily nicotine abuse, he paused. His long eyelashes slowly flickered from here and there until his eyes met mine. The intensity burned through them, overwhelming me. My spine was in jitters and my blood begun to fly like butterflies. I immediately looked away, embarrassed at this very encounter of souls. He clearly saw mine. I, however, was unable to decipher his mysteries. The mysteries of his past that chisled him into who he was today, rugged.
I wondered in the depths of my heart, oh dear lord, does this young man posses a heart not as dark as the brown of his eyes but as soft as his smile. Bewilderment overwhelmed me and somehow I longed to capture him somehow, somewhere. A photograph would not have ever been enough to capture the enormity, the serenity of his world. His soul. This is what scared me, how my world was so little compared to his, how my thoughts could never match the pace of his growing imagination, how I was so insufficient to satisfy his desire.
The way he looked into my eyes, I felt a sense of belonging but at the same time I knew how incompatible we were. I guess, I, found him with pure serendipity.
As my thoughts flared, he strutted towards me, the bid of the cigarette still dangling from his lips, clasped between his teeth. I was indeed petrified, the way he seemed to glare right through every corner of my soul, I felt as if I had been stripped of my clothes. This was the damage he could do. This is how he belittled me. Mother always said “Hun, if a boy races your heart instead of giving you warmth, he’s not the one. He’s the wrong one disguised as a hard lesson, always remember that.” I decided to take the hard lesson anyway.

9. 12 Things I learned from women that made me a better man

1: My mother, the first woman in my life, taught me that life couldn’t be taught, that it had to be lived, elegantly and fearlessly. She taught me that infatuations were common, that people are different because that is what makes the world colorful, and that every heartbreak is a reminder that home is somewhere else.
2: My grandmother, the woman who has lived my life like her own since my grandfather passed away, taught me that care can’t be measured by counting the things we’ve done for someone. Instead, it lays in the unspoken little actions that we do and never turn to look back at, because that has become our nature and the people whom we do them for are our very own.
3: My first English teacher in school, the person I’ve feared the most, taught me that discipline is depth and, without it, the ocean has no waves – it has nothing.
4: My little sister was the first person born in my family after me. I remember seeing her for the first time. Her eyes taught me that responsibility chose us and not the other way around, and that, contrary to all that is said, there is love at first sight. And it has the ability to form and reform any human being.
5: The first time I had a crush on a girl was when I was in third grade, and better than any slogan or book or human being, she taught me that to share feelings for another soul never requires one to share their religion. Her faith and mine were named differently – they always meant the same.
6: The first girl I befriended in high school knew all my secrets. She was the window to my soul. And yet, now, almost a decade later, I scarcely remember her second name. She taught me that friends leave and never call back because priorities shift and life fails to wait. She taught me that, like lovers, friends also break up and each is left with a bag full of memories and a heart- full of longing.
7: My next door neighbor was 82 years old when she passed away. I had seldom talked to her except for the societal greetings. And yet, now that she isn’t there anymore and an empty window stares at mine every morning, I miss the assurance, the stability, and the calmness that she used to bring. She taught me that we underestimate the little things too much and that everything around us shapes who we are and how we eventually turn out.
8: My first pen pal was a bubbly character who always danced around with a song in her head. She taught me that friendship was more than physical presence and that distance wasn’t always the worst thing when it came to companionship – sometimes it was the best.
9: The first girl I really came to admire shared a social media workspace with me: an agency we still work at. She taught me, as she says, that life isn’t about the forevers; it is about the scattered pieces of eternity, the ones we can make homes out of and love to bits.
10: My closest girl friend at college is a feisty character that always needs to have her way with everything. She taught me that not every friendship comes with an expiration date, because not everything beautiful needs to end. More than anything, she taught me to fight for the ones I’d come to love because life doesn’t throw the people we leave back to us.
11: The only female coach that I had for football was the hardest working woman I’ve ever seen. She taught me that there is truth and justice in the world while consoling me for a missed tryout. She has gone leaps and bounds and works for the government now. She is the epitome of modesty and humility. She, better than any other soul, taught me that if you try and try and try, and if you are prepared to kill yourself to get what you want the most, then there is no force, living or dead, that can stop you. Everything I know about not giving up I have learnt from her.
12: Lastly, the first person I fell in love with was a pale, skinny, sweet-smiling girl who knew how to orchestrate my heartbeat with her waving fingers. In leaving, she taught me the most important lesson in life. She taught me that love was not for the faint-hearted, that every love was true only if it haunted us for the rest of our lives, and that I had to love my scars because they are what remain of a bygone love.
I’ll never forget the endless lives I lived in her.
Or the endless deaths I died.

