3 hours 30 minutes



You left on an inky night. There was no defining moment, but it was all in bits and pieces.  It was between limits of the space zone that we’ve had all this time. In fact, the seconds started running out the moment we sat down together years ago. It feels like so much more.

It seemed to be that part of the day when the lights seem to be brighter outside the port, people seemed to move slower physically but their faces carried the same eagerness as any part of the day to get to their respective destinations soon. However, none of this mattered. We did.

Amongst hoards of people skidding, rolling, taking calls and waving their lasts, surprisingly we just stood there.
It was the worst place to be. How can you exist at two places at once?
Here, we do.
Or more precisely, you do.

I understand the will to not move, yet be moved by the anticipation of tomorrow. This place is such that it pulls you partially inwards, beckoning towards the time and meridian stamped on the smooth paper in your hand.

That is done with an urgency that we repeatedly tend to ignore, we’re pushing our luck.
what pulls you back is standing beside you, all around you. And it is not just the people, the air or your love of your land that you’re about to leave.Those are just the immediate physical beings. It should rather be the outlines of all the souls we’ve come across.

They fall under three categories;
Souls we got lost in, then lost them too.
Those we wished we’d desperately get lost in, but found ourselves in.
Finally, those which we wished to find ourselves in, but were too bigger than life.
So we just remained in their shadows, the way we did.
Just like we still do.

And knowing the gravity behind us, the vacuum forward, I wish to provide this final impulse to you to propel the whole of you through, without any of the shadows following you.
The only part of this you should be keeping in mind is that you’re going to get out of the shadow of the final third category.
Those are their own master strokes and you’ve remained on their plates for too long, wishing to see past their success, triumph, genius and wealth.
This is all of what you’ve wanted to see behind their eyes all these years. This will be the failure, frustration, dumbness and poverty.

Those are the things that you keep injecting into yourself again and again.

Get the balance right, with the intention to always break past this inverse relation that drives the monotony of this world. But even if I allow myself to be sucked back into those antithetical means, I wish you take all of this with you.

No matter where the past points, forever face the little illumination on the cloth holding you back.
Let go of its sight, the remaining darkness would be too vast to get lost in.
The sanctity of your predicament in the other world is holy enough for it to be a sin if you even consider doing anything else.

Ironically, all of this comes from the person who has lived in the world’s monotony all this time.
But do understand that even if one might not be living in the direct blaze of harshest dreams, it would only take a box of lost chances and running in wrong shifts to appreciate burns of where you live.
Inverse relations, of course.

So it’s not you who leaves us, but us taking leave of you. We pull ourselves off of you, the bits sticking to you to be shed. Hoping only that the part of us absorbed in you remains true to their value.

To our memories; made, making and to be made, 3 hours and 30 minutes earlier or late.






Find the Poets- Tishani Doshi


I arrived in a foreign land yesterday,
a land that has seen troubles,
(who hasn’t, you might say?)
This land
with its scrubbed white houses
and blue seas, where everything was born,
and now, everything seems as if it could vanish.
I wanted to find out the truth
about how a great land like this
could allow ancient columns to crumble
and organ grinders to disappear.

Find the poets, my friend said.
If you want to know the truth, find the poets.

But friend, where do I find the poets?
In the soccer fields,
at the sea shore,
in the bars drinking?

Where do the poets live these days,

and what do they sing about? 
I looked for them in the streets of Athens,
at the flea market and by the train station,
I thought one of them might have sold me a pair of sandals.

But he did not speak to me of poetry,

only of his struggles, of how his house was taken from him
along with his shiny dreams of the future,
of all the dangers his children must now be brave enough to face.

Find the poets, my friend said.
They will not speak of the things you and I speak about.
They will not speak of economic integration
or fiscal consolidation.

They could not tell you anything about the burden of adjustment.

But they could sit you down
and tell you how poems are born in silence
and sometimes, in moments of great noise,
of how they arrive like the rain,
unexpectedly cracking open the sky.

They will talk of love, of course,
as if it were the only thing that mattered,
about chestnut trees and mountain tops,
and how much they miss their dead fathers.

They will talk as they have been talking
for centuries, about holding the throat of life,
till all the sunsets and lies are choked out,
till only the bones of truth remain.

