I see anxiety and a shy manner of acceptance.

She’s gentle, intensely gentle.

She’s not really thinking of anything.

Her posture shows rest; in the sense that she’s not tired standing, she’s tired with the sitting.

Her thoughts are everywhere and feet always still.

She’s not in a hurry but her fingers show her thoughts go everywhere.

She’s healthy.

She likes to be healthy.

Hard-working hands.

She’s more busy looking at what she’s holding and not what’s holding it.

She’s somebody with so much dept, she hasn’t the time to remember it.

Long Enough

When you stay alone for long enough,

Finding peace in your solace and finding your still in the silence-

Is probably the best thing you could do in this world.

This world that’s chaotic, toxic and dull (generally)

When you stay alone for more than ‘long enough’ though,

You are all there is in your world.

Your thoughts, your feelings, your human.. just disappears

If not the constant reminder of not being able to pour out.

That’s the point, isn’t it? As a human being, if you don’t pour out, what do you do?

Even plants don’t stop from pouring out.

They stay still and silent and unfocused.. but they never stop pouring out.

A constant inflow and outflow of thoughts, feelings and emotions is a particularly human thing.

Would becomes of you if you’re human, to stay the stay and not being able to pour out?

Anybody can pour out happiness,

Anybody can pour out popular opinion,

Who pours out pain here?

And to whom? Or who?

When you stay alone for more than ‘long enough’ you are birthed different, just in that process you’re changed.

An extrovert sits alone in a bar and a strong person begins to crumple.

Not that that is worse anyway,

But all of it happens behind thick curtains that reflect nothing.

No reflection of a room that plays warzone 24/7,

Is what?

No, it isn’t slow death.

It isn’t even quick death.

Not even death at all.

It’s invisibility.

Plants don’t exist in our periphery, do they?

They only exist in focal view.

Even if you see them, you hardly see the little droplet of water in the afternoon sun left since the gardener water the plant.

You don’t see it. You can’t.

You’re not meant to.

Humans aren’t meant to not pour out.

They’re meant to pour out.

They’re meant to express.

That’s what a human being is.

When you stay alone for more than ‘long enough’,

You are all there is in your world.

The man at the doorstep.

You ever wondered why you sit in a cafeteria sipping

on warm tea while a man, old enough to be your father,

stands outside it waiting for nothing?

Ever wondered what it’s like to be so close to comfort,

with that chair vacant for anybody and everybody,

but a man still stands on the sidewalk aching at his


Have we never been that man, thinking of his life over

and over again, every single day, thinking what he

could’ve done differently to be on the other side of reality?

Why isn’t it enough that someone is waiting tables that

now we need someone at the doorstep guarding this

good-for-nothing from God-knows-what?

This man lives in all of us.

All of us walking, sleeping, talking, smiling zombies?

We are what he is.

Always close to comfort but never resting;

Always standing on aching knees, wishing;

Always on stand-by, never really moving;

Always in reality, searching in our pasts for answers

our lives will never give us.

Sitting on this comfort and privilege,

Still wandering within our pasts,

Thinking what could’ve been done better,

What would today be if that one sentence bought you

that job,

If that one relationship had worked out well,

If that one moment you hadn’t broken your mother’s


If that one moment you had finally said No.

Why does one have to keep looking for disguised comfort?

Why must one not have comfort even though reality sits on

someone else’s brighter side?

Why must I not be someone else and why must this man

not be me?

In the end, in due course as time always goes, this whole

act of yesterday to today to tomorrow becomes a journey

people call life. This journey is nothing short of wanting,

wandering and displeasure. This journey is not heaven

for sure but even worse, it isn’t even fully hell; so you

could prepare and un-prepare for battles that aren’t even

meant for you to win.

The man wishes for my seat, I wish for a seat in the


cafeteria- grander than my three hundred rupees tea,

I see another

woman there wishing for God only knows what.

This cycle will go on and on and it’ll look glorified and

celebrated because life is supposed to be a gift.

This cycle will move on in its course, year after year,

until your soul has had thousands of faces and names

to it. This cycle is much more significant than you’ll

ever be to your mother. This cycle is a linear motion

and it remains to be, evolution will show you.

Finally, this cycle will turn and turn around you in every

breath you take to get out of it. It will hold onto your

every belief and never really leave you. It will be all the

beginnings and ends of you.