10. A letter full of reminders from our inner child

Dear Adults,

I hope all of you are doing great. I didn’t want to bother you with my words. But, trust me, it was urgent and I had no other way to express myself.
I am a child.
Sometimes I am Malala and other times I can be Malia Obama. You may also find me being spoon fed by the servants of the great monarch – who earn more than you do in a desk job. You may also come across a few of us mothering our mothers and earning for our fathers. Some of us can sit for hours in the classroom, while others barely manage to sit attentive on their toilet seats.
I am the child within you. I am the child you once were. I am your past. These words of mine are a letter from your past.
Few days ago, I had no intention of writing these words to you. But, then I realised that balancing the adult that you are, with the child that you were, is equally important. And no one seems to give it much thought.

My dear Adults,

Remember, when I was a little voice inside you. Remember, when you were a child so fragile. Do you remember how humiliated you felt when one of those adults mistreated the maids and servants working for them? Why did you feel humiliated on their degradation? And can you recall your five years old self, trembling whenever someone dropped their groceries and despite all the influence of superhero comics and movies, it was the purity inside, which made you tremble. Do you feel nostalgic about the way you accelerated with joy whenever your best friend won something which you couldn’t. How easier it was to let go all that competition. The glory of your best friend washed away all your failures and gave you an illusion of victory.
And do you remember, how as a child you examined each and every part of the meal that you ate. Those adults wondered what took you so long to eat, but you could never explain your wonder to them. The little bugs did no less wonders than greatest magicians making visual illusions. Those little bugs still exist but you never notice. Can you recall now? Can you recall how it was being a child?
Dear adults, I am just a kid and I am in no position of accusing you. But, I saw what you did today!
Do not ask me how. I might be looking at you from the busy streets of New York or down from the dark, shabby buildings of Karachi. I am inside your hearts. I am the close cousin of your conscience.
I saw what you did today and frankly, I still get chills while you humiliate your employees.
I cry inside the little corner of your insecure heart when you plot against your co-workers.
I scream “Stop!” , every time you carelessly chew and gulp away the considerately cooked food.
I look at the lonely mothers and the unexpressive fathers sitting alone in waiting rooms of the hospitals. Can’t you accompany them in a procedure that might make them anxious?
I look at the dull walls of your workplace and all I instantly want to do is, splash some color, I do not know why, maybe you can interpret that for me, you smart adult!
I am the child inside you! And I am so disappointed that you stopped feeling me as you grew up. I want to remind you of yourself but you are so tall and far away to pay attention to my little voice inside your heart.
I know that adulthood is taking a toll on you. I know that you are hurt. No one can be unhappy on success of a friend unless he or she is torn and hurt.
I know you get tired of trying or else, no one want to waste their energy competing against someone out of spite fullness.
I know you would never hurt your loved ones. You would never have said all these harsh words to your loved ones – if you weren’t on the receiving side of the inconsiderate and competitive world.
I know that sometimes you harm other humans just to prove your love for one person – no matter how incredibly stupid I think it is.
I know how it is, when you desperately need a purpose in your life and you end up destroying someone’s life just to feel important and purposeful.
I know that sometimes you seek malice just to protect the ones you love.
I know how temptation can overpower you and then how you don’t have the guts to honestly accept or confess your temptation. I understand how your lies make your one time temptation in to a long journey of deceit and pain.
Do
you want to stop all this negativity?
Then, please, listen to me. Listen to the child inside.
I am envious of the authority which comes with adulthood and I am so jealous that you have it. But, when I see you doing all these things and not listening to me, I do not feel like saying anything to you.
Would you please pay attention to me – your childhood with all its purity inside you?

Some of the Aunts and Uncles act irresponsibly and spend a life of irrationality, mindless impulsiveness – calling it “being in touch with the child inside”. On behalf of all children, I protest that notion. The child inside is all about purity. The child inside is not a hiding place; rather it’s a guiding place.
I am not a healing place. I am not the voice of reason or morality, I am just a child who cannot help but make noise every time you pinch me with all your adult irrationality.
I want nothing but magic, stars, waves, color, music, rhythm, peace, sparkle, butterflies, fun, care and love in your life. And I feel dissatisfied when you don’t feed me all that. I start having withdrawal symptoms.
Is it really difficult to wake me up and live with me?
I feel that the only person you know best is your childhood-self. You can never forget me, isn’t it? Aren’t I a part of most of your intimate conversations?
Then why not make me a part of your life?. Why not give me all the positivity that I need?
Please, don’t let me die.
The world can only be saved by the child inside you. I am your super hero. I am your evolution. I am your breathing space.
So, please.
Loads of sparks!
Sincerely,
The Child

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