The poets, my friend, are where they have always been—
living in paper houses without countries,
along rivers and in forests that are disappearing.

And while you and I go on with life
remembering and forgetting,

the poets remain: singing, singing

Tisha Doshi 

Cartographer A



Cartographer A is a peculiar personality.
It does not throw any human ink against light when it opens the door to my room. It only conveys its presence by bringing along with it
the whiff of old, double-rated books,
three quarters of an inch worth of blended fumes,
and finally followed by the brusque, earthen tone of Swiss chocolate.

Cartographer A melts and flows in.
I’m caught between the impending moment and the one when reality finally collapses into its action. It lays boundaries down on the wooden flooring before moving. They reach all places of the my room; corners, edges, in between the weakened wood and glass. The progress is slow.
It pitches its questions as it faces different versions of me all around.
With every doubt raised, A marks regions around everywhere. They begin slow, but speed up until I no longer can keep up with their endless barrage.
I let them be tossed and arranged naturally to their will’s fulfillment.

Cartographer A has finished transforming these walls.
I do not recognize A, this room or myself anymore. It feels as if it has reached out inside me and taken everything out, canvassed and put everything back in. However, in doing so there were pieces that were lost, some gained and others broken further or mended up with the same substance as the one that made up these boundaries.
These are coloured pieces, heavily reinforced by glass and light.

All previous knowledge of the beginning or expectations of the end are lost in A’s hands. This acceptance dawns slowly in the darkness set around, but surely makes its way up onto myself.
The movements begin to cease from the center of my chest, expanding radially out with torrid strokes.

This is the world through which I travel and A is constantly mixing, creating, and breaking me down. As more and more pieces fall obscurely on the walls, it strains under their weight, cracks and falls through taking me with them to corners of our fears, toasts and wheels of cheese.

Exceptionally, the right corner of the world is our singularity.

It is where the last of us exists on this night. The walls try their best to hold the storm out, however, the one inside grows worse with each minute.

The last recorded message still plays, again and again; my strung up hands play a falling tune on the falling piano. A distant voice calls, beckons but we keep falling deeper into the toaster, springing back up to life.

Gasping for breaths, grasping for the other. Clawing into you, the deeper I dig the more I lose A as mere caffeine diffusing out from my skin, exchanging its holy presence with gunmetal solidifying a sludge around the eyes.

I hold myself up and move back towards the day, working back through the storm outside to the first limits of today where things were much clearer.
This is the last human remains of me before the metal takes over. As if I didn’t have enough of it in my body already, I load it further with these obscene extrapolations of the mind.

A keeps leading me further into this fantasy world of Alps, smoked papers, wine stained letters and unfinished wine glasses broken to pieces.

The satin lust of sheets crease violently as I’m tossed again,
charring and rolling into these boundaries of lands promised to be visited. Recorded videos of their paradise play, and I shout my trust into the cameras of voice notes. I ask if these barbed wires could ever lead back up to a single room in an isolated corridor.
With no answer, the waves keep beating and ice bergs form back slowly.

Screams of protest, vigour, valour out of sync with moving lips grip, and pull me in. With all the impish fever sucked out, I suck at the offered air. Freeze and melt to start a vacillating earthquake that radiates blackness. Approaching slow, yet steady it makes a graceful contact, creeps up and cradles my battered limbs.

With a deep thrust, the pupils dilate furiously only to register ungrateful, strange faces. With a final fall, A watches on, receding to its initial position at the door, behind the mirror. Peeping in to my chest into the hollow of needles.
As the fluid chases the metal within me, the blackness fights from the other side to radiate back into my vision.

With that, all shapes and figures ebb away to the periphery, blend and carve out the words on the box: Narcan on cardboard.
A chases backwards into the room, pulling the shards of broken mirrors back and I give in to bluer lights changing into red, then back.

Regardless of their dreamy icicles jabbing into the last of my vision, the blackness wins and I row into the final call.
It’s my flight’s last call, and I’m late.
It’s already 2400 hours.
One minute too late.

The Quiet World

7b30748b-5898-4cd9-969b-b1ee8abd984aThe following is an edited version.
The original by Jeffrey McDaniel.