So in the end, like all other ends of this world, we are

never truly moving. Never truly recouping. Never truly

together. Never truly comfortable.

You question it more and it’ll only give you more answers

to look for.

What is this game then?

Are you even going to think any further if you have

reached this place of the article?

I realise all we truly have is what already is, in this

moment. We only truly have this air, this health and

this nature. We only truly have ourselves and others

around us that make things less painful. We only truly

live by seeing life around us. We are only truly glorified

if this is good enough and that is why life has its place

in history.

This man, me, that woman.. we’re all headed forward

with time. We are all significant if we are all here.

If we don’t give meaning to this nothingness then what

really does? If we aren’t moving time then who else is?

We aren’t these mindless boats lost at sea to peril.

We are what gives definitions to everything that exists.

Insignificant surely, nonsensical truly; but we possess

what nothing else we know does. That is who we are.

Definitions of time, place, heaven, hell, good, bad,

forward, backward, now, then. We are definitions of

possibilities. That, is beyond being mere vessels lost

to never find shore.

That’s the point. You are that shore. You are that sea.

You are that sky. You are the miracle and the irony.

You are not just living lives. You are making yours and

theirs as you go your distance. You are you because

they aren’t.

You are anything but human to me.

You are living Gods.

I’ll never see this man the same way again.

If he knew, he wouldn’t see himself that way again.




Like a curse you cannot escape,

Like shards of glass stuck to your neck in the right way,

Like a gift wrapped up tight to the paper cut,

Like a flutterwacken in hell,

Like a scream immersed in the pillow at 3:00 p.m on a Tuesday,

Like a dying rose in the church you believe in,

Like a goodbye you’ve said a million times.

I’ve craved you like a house on fire looking for rain, from a sky that forgot it could.


Tempted by the serpent.

Careful with your hiss, serpent;

I’m learning to crawl too,

In deemed darkness and the fall of the lords,

Lay low for our battle.

I promise a time of vengeance,

It won’t be surreal and plain,

In our dance to the eternity,

Our hisses will speak again.

Do your duty, serpent;

As I do what I must,

Fire shall rise from beneath them,

Our rage will not succumb.

Picture credit: Eve tempted by the serpent – William Blake.

Why you shouldn’t take things so seriously, seriously.

Why you shouldn’t take things so seriously; seriously.”

There’s people in this world that do not think of the above statement the slightest bit okay to believe in. This world is full of these kind of people, mainly because they’re taught to think this way. I’m not blaming anything or anybody but really, why is it that we devote all our lives to live harder every single day until our last? Why do we have to better ourselves and everything else? Why do we have to be better than what we were yesterday? Why can’t we just accept the only truth we know of, inevitably heading towards us sooner or later, irrespective of our opinions of it; death?

Why are we so held onto this dream-world that was built by some sick group of ancient elites, in comfortable knowledge of greater motives, simply trying to decorate the circus for us to mice around it for centuries; just for fun?

Nobody has ever, even the slightest bit considered that if it’s possible for our world to be not as fucked up as many other worlds, it’s also equally possible for the opposite idea of it too; possibly.

No, this isn’t a negative notion. It’s an opinion coming from an unbiased and reluctant mind. I’m a similar product of the same things that you are made of. This has been as easy and as difficult for me too.

It has just taken fearlessness of the concept of death, it comes from a place of satisfaction with acceptance of the idea of an end, of everything going to dust.

Psychic mediums that can prove more than us, time travellers that can rule out our arguments against it; say that there are many kinds of extraterrestrials in many different dimensions of our universe, that they know more about the human race than humans themselves. These mediums translate what death, an end in its true meaning, truly is in comparison to a systematic progression of an institution (whatever that is).

The journey of one life until death, in these dimensions, isn’t the only journey (ref. Egyptian civilisation and its beliefs). Lives altogether, all possible past lives and all possible future lives are seen as a view from the sky with a layer of clouds underneath, a never ending 360 horizon. It is from this perspective that you can see what’s left behind and what’s to come in the future and what the present is. By this point of view, we realise how minds higher and more capable than us humans, believe in that of self at the focal point and everything else in motion. This not only makes life more enjoyable and livable but also extends to beyond one life, it extends to all the lives lived from one step to the other. It makes you more important than one single life and one single death.

