The Sound of Death

What is the sound of
A breakdown like?
Is it like the deafening roar of thunder,
Or is it like a canonball on fire?

If you asked me,
I would say, it is exactly like
Silence, and painfully so.
A silence so prolonged,
You cease to believe you exist,
Or the world around you.

The silence is implosive,
The most cruel form of damage ever.
There is nothing more pathetic
Than something killing you
From the inside.

However, it gets worse
When that something is your own self.
No one dares say, ‘keep safe distance from yourself’.
If one could, that would be the end of the path,
And all these words would scream, rather
‘Beg’ for mercy.

And I hate begging.

Them, women!


To those amazing women
Who have given us the best gifts in life:
Our firsts!

This evening,
As I sit drenched, intoxicated, and content,
Accompanied by the warmth of the snow,
Outside my window, and
The golden hue swirling inside the cylindrical crystal
On my matte, dark desk, resting
Restlessly on a coaster,
I wish to get happily lost
In the memories
Left behind, labeled ‘regrets’;
The ones I vowed, never to see again.

As I give in to the whims of fluid gold,
Moments hidden in memories
Hit me: the first night,
The first time staying up till dawn
With tea warming our hands,
Smoke blurring your face as I looked on;
The first sip of scotch;
The day we skipped work together;
The first breakfast we ever shared;
The dinner we never went to;
The day you sang to me
Lost in yourself,
And probably, a little bit in me.

Ah, I remember it all

As I live the day, when one of you
Introduced me to a magic named

A place called ‘Desire’

A place called ‘Desire’

What does desire do to you,

When you have been walking for eternity,
And the weary soul takes over;
Seizes a moment
Of indulgence, lust, and lunacy,
Enigmatic as they ever seem?

Do you see that as an opportunity?

Where does desire take you?

What is the place called,
One you have fixated as your destination,
When you are no more walking, striving to make the upcoming
A tiny bit different from all
That has been?

What do you see when you hold the mirror,
Broken into molded choices, second chances, and lost hopes,
And look into those sad eyes, the pupils dilated?


Is that what desire did to you?

The Fear Of Dreaming

The Fear Of Dreaming

I saw this picture of a place by the sea. It had the moon, bigger than usual.  The gigantic moon did not baffle me. The reflection of it on the water did. It suddenly, and quite unexpectedly carried me back to my childhood memories; no, a particular memory: of me painting the reflection of the moon or the sun on water. I remembered being quite excited: I had just learned the technique of painting reflections on the ripples. It brought back happy times, times of enthusiasm and fearless learning, times of not knowing the pressure of performance.

The best part: it had brought me a short happy break from my usual endeavor throughout the day, from my continuous chase towards perfection, every moment. My childhood has been trained to move towards a delivery of performance, and carelessly forget to dream. Bravo!