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

So now when the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello.
In the restaurant, I point at the chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way,

Though, not without my fair share of slip ups
A syllable almost uttered while reading to myself,
The half audible gasp sucked back in
at the last moment while crossing the street
The verbal greeting replaced
with the wave of a hand,
a fuller smile,
a slighter nod of my head.
But even with this new found frugality catching hold of me,
I end up losing most of my sonants.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
tight lipped,
knowing I’m only left with my last three,
When she picks up without a sound,
I know she’s used up almost all her words too.

With a long breath drawn in,
The words escape my lungs, then hers.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

Hotel Pacific

Hotel pacific is located at the end of Lighthouse Hill. It peculiarly stands well on the other side of the road from where all the buildings end.

The sign perches high above, its glow detected from half a mile away on the straight drag road. The board has such importance in the neighborhood that they didn’t bother installing lamp posts at the point where the road bifurcated in anti sense directions in front of the door. It manages to do fairly well, illuminating a perfect cone down on the front side of the building till the door at the base, a semi circle around the main road leading up to it.

However, none of this begins to qualify as to why I’d like to take you to Hotel Pacific on a breezy afternoon. The timing seems peculiar, but unfortunately they don’t open until one.

The manager is a red nosed snub with a thing for wigs, sharing his salty humour with the fidgety maître d’.
I’ve known him (the maitre d’) for quite some time now, having frequented this place since the beginning of my days in this city.
He’s not the most patient of figures, and therefore a treat to observe working with the waiters who you could swear were inspired by sloths.

That, however, works for me. Being one who talks much to himself while reading out the same menu I’ve read countless times, knowing just exactly the next dish after the other. I don’t know why I even bother going through it, when eventually all matters would come down to a double coffee with a plate of their bay cookies.
The manager The hotel takes pride in having their food named after everything nautical, often driving people nuts with their salty not so subtle humour.

While our orders travel up the food chain to the shifty chef, it’s best that we amble across the ocean of tables and chairs to the french windows that open towards the back of the circular hall.
This, I feel is the most underrated part of the place.
Before you take in the sultry sun, the disenchanted breeze to disagree with me, I should point out that it’s only in this moment that these things become noticeable.

As we pour silence between us on the cushioned recliners (privileged customers only), the seconds jump on to minutes which lead to the waiters shuffling in our respective poisons.
The wood cools underneath my suedes, the hour drags out itself and the creases on our faces longer. Before long, the sun is behind us and the high wall casts its shadow symmetrically over the planks.

This short but quite wide wooden walk through ends longitudinally on the other side with the next french windows to the ball room. Laterally, with a row of crooked equally woody bars strung together by tightrope, separating this wood’s artificial from that nature’s pale sand. The salt from the bay regardlessly carried through, dampening and loading the dusk air.
It loaded on the passing minutes too, enough for them to crumble into the hourly figures with meridian specifications.

A minor light flicks on, on my side. It makes me turn my head aimlessly, instinctively towards it but more importantly bringing back the fact that we can’t remain here immortal.

These make up only half the reasons as to why I’d like to take you to a certain Hotel Pacific. My drink remains three fourths, the ingested quarter converting itself into the other half of those reasons behind my eyes.
The waters come lapping at me again, with everything of you and none of itself.
They recede and take along the first half of me with them.
The other half of me persists dissolved in the remaining quarter of my drink.

That should roughly add up to the other half of the never ending reasons as to why I’d like to take you to a certain Hotel Pacific Paradise.

Unspoken Tradition

I’ll make a terrible mentally challenged patient. Although I’m already physically challenged, but what can I say? I love challenges.

For starters, I’d drive you giddy by counting from one to the number where you beg to differ that all this while there had been only one egg I’d counting after on my desk.
And I mean serious begging.

Not the polite one where you try to make the person see the light of the whole situation in the most civilized manner.

I’m talking about the one where you’re ready to twerk up your dukes and give me a piece of your mind, which would make me utterly upset. Yes, we people are prone to upsetting our emotions, and apparently our minds too.

And I would be sitting there in silence until you start feeling unsure and guilty, at which point the warden would pop in and make a large circle in the air and you two would have a nice little mime session before you realize that he means doughnuts. So, finally you’d get me some doughnuts and the next thing you’d know, I’d be in love.