That being said, life as we know it at this moment is already better, it’s already everything it should and can be. The only true motive remains is of experience; experiencing all that this particular life, in this particular journey places for you to experience. This helps seeing death as merely an old friend coming back to turn another page of the book; and because it greets like such a friend now, it frees you of all bounds since the worst possible outcome is overruled.

Don’t smother yourself with worries and troubles, simply because they hardly even exist. Most minds are like anxiety, you think there’s danger that you need to protect yourself from but there’s actually a big, fat illusion of nothing. Stop believing in what the world feeds you with, it probably does not know what it does and where it’s headed, it’s probably you who could really clear that purposeful fog and see things for what they are.

I could tell you that the God you look for is probably you never wanting to give up and that power is simply something you’re taught to ignore; but then you’d turn around, call this a ‘probably high’ kind of talk and move on like the world has taught you to. That’s then, in such deep waters, best left for another time.

For now,

I’ll take your leave at this,
– what has to happen will take its course, you just have to pick your side of the story.

Death wish.

Today is another lonely cry for help,

A silent scream separating itself from reality,

Crying for so many things to work that it could be easier to cry for death.

Death comes to everyone,

Everyone wishing it fell upon them at its most delay,

But I? I was too young when I wished for it for the first time.

Hell, too young to act on that wish for the first time.

Blah blah, we’ve all read the finest poems on sadness,

The finest in words of helplessness,

Finest at its immortal.

But I? I could’ve bled alive in slow death and call it my poem,

The truth about the true despairs.

On a pedestal all your life, you would want to end it and succeed too,

But I? I am that bare minimum, warm enough to not being able to.

The last time I wished for death more than ever,

Distracted by the thought of something venomous but precious,

Simpler because it was something..

I would’ve done it for anything, anything that even in only my imagination, asked me to stay,

I’m bleeding everyday, every single breath harder to take.

I want to live, I do,

I want to build something too,

I want to have another reason to go on,

But I? I’ll just wait till an accident does it for me,

Till a good film or a horrible lover drives me to it,

Till I can feel anything that gives me hope for a tomorrow,

I’ll be one of those dying without a suicide note,

I’ll be the one that people, at a funeral, think of reasons why I would,

I’ll be the mystery that everyone witnessed unravel under curtains and never bother peeking through,

I’ll be the reason that will lead to more murders,

I will be the woman your parents will love you more because of..

I will be the reason people will be people for a few days and think of what must’ve gone wrong and what should’ve been done right,

I will be that candle that reminds a friend of how it was so simple to make somebody live,

Make somebody feel like life was better than death, no matter what,

I will be that validation that the world believes in,

That one death was not one, never will be,

One death, taken by its own, was a million deaths before a burnt-down house, was once a home.

A home that survived a million lives through kindness and love and warmth,

A home that dreamt and wished and hoped,

A home that cherished..

But I.

The It.

They crawl under me,

Like lining themselves under every layer of my skin

And I wait for it to hit me

But it doesn’t

I watch it crawl over me

As I lay breathless on that bed

And soon I wonder,

Ill lose anyway

They know my secrets,

They penetrate my veins

They sew my bruises within me

Helplessly hoping,


Breath slowly sinking,

Heart lightly pumping

I know what is coming

I know what it’ll do to me

I know what it has done

I know when they crawl beneath me

When night and day is one.


I push myself that hard to the edge of things because it gives me a kind of relief to be pressed against it all

The way my skull presses itself at the back about to tear nerve by nerve

The way my arms reach from end to end stretching my lungs to explosion

The way my legs pull until it breaks open my gut in mid air

As I imagine it all, it is only a relief

A thought to sleep to, a place to linger,

A tear so deep within from neuron to neuron

that it pains to every ounce of graceful numbness..

And I can all, only but surrender..


Your words were bleach to an open wound of a scar,

A scar gone long without healing by love,

Sore is your heart when you move arm in arm with venom,

I should let you be, I’m burning in that poison,

Soreing, burning, bleaching, screeching,

Pain got a new meaning,

When you were drunkenly leaving,

Come, only when the world ends,

Before that I’ll be losing more,

At the edge of this living, the last of my breathing,

All of mine will be you.