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.

First Flight and Graves

I let my gaze wander outside.
There were clouds.
There was a milky azureness.
And together with the primed, lambent glow they together made up a city of their own. It didn’t need any inhabitants for the void between the city and the dawn gifter was too deprived to be of any significance to life. Yet it thrived on its own.

Birds didn’t dare visit them, afraid that they might be engulfed in between the pristine, clandestine whiteness of the clouds and teleported to another world altogether. They preferred the soil’s magnetic pulse on their beaks better. At the same time they were the messengers between the world above and the world below.

The souls inhabit those lifeless voids. Someone found a way up and chose never to come back. Human nature, of course. Find something better, undiscovered, make it your own. I believe the souls managed to venture to places where even the messengers were skeptical of flying. “Stairway to Heaven” suddenly makes a lot more sense.
We’ve found her and her glittering gold.

At such quintessence where your ears become plugged, blood rushes to your mind and the stomach does all kinds of shenanigans thanks to science, such are distractions.
Since man can’t fly alone, he flies with the beauty offered by Nature and crafted by his mind. So even when he does manage to knock the darkness high above the city of souls, the guardians of the void always manage to plug his ears, tamper with his heart, lurch his insides around to keep him away. How else will they be able to guard their own vulnerability, their secrets, their fears that they were once glad to bury in death down in the reality on the soil of humanity.

Human nature, of course. They guarded their secrets below, they’ll do so vehemently above too. Come rain or fire, till the time warmth embraces their shadowless beings, humanity will not cease to exist even between the densities of the atmosphere above the place they call ‘home’.

You do realize, you are already climbing up the stairway. Slowly the voices emanating from downwards will silence you. Because silence is the best keeper of enigmas.
In silence you’ll breath. In silence we’ll meet. I too had wanted to feel what the coarse, dusty spectre felt like taking over as I morph into the essence of this universe. But instead it slapped me with fears.
The amniotic ends of my body came alive and the clouds protested, kicking up a thunder in my mind. But I wanted to feel, for once. I wanted to see whether silence could be heard or felt.

It seemed like a war.

It felt like the world is angry with me.

All I wanted was that bliss and instead I’d made the sentinels angry.

The soil beckoned me, the birds signaled a reproachful warning. But unlike the clouds, who seemed eager to push me through yet adamant not to let me see, I couldn’t fall through the soil too. I couldn’t perforate through my own fears framed in reality.No matter how much I try, I realized, I won’t feel or even hear the silence. Among the roars of the Gods who threatened to crush my body smaller than the iota of my intelligence, a voice spoke.

You need to become the Silence.

And so, I swallowed once more and finally pulled the strings. My wonder wings flapped and I floated down to unravel the mystery I’d lived through, come undone by. Little did I know, I’d bargained for a secret too many. Now, to silence me, my wondrous wings had to give up. Bow to the monoliths, you just don’t scrape through the void without paying the price. Humans, you know.

Just can’t trust them with all the truths they’ve seen. Silence them. I remained no exception, my greed took me under.

I left my fears to carry my body alone, and arrive to stain the dust back in my mortal being with a metallic sting.

So the next time a comet passes overhead, you’ll know that it was me who wanted to say hello. You’ll know that your secrets are already safe high above and that it doesn’t matter where you are or what you do, there will always be space for one more. Till the time you join me here, we’d have come around square and equals. Your fears are yours to keep, your own to fight and the scars your own to hide.

I won’t be coming back home

Home is here now.


We met on a Wonderwall

The one with little bridges and ridges of its own

And oblivion painting its memory on one side

Tall and long it stretched behind me

As far as light would travel

And my eyes would strain

We’d come too far

Far away

There was everyone who’d been swallowed, had found it impossible to stay here


Here was void you melt away,

There’s only so much I can see

Because darkness borders on the other side

With no sign or hope

Come closer and die.

So we sat down to surmise

The fears and the tears

With little-bordering smiles that had curved.

Watching the ghosts of our dreams taking birth in reality.

With many a cries, they rose to fill the void.

Little archangels of paradoxical stands.

Vanishing with every passing moment,

Every touch, the eldritch selves reside

It’s time for the exodus.

Back to sanity.

The Wonderwall will stay,

We’ll meet again.

For this is a fabulist’s moral repugnance.


Drive On

I’ve known you months enough to know you’d love to see the sun bowing out in its majesty here once more. These roads had been tarred long ago, leading to destinations unknown and uncaring. They’ve never seen people riding into sunsets by them. Maybe you’d make for them a rush of bits and pieces of regrets losing out with every mile, every smear and every turn.

I’ve known this whole time, I’ve been watching. But somehow my silence never spoke loud enough for my heart to speak to you through these forests. I asked the clouds in vain to be the ombudsmen to my stupors, my griefs. My battles were my own to be fought. So why is it that the air around here doesn’t make me feel alone?
I feel being made whole, cicatrized, wrapped in between the slivers of gleaming whites, your indistinguishable self.

The answer seems to remain in all those mornings we’d lost ourselves in the mists. Honestly, the blurry turbulence of this thunder managed to numb all my loneliness.
You felt a different breath, moving quicker and leaning more towards the future ahead.
You felt a different kind of hunger, swallowing me whole with every round of consumption.

The skies never suspecting a whirlwind romance kicking up to match nature’s monoliths. We never realizing this progression would land us up hung over in the past, lying in the future, tuning the radio to older stations. I’ve been hoping to find myself lately in one of those numbers. Failure in success.

I find myself in you. Today, right here, right now, remembering the past with a different gravity of nostalgia and the magnanimity of this moment provokes my deepest fears, threatening to take birth in the near future. In midst of this humanly bedlam, you’re the only thing that’s felt constant all this while.

As our song comes on with the first rays of dawn, I wonder whether this happenstance was graced by the winds rushing past. I wonder whether this breeze is a hint of some approaching blind closure that we can’t see for I’d hate to lose you to another storm that could defeat this purpose and armor. I pray these winds bring the future rushing towards us so that I’d know that you’d be here, by my side. So that I’d know that this monachopsis will reside, and my ineffable whims will be banished to the realms of neverlands.

Here’s to you.
Drive on.