Monday, January 24, 2011


A profusion of thoughts and a flurry of ideas,
But you've run out of ink to pen them down.
Just when the precipitancy of your wishes is infinite too.

You start to misrecollect.
What. Think. Think again.
Come back.

You engage in excogitation, anticipating an ephiphany.
Cri de coeur!
Voices in agony; Please let us not forget.
We have come this far.

Alas, you have come out too far.
But the stars are brighter here, the moon bigger, the colors better.
And you could be happier.
Do you take it all and justify thoughtlessness?

Let the corporeality of your soul not be an impediment.
"You're going to catch a cold, from the ice inside your soul".

They will stab you, cut you, open you, then examine you.
Only to understand that minute yellow speck in the core.

And they won't.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011


So you won't take a bow.
You feel that the winds will change direction.

A smile.
And walls made of cobwebs are deconstructed.
It's been a while now since you plunged.
The darkness is astounding.
It hides them all.

So you envelope yourself in the assortment.
Shrouded in the richness of grime.

Disembarrass yourself.
Effulgent will be your demeanour, promise.

A nod.
And the glaciers of incongruity melt.
It's been some time since you looked. 
There is no vision for miles.
Reassuring is the sound of your thoughts.

After all, you're just as enterprising.
And you just won't let it get over.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011


It's funny.

You can write about him, her, and them too.
But when it comes to writing about yourself, you can find no words.

How is it that you know yourself best and yet you know nothing about yourself?
Do you need a mirror in front of you while you write?
Or perhaps a song playing in the background?

After all, you do tend to relate to most songs. They depict your very life.

Do you realise how odd it is talking to space?
More odd is talking to strangers about yourself.

They say you tend to talk to strangers about yourself when you feel estranged.
No one cares. You don't either. You're selfish. You don't want to listen but you want to be heard.

It's funny.
You can talk about him, her and them too.
But when it comes to talking about yourself, you can find no voice.

And it's scary.
You have so much to say.
But you're running out of time.

Monday, January 3, 2011


Will you walk on by like they don't exist?

Their faces form an aide memoire, yet you won't recall.

You want their love and their hate, be their raison d'etre?

Tis but an easy task, being pensive in front of the scornful.

And the commoners are not fooled by your astute ways.

Pretty pink things, fancy sweet talk, zeal and excitement.

Everything is to be spoken of with great vehemence.

See, they must believe you.

So you become a mere 'brick in the wall' in this pinked up world.

Yes, sweet remembrance for you always. And forever.

But it is a matter of time and not enough of it. Fait accompli and you can go back no more.

Let your self not pass you by?

There is only so much you can do to quell another and then avoid being trampled on in return.

Atleast you were thought about.

C'est la vie

Saturday, January 1, 2011


You're irresolute. And enveloped in depravity.

There is no end to your lies.

You lie to your mirror. The thought of being relinquished sends shudders down your spine.

After all, you've never been alone. Who can even survive alone?

Now that kinda existence is just absurd.

The sand pours down as you try to think about the right answer. Is there even a right answer?

Slow it down.

It has changed. There can be no answer.

That's just ludicrous.

There's always an answer.

But you're a liar. And it makes your soul gray. Your reflection wavers at your very sight.

Morality is just a value. It is rather discomfiting.

You appeal to your self to eschew the truth.

There is an answer.

It is the origination, of an impasse.