Like a long pause

Oh this sadness of the silent night
Like a long pause in the heart,
and numbness in my mind.
Agony I’ve got and now only
agony do I like,
Oh this sadness of the silent night.
Tears fill my throat like a man
convinced to suicide.
Doesn’t leave, doesn’t stay
Simply dies.
Oh this sadness of the silent night.
Aches of a howling old man,
of a woman long quiet, ‘tis bearable, I tell you;
But of a heart decided to let
all hopes die, ‘tis infinite.
Oh this sadness of the silent night.
Oh moon in your pale light
I sing this sadness of the silent night.
It let my fireflies die,
but listen close because
yet they fly, yet they fly.
Oh this sadness of the silent night.


Photo by Avertigo


Love of the ordinary

There’s so much love
in the patience of
ordinary things;
Paintings on the wall,
street light on a forgotten road,
old yellow papers in a file,
wires stretched over small houses all alike,
soaps dry and water drains everyday,
our hands, our feet go wherever
we take.
Curtains pulled off, hanged up like labels for decoration
decided merely for colors.
Books in a book shelf laid for life
decided merely for how our hearts feel.
Newspapers made, read, unread, wrapped around yellow stained things, thrown
and again
made, read, unread, wrapped
and thrown
for years unknown.
Smells, shapes, sizes
shoes, clothes in our closets.
And our skins
when do they change,
except for rot with our age?
How sky repeats through
every inch of this universe,
blue and vast.
And what’s more lovingly patient
than the birds that sing
the same song every dawn
on the same branch
of the same tree?


There has always been a part of me detached from this world. The more I hear people talk more I want to stay shut. Silence. They don’t talk to share. To make my heart feel what their heart would have felt in that instance. They talk to tell. Sometimes they’d even do some things just to be able to narrate it to people later. It makes me upset and honestly, sometimes it drives me crazy. How could they do it? Corrupt everything about a moment in their lives so much that they weren’t even living in there while they made it happen. As if even their illusions are corrupt because they never live the illusions in the first place. The labels they use, the grandeur of their falsehood feeding their hearts makes me shut. And when once in a while I see a man or a woman talk like they’ve ripped their heart open without prejudices, opinions or judgments, I fail to believe the rarity of it. I want to listen more but that’s the tragedy you know, the raw ones, they know when to stop. That’s the thing about people and their talks. The ugliness of definitions, labels and lies and the beauty of unaltered honesty, both would affect you deeply in life.