Maybe this would be the only normal thing you’d observe today. Or at least till the time you’re within these walls.
By the way, I must say they could really use some paint job.
Normal because you’d see everything from the lady in the adjoining room bickering with the ward boy and accusing him of stealing her thimble to the lonely old man at the other end of corridor who regularly props up himself in the sunshine with a game of chess and at the end is never sure of whether he lost or won. You’d see it all but nothing like a certain veteran stuffing himself with doughnuts more passionately than certain politicians running for president.

The prospect of having someone over, that too with pads and pens, was just too much for me. I’ve had a history with pads and pens and their physical and emotional implications. Now it’s just me arching my arms to just those angles in which I’d lost everything. How would you know that you’re losing something for the last time anyway? Just keep yearning, that tomorrow’s the day that the void there in between would find its way back. Once there, you’d not want to define home anymore.
It’s that way where you don’t use words. It is the touch that rounds a thousand trips over your body and makes itself at home at each and every point. It sears itself through and through, leaving no chance for healing their burns. Of course those points are counted in infinities, and yes, I am suggesting what you are fathoming.

I’ve grown into this vastness of all these unfinished infinities left behind in all these corners. I’m stuck in these empty doorways and broken pencils that would still write, only there would be no clarity in their double edged markings. It is this that I would have explicated, or tried to had I any more of my words left. I’m lost without them. 

I hope you’re putting all this down just so it’d make me feel good. And it’s not everyday that you get to make a certain veteran speak sanely of mundane things. Even though I know it’s going to end up in trash somewhere in between getting your morning paper and waiting for the coffee to brew tomorrow, I don’t care in the most benign manner.

On this side of the mind, you cease to care whether the sugar even dissolved in the tea or if the sun rose. Yes, you may get upset over these things sometimes but mostly it’s you trying to understand why you can’t convince the person sitting in front of you about how there is more than one egg on the table and more than one way to decipher the galaxy’s vastness. 

But would you believe me if I told you that we can’t cry tears in space and that we eat up our words and you have no air to breathe, would you? Would you believe that this world wouldn’t be enough for us if we burned through one another?
You probably know all of this but tell me, would you feel alone? Knowing that all you have that is yours can exist only till as far as your hand can stretch.

Half moons don’t work for you, just like all other incomplete, odd numbered things that make you want to set them right so badly. All those times when the odd hair would flicker past your face and my breath would catch above my cricoid to move it back but that this space now holds invisibility in matters of only matter and silence only for what remains mine. But it’s been long, and the angles have been bent, mended with gold and silver. Even then they lose out, with the spark burning and dying. Again. And again. 
It is evil in this way, the voice won’t catch life and we’re fighting silence with silence.

Fractions don’t work for you, just like how the ward boy manages to be a good bartender, a hasty postman, the bearded shopkeeper and Davy Jones rolled into one yet not living up to any of these roles.

Dreams don’t work for you, just like your peanut and pollen allergy but worse than that. They’re worse, shooting back again. In another flash, you’re walking back again. Between the next two street lights I’d have perfected my smile, and in the next beat we’d have found the right curves to fit ourselves in. Ones which wouldn’t hurt so much, where we could finally fall through and not want to be caught. We fall into step with a tap on the waist and an agreement where we speak not in raised eyebrows or assumptions but in the unspoken tradition that we’ve carried within us all along.

Keep up, for the night is starry and there’s not a moment to be lost. I’m dumb to your words and you’re deaf to the world. Blind to the blind ends in this labyrinth and the conjuror lifts the cloth to awe us all.
Not me, mine is beside and above me…
It’s the night where metaphors from the skies huddle close in a halo for us. Look up, all these stars watch over us. Still, with bated breaths…

Hold on,

Do you mind?
Yes, the one with the green cap, in the middle. No, not those.
The sealed one…
Yes. Tuck the others back please.
And the water, thank you.

I was saying…I’m lost. I don’t know where I’ll be when I’m out. All I have is that constellation in front of me, I don’t need to look twice, they’ve already set their own at the back of my eyes. Look back, I’m there, as always. 

Standing. Burning throat, cut lipped and half drunk, a half light managing to hold both of us together and the rest would rest in the corners of these walls. 

Not wanting to lie to you but also not wanting to tell the truth, I end up turning the lie into the truth and thus started this permanent vacation in the land of paradoxes. 

