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n. the desire to be struck by disaster—to survive a plane crash, to lose everything in a fire, to plunge over a waterfall—which would put a kink in the smooth arc of your life, and forge it into something hardened and flexible and sharp, not just a stiff prefabricated beam that barely covers the gap between one end of your life and the other.


How would it look like?
When I turn into what I became from.
Will it all be white?
with benches of white marbles,
and snow clad trees.
That’s how I think it’d be.
But I want to know it for sure.
You see, I don’t have a lot of confidence in my imagination.
Let’s just say, things don’t turn out to be the way I think they will.
Like when I was in class 9,
I imagined to spend my life with this girl.
And now she’s dead.
I bet she knows how it looks like on the other side.
But she will do what she used to do,
Smile and give mixed signals.
Like when I was in college,
waging a war with puberty.
I imagined I would have those marks on my face forever.
But I turned out fairly okay.
Usually I don’t bother about it.
It is inevitable people say.
That’s a relief.
But on days like these,
and nights followed by,
days like these;
I quietly wish it to end.
Because everything is so perfect.
Like a round baked cake,
or a spotless white shirt,
Like a set of sharpened pencils laid equidistant to each other,
OCD’s Paradise.
All I want is someone to shake the bucket,
or nudge it a little,
so that the water spills.
So, listen to me you seeds of misfortune,
come, my life is ready with the warmth,
the water and love,
come grow.
Eh. Love? You there?
come, let’s hang out.
Then I will just do what I do best.
Just be.
That should do the trick.
But if all these doesn’t work out,
I am afraid I am ready.
Because the events of my life,
are like spaces between the sentences of a book.
so close to something interesting or beautiful,
or horrific.
So close, but still unaffected by all the adventure it carries.
All I want is the ink to just spill and it is okay if it leaves a mark.
This arc is terrifying.
Not that I don’t love living,
But the wait,
The wait is killing me.

Er, Not quite.


I look at the fan and try to pretend,
I hold my breath and wait for it to end.
But all of it comes tumbling down,
As if it has been quietly waiting all along.
All those tears that I saved,
For every wound that I ever had.
Today their appointment was due,
and oh! weren’t they ready.

I could always blame it,
On You,
Or Timing,
Or Life,
Or the way it is,
Or me.

Not me.
I know it was my fault.
But I am not yielding.
I am done doing that.

I am tired.
Tired of pinning everything on myself.
Tying all my actions to a boomerang,
and wait for it to come back,
and hit me hard.
As it screams “I am back!”
The prodigal son returns.

But I am tired now.
These tears that I am shedding,
are the last of its kind.

Years later,
The recesses of my mind would try to remember this moment.
And it will all come back.
I promise.

Those scars would fade.
The heartbreak would mend itself.
But the memories of these tears would remain.

But I will miss it.
I will miss…
No. You’ll be debris.
I’ll miss this moment,
where it all happened.
while I slept,

Aren’t those the best kind of sleep?
The one where you cry yourself to sleep.




Right now, I have my hands-free plugged in and the song that I was playing has just ended. You have done that haven’t you?

Right now, I hear things differently. The sound of the fan above my head, the keys of the laptop as I write and a distant chatter in some random room number of my PG are different than the other ones that I hear. Which sounds?

A faint rhythmic beating of my heart, the sound of that I make when I gulp saliva and my breathing.

The strange melancholy that I am feeling. Maybe it is the song. It left its soul here. Time by Hans Zimmer. You should hear it.

Do you ever feel something and don’t know what to call it?
I do. And at that time, I feel helpless.

Yesterday I came across a word that described something that I had felt over the years.


And today I am here,writing about this.
Why did I make a vague attempt at describing what I was doing?

To let you know that I too exist. I too face what you have faced or are going to.

I often fail at expressing the same in prose as I do in poems. So here we go.

I hope they get to you.

I look out of the window,
raindrops hindering my sight.
I see people passing by,
As the day turns to night.
All I ever wonder is,
Do they share the same joy, the same plight?

Are we all nothing but paper planes?
Reviving at each gush of wind.
Are we not but just a figment?
A lead in ours but also a blur.
Are we all not joy rides in a fair?
Dancing on the tunes which we never knew.

A man dragged onto the shore,
A lady crying as she leans on the door,
A child, laughing and wetting the floor,
The grandmother whom we all adore,
A murderer feeling; leaving behind death and gore.
Me; going through all of it, once more.

There’s story lying around,
Old to them but new to you,
Look at the blur of lights that pass,
Look beyond the memories that lasts,
There’s a whisper dying to say,
“Come, sit, let me tell you a story”

Calvin & Hobbes – Significance

Calvin & Hobbes – Significance


I looked up to see the blanket studded with the shining beacons of hope.
I tried to stay in the moment as they say in the movies.
But some thoughts slipped through the cracks.
I covered my eyes with my hand and peeked through the gap,
And I saw a bright light.
A light that turns doubtful men happy,
and happy men blind.
Blind and deaf to the fact that everything is temporary.
But it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t matter.
It does.
You must know that all your decisions are webbed together to form a fabric we call life.
And that each choice makes a world of its own where our shadows live their own lives.
You might think you don’t have control and that is okay and true,
But not for a second doubt that the thing that you can’t control aren’t affected by the decisions you make.
Everything matters.
You, Me.
The stars, the sea.
So scream your hearts out and say “I am significant”
Remind yourself everyday and let not anyone tell otherwise.
Because if you don’t believe in it,
What’s the point?



At the inception of this starry night,
I saw a face so true,
A face that told me something,
About the things beyond the blue.
It told me how beautiful it is,
All that we cease to see,
Invisible to the naked eye,
As often the truth could be.

It has always been,
There and before the sea and crust,
We just fail to look beyond,
The things that we trust.
But today the curtain rises,
However late it might be,
For what comes once in a lifetime,
Is often endless as the sea.

I wish I could tell you how it looks,
But one has to see to feel,
Feel the heart beats of the stars,
As they start and stop in a beat.
It is not like the iron born,
That grows and rusts and dies,
They are but the births and deaths,
Of stars and stardust, they leave behind.

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