Image by Joe Alison


10:40 pm

I’m sick again. Have you ever met a person in your life who gets sick because of waiting, thinking too much, taking everything way too personally or may be someone who does nothing the whole day, I mean who doesn’t go out to any office or work, doesn’t see the stark sunlight hitting right in the eyes and doesn’t have to taste the mud swirling in the air for no reason and yet gets sick at the end of the day because of waiting for a day. A day. Yes all I know about this day I’m waiting for is that it exists. On a page still left to turn of a calendar, it is written. This one day I’m waiting for. Other than that I don’t know anything. I’m escaping from everything and running mercilessly towards the unknown. Why am I waiting? Because I think something rather everything will change after this one day. And I’m not thinking of any larger than life transformations only: but of smaller ones first. I’ll have money, the air I’ll breathe will be cleaner, the place I’ll live in would be small and decorated as I’d like, no noise of stupid television shows or vendors out in the streets of my colony, I’ll work better, the people will be good, I’ll have things to plan and look up-to, I’ll buy what I like, roam wherever I wish to. This is the deadliest illness of all you might have seen. And I’m suffering from it. I spend my days preparing for this one day when I think my life will get better. Waiting. Waiting so much that it has now become an illness. It pinches in my throat when I gulp my saliva in. My heartbeats are now faster and my body: every space in my body is full of purposeless wants and hopes. I can’t believe. Can you? I was so tired of this life here in this one caged room looking at the worst faces in my life that one opportunity of seeing this one day after sometime has made me a dead body but full of aches. And I have lived enough to tell this tonight that this is the worst of states for any human alive. Dead and aching. While you’re alive and there’s pain, there’s some hope, some satisfaction in being able to survive till another dawn, another morning. And when you’re dead: you’re dead. But these days in life where death and pain sit in the vacuums of my bones, my life is devoid of everything except the pain. Not even agony, anger, tears or those unnamed feelings. Mere pain.
I tried writing again today. More than usual. I ate fine. This house I live in is full of negativity. That’s the truth of all truths. Everyone’s face, when I look at it, I see a stagnation so steep one can’t stand it for a second. Not a single line of love on their foreheads. Not even any want of it. Want of anything actually. I can’t believe my eyes sometimes. That they’re alive. In the middle of all this I want to look for love. Someone who says or does a few little things and I feel the life that has now hidden itself beneath the dead slumbers accumulated in me. But all I can see is even the person you want to love and get loved back, even this person is full of his own fears and pains. Does it even mean anything? To love and expect to be loved back again. Every night saying I love you, does it mean anything after a time? Doesn’t it become a meaningless habit, like life itself.  Am I asking for too much or am I destined to get too less? Why is it so difficult to think and make a day a little better than usual for the people we love? Is it too much to do? A flower, a beautiful long message, a poem to read, a letter, small bit of anything prepared or created only for me, a few hours spent only to think about how this togetherness could be better, a surprise visit, a message that shows how ecstatic my presence makes you feel,  something I would love to talk about other than your work, tests and auditions, a thought you couldn’t forget about me, a song you heard and you couldn’t stop missing me, one night when you wait for me to sleep peacefully, one day when everything fades away and the only thing I see you wanting is me, persistence of giving up on anything but love, you, me. I don’t even want all of this altogether but I guess it’s just a story this paper can hold because in reality life has happened to you like everyone else and it has ruined everything. Everything.

Myself into myself

Why can’t I feel my heart and everything it causes in my body? I fear, I fear the shortness of this life to live these odd hours so numb and rest of my life just dreaming. Those chills through my spine kind of moments, I don’t like the rarity of them. I don’t like the fact that to feel my heart throb inside me I need some settings around me. Only with a man or under a sky full of stars or only with a pen in hand, a poem on lips can I feel that I’m alive. And then I can’t put into words that how does it happen. I swallow myself into myself. Half my breath I curse myself and open my mouth to cry and the other half of the same moment is so lonely , it shuts me and I can’t even cry. Why, I ask why life doesn’t happen as much as we desire? Why is it running so fast and drowning so slow?

Image by Mona Kuhn

Only in your light

What’s more infinite than these long hours of staring into a wall musing on that rain we had drenched each other in, smell of cheese and lilies and fog and clothes and coffee and air and water and you all mixed up, your voice at 4 am in the morning and the warmth that melts me on cold winter nights. Drugged on these no me without you nights. Oh such horror, what animal I was before I met you. And now, I start drawing images of you, I had hallucinated in your absence on this wall that has begin to look like you finally and I have declared myself an artist in celebration. I have roamed enough on the wall tracing your edges with no end to the drunkenness this world around me is so deprived of. Tonight again my dearest, I sleep in your light against this world beneath the moon.


Image Credits


That space where my spirit meets my bones
there’s an undying paradox;
to remain whole or to scatter beyond repair.
Where does this space exist?
in coming together or falling apart?
What does this space desire for?
Freedom or self destruction?
Or probably, the space itself is vacuum.
A huge hole that gives temporary hopes
in the name of love but
nothing of its own.
And this foolish I
in want of permanence believes
in redeemer, the healer
feeling the vacuum needs to be cured.
To know nothing at the end
apart from
vacuum is vacuum.
It will forever be so.

"….all artists, regardless of degree of talent, are a painful, paradoxical combination of certainty and humility, constantly in need of reassurance, and yet with a stubborn streak of faith in their own validity no matter what."