And that’s the bell,
But of course you’re welcome to come back again. It doesn’t matter anyhow,
You’re already freedom and
I am already ethereal.

Be born again, tomorrow day.
The things that are unsaid now be said then.
Just don’t walk back a message, a call, a cancelled rendezvous too late.
I’ve been told they belong to the enemies of that one telepathic fiber that holds us right.

And I have also been told, that the pills in the green capped bottle are effective within the hour.

So what do you say?
There’s always a hideaway.
Always another story on the next page,
And besides, it’s not everyday that you get to talk to a man with a countdown on his breaths.

Why did I do it?
What can I say, I’m a veteran. We don’t die that easy. 
Have some coffee? There’s plenty to tide us over. They say we exist in two moments; in that moment and right now.

Make yourself comfortably uncomfortable, we shall exist in both together.
It all started with a wintery night, and I rolled up my sleeves as I crossed the grass 

Listening, the voice still echoing through my walls…
You’re here.
And we may now leave as we planned.

Take a step forward, one back, a swirl, and we exit right out front into the everglow of tomorrow.  

The Ride

You wake up with your head swimming in a slight buzz and throb. You regret taking the second turn on the right instead of that left one but there’d been a drop too many and I’d groaned that no four walls could make us feel any safer.

But once you lift your head up from the metallic roof on which you lie, you’ll want to get drunk all over again. Trust me, the light spilling on last night’s darkness up above will be enough to intoxicate you. In the pull of such rare dimensions of two parts reality and five parts fascination, I’ll be watching you.

I’ll be looking over, beyond you. Wondering whether I’m sinking or floating, or doing a bit of both and it is only when you look back at the lethargic viscous of confusion beside you that you’ll know that that turn was worth it. That every gear changed last night was worth it. That the heaving at the back of your throat from visiting your dreams last night was worth it.

That waking up under the morning sun on the roof of a car was one of the things you’d lived for not knowing what it would be, but once you breathed in the moment you knew that this was it.
This is a moment too much yet too less to account for in the wildest dreams. The spectrum of my sabbatical visions bathes me whole and I soak myself in it, reveling like there’s no tomorrow, and that this was it. Our moment of gospel.

And you know what they say about the forgotten things?
To let them be.
But I can’t let the question you were to me be. For now you have turned into an answer and ever since the first sparks lit up, I cannot fathom what the question was. Such are not the moments to crunch all your memories together.
Let’s just say you’ve turned into the answer to everything then.

The answer to my childhood wish I’d once made to own the stars for one night, and then negotiate for them for the rest of my breaths. It’s those stars that I own now, but I’ll soon lose them, or will I? You tell me.
And, once lost, then I’ll be negotiating with the tailor who sews the end of the world for more and I’m afraid I’ll have you no more.
There will be no more of these dawns with the knock of the incandescent glow of sun’s might against the buildings and roads not quite so awoken  from their slumbers. Even then their colours will seep away, making little streams. Around the corner, along the pathways, across the streams and in your wake. They follow not me anymore, they follow my answers and visions. They might make me up, but they aren’t mine anymore now.
That’s not the answer I’d been waiting for.

My answer always lay in another language, with different curves and edges. To have owned it, you’d know that it’s a part of you. Or should I just say that my answer lay in you.
All the time.
In the backseat, or anywhere under the sunroof. In the empty ice cream boxes, spilled drinks, prickly solitude and the blinking headlights.
And though the world is not a bad place, the powers governing it certainly took their time measuring it out and laying it down. They cut the exact bit of fabric, added a drop of that bottle, sized up a bit of that antiquity and replaced it with a bit of fuzziness.
All this while, the process was carried out in such a seraphic manner that it hurts to envision it. It makes the world unreal and fickle, to have known yet not believed in it.
To have understood, yet not realized its meaning.
I watch, nevertheless, and watch.
I see it all with a certain magnificence governing me and the air growing increasingly sparse.
I’ll lie alongside and not be anything, just let the flames take their final course.

As a final precursor, the eerie magnanimity of the stillness gave rise to the best and worst of me, in a second all that I had known was spun into a thread that held you out. This would have been in a better place, under different shades of azures, but there’s only so much I could tell you before I’ve lost everything that I’ve known.
There’s only so much to be, when the inferno enrages us together.
There’s only one to be, when there’s no breath enough to be for two.
But there’s none to be, when the last one doesn’t suffice your boundaries.
Understand that it just doesn’t work this way in the unspoken courts of justice.
Trust me, halves have never worked and never will. White hots are the only way across, and I’ll drive you there tonight if I can.

I could take you there and we could count ourselves from the past to infinity under a thousand suns. But tonight we’ll be away. Not gone, just away.  Just to check up on whether there remain any remains of ours, making sure to step across the road and buy that pizza. I find these more simple and manageable than explaining what got us here. Don’t care for these answers, I have mine, don’t I?
The rest doesn’t count. The world is still awakening, and I still watch over you. And I know that I’m looking at a star, not a meteor. This is just our ride.
And when the fire goes out no one, except the tire marks, would know what happened at the corner last night.






Annus Mirabilis

The southern lights of my city blink their silent tune to every resident passing by. The last of invites just made their way across the world, to the ends of the northern lights. I flow in their flow, adrenaline rushing through my arteries and filling my eyes. I morph into one of their own. I flow with their madness to touch consecrated snows of different times.

It’ll be a concurrence of all the winds blowing around the world. We’ll be looked after the glowing branches of pines singing the seasonal melody to each other. It will be a beautiful chorus, we shall paint it on the night sky, borrowing the shooting stars’ lights.
The blurs won’t matter, they’ll soon fade and leave a pulsating, dull chill in their demise.

It’ll spread like a wonderful virus through our cells. They’ll greet a covetous greeting to each other. The star shaped cells will join in the amelioration, and add to the festivities. They’ll invite the sidereal memories to shake their absence loose, and lose them to the brewing combination of universal magic.

Come, they shall, in a somber, strange sort of pain. The one you feel slowly as numbness spreading from limb to limb till your whole body is abuzz to the soul. They’ve known little of these nights, and so they wander, finally turn into the cosmogyral spectators we admire often on dusks before they’re knocked over by inky darkness.
Why, the whole ethos felt nothing less than jumping into the last drop of maple and coming up in the bubbles of pinging nectar we’d never known existed in this ancient backyard.

Such sweet azureness bothers the consciousness, that points out the possible mirages that the mind unravels in the most unexpected of times. But who pays heed to the policing done in middle of chimerical anarchy? This is where imagination seeks newer sanctuaries, these are the treasures of our lost jewels to a beautiful casket of time. Newer beginnings will smile their approbations on anchors deeper than the heart’s emotions. They’ll lift them up and over, away and abound, banished to peripheries, guarded by rays of hope with promises of no returns. The returnings will be of our own wills. They’ll mark the impending mendings that never quite happened. They shall push the snowball down the hill to us, rolling.

I see it now, as it comes down with a gigantic swoop.

Start the countdown.

It’s a new beginning.

Conspiring Silences

When there’s a natural flow to things, it somehow allows you to feel the situation and its consequences more deeply.

Natural flow could be when the situation is present in the carnal knowledge yet unperturbed by words. You get to take the situation in completely. It allows room for introspection. When you explain matters it gets muddled in between even though that increases the understanding and decreases the chances for misunderstanding. But I’m all for spoken conversation in most matters of life, lest not only will it be funny if we keep on staring away, we could misunderstand each other’s eye signals for come hither looks too, who knows.

But there are times when silence should do the talking and the energies around us should be the messengers of our thoughts. I do believe positivity in ourselves does reflect in our behaviour and surroundings, but I admit that it does become difficult to keep on believing in it too. It works the other way round too. It’s nothing new, but we always see grey when we have the blues and it can be spotted easily too.

Either way, according to the natural flow of things in the world there are numerous times in a day when opting to heighten the perceiving can make things go easier and sometimes mood changers too. We are lazy, and as I said, conveying exact thoughts sometimes becomes difficult which can lead to irritation ultimately with many a stops in between. We do make mistakes in the perception too, it being a process of great success or epic failure. You could try reading into people and get it horribly wrong too. You can’t help it, but that can put them off too. But in case you do get it right, I believe it makes the other person feel better too.

As woebegone as the results of these eternal, multi-fold possibilities are, they do hold the atomic scintilla to light up a gloom or strengthen the next resolve. They’d know that you acted on something unspoken from their side, read them well down to their incoherent selves and picked the most slivering of thoughts well. And even though they’d already be in the know of this whole moment being a happenstance, they’d be willing to part with that thought for now. Basically the understanding between people gets better this way. Trust too.

But not always does the natural flow feel right. It creeps up in the forms of estranged and oscillatory relationships where frustration often acts as the bridge in between time gaps.

Trust and understanding, of course, are some of the many requirements that hold up how people interact daily. You trust the other person to look up or around, understand that a myriad of thoughts need to be communicated, but the period of that moment fails you and so the wifty, hurried excitement calms down to border along imagination. This offing is frequented by the errors in our perceptions.
In those little moments which require the unspoken perception, analyzing how big the stakes are, helps too. Whether it’s worth getting the perception wrong, putting the other person off or whether you should just wait for another, more placid opportunity to put it to practice.

Such is the matter with times when verbal interaction is repelled, characters despised, difficult emotions denied yet the clairvoyance remains omnipresent because of course, the realization of possibilities in losing what we’ve stood through is overwhelming enough but not slacking so far away.

I have no idea as to why I’m doing this, but I too am starting to feel that it was best to let these thoughts remain in my mind as they were before I put them down here. Personally, I feel they get polluted with the words which have been used over the time but I don’t mean any offence to the language either. As I said, language too has its own beauty and its own ability to strengthen the trust and understanding matter.

Stare at, in, and through.

Look up.


I stain my tea bitter, way too bitter, straighten up and rub my eyes.

There’s been failure all around. Failure in varied amounts, in various fields. Failure to put around thoughts in their correct places, failure to compartmentalize and train my mind, failure to be in control, failure towards independence of choice, failure towards myself, failure to people, not that I really care.

This disturbed state has been around for long, full of oppression by unseen pushers. due to this haziness, there has been so much hustling around that I haven’t had time to calm down, think straight and yet again prioritize and gain control.

To my words, you’ve been the source of my happiness and success as much the source of my sadness and failure. Take note how I put happiness and sadness before success and failure when I talk to you. Though I know you are just another creation of myself, does it mean that I remain here, shouting into myself again?

I don’t want to turn into a questionnaire to myself. Understanding. Skip the questions part because it kills you, bothers you and doesn’t stop until it’s satisfied.

This is about losing out on ideas and visions, them turning even more fleeting than before. If they’d been fleeting in their maturity before, they’re fugitives in their inchoate states now.

It’s hard accepting the thunder and “being game”.

It’s hard being conscious all the times. It doesn’t matter how much you try, there comes a time when your body and your soul threaten to separate and what arises with this threatening at that time is something that you rarely see.

It is seen in extreme cases of conscious human beings. Humans who’ve had their eyes open and everything’s been pitched in, in some amounts or others. with every pitching, the room on the other side expands a bit but it doesn’t do so without hurting like anything.

It is seen in cases of extreme emotions. Even in happiness, mind you. It is when the threat endangers your existence to such an extent that you bleed a mid-line that feels like a midlife. It doesn’t look like much from the outside but that’s the importance it carries. It can only be experienced from the inside because the mid-line runs only as far as the person’s existence stretches, not beyond that. And so, when it meets reality, you feel detached and the world feels inconsiderate. It’s not because they ignore because they can’t. If that mid-line had bled out to them, I’m sure that they too would’ve taken notice and cared.

But people are for themselves, not against you.

When the mid-line meets reality, it runs out and perishes right then and there. Due to this extinguishing, you feel a bitter pang of grief and loneliness. Grief of not being understood, being either too full or too empty. The cup is not meant to hold such cases and so either it overflows, or it breaks down, letting everything spill eventually.
The reason why the overflowing feels so memorable is because a lot of that everything remains in the cup even when it has finished overflowing. However, when it breaks, it not only loses everything, its broken pieces too manage to hurt.

Either way, losing out is a given. everything includes hopes, laughter, memories, negativity, insecurity, flaws. You.

So I think if you feel that you’d rather forget yourself after failure, it would seem perfectly fine. For the cup has been broken and the everything that it held has certainly been lost. Not only has it been lost in an empty sink, the broken pieces remain there to mock you of the prior inadequacy in your being.

I stain my coffee metallic, way too metallic and I finally close my eyes.