Lets run in circles. And run on pathways. And after trains. And circles. Discovering isn’t very hard.

Lets just roll over the grass. On hills. And sand. And smile.

Lets dive in the water. Open our eyes. Close them again. Smile.

Lets discover.

It is easy they say.

The question is–what happens after this. After the discoveries. After the running. After the rolling. After the dive.

Should you never open your eyes?

It is easy they say.

There is grey. A book. Of unanswered, undefined patterns. And coffee. And in unending paragraphs–there was nothing to dwell–and everything.

There is a camera. And a canvas. And a sheet of paper.

And patterns.

It is very easy they say.


We don’t know what we are discovering. And we never find out.

We keep running in circles. And follow the same cycle. And then we close our eyes, as we dive into the water.


City lights keep burning out. And so we learn that there is life. But that is not a new discovery.

City lights fade.

Now that is worth discovering.

It is very easy they say.

In Which, Leaves Turn Grey


“The Dark never enters, but it also never leaves”

The leaves meditated

Beneath the purple sky

Above the yellow fiery sea

They had fallen from the tree,

After living for hundred score years and three

Now, what did they see

Birds in a sequence and ships in a fleet

The leaves meditated

What did they feel?

Has Spring gone already? Has Autumn come?

They moved with the soft waves

And what did they hear?

Was it the sound of rain!

They meditated…

They had fallen from a tree

After living for hundred score years and three

Now they were ashore

They meditated for long

Then they turned grey.

“The Dark never enters, but it also never leaves”



Sitting in front of a screen on which there is a blank space which will soon be filled with numerous figures we like to call words… like space itself staring straight into the dark abyss of empty matter where these words reside perhaps. Words which will like a wasp, sting and surprise you and me.

Realization. The mother of all agonies. In a simple moment, so much can be seen of the future, so much recalled of the past and so much wasted of the present. But how often do we treat the present like an abnormal third wheel in a perplexed reality which is precisely the tense and complicated romance between the past and future.

How often does realization ruin so many dreams. How often does it pile dirt on the neat folded sheets of the white trust.And how often does it simply close chapters and books that you so foolishly and so very majestically and beautifully entwined knowing how hard it was to tangle and untangle the words. Words which sting and surprise and all.

* * * * * *

The man sat there with astonishment on his face while he stared at the glass of milk he was about to drink. And while he sat there, in a far off land a cellist played the symphony that made no sense, and so much sense. And the painter sold the last painting he drew of her. In the empty street who was there running after the faceless figure in the crowd of people that no one could see? And in the dark room where voices disappear what was that light? The words written on the note–no one bothered to glance.

But the man drank the milk. The cellist played on. The painter stopped to look at the sun setting. The faceless figure wandered on. Who was there..was a mystery. The light went out. The words-unnoticed.

A million white roses appeared. Children played on. The sky changed color. The sparrows and the ravens and the swans–all danced. The empty hallway–remained empty on weekdays. Dust gathered on the table. The stars were forgotten in the glow of neon signs. The stars were remembered in the day light.

The writer…the writer sat staring at the empty space on the screen which would soon be filled with words. The writer sat there…realizing.

* * * * * * *

The brilliant cloak we all carry was a sham. No one understood why. We all understood why. Nothing was questioned. Or perhaps it was. But the train never stopped.

Realization is a benevolence and a sin. And we are all humans. That is the greatest paradox of all.



Stories make up half of our life, atoms make up the other half. Threads-bind these halves and make the two rights-right…as long as one believes in that.

Threads are strands of twisted fragments of fibers held together–to hold together–things. Threads are pieces. Threads are twisted pieces. They bind together things-which are apart, which need to be less twisted. Twisted fragments to un-twist.

Threads bind together the missing pieces from the past to the motionless present to the blurry visions of the far ahead, the future. Just think for one moment. Do they really? Are all of these really bound together?

The present gathers dust because we can not bury the past and sometimes because we want to see the end. In all this, the motionless present gathers dust. And we become the forlorn images of a forgotten bliss and build inside huge walls of solitude.

Maybe none of this makes any sense. Maybe it makes a lot of sense. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.

Ever wonder why and hoe music stirs so many emotions inside us? Has it something to do with the brain? Or the damaged machine we call the heart? Or both? Both. Both are bound.

We are humans. Not threads. We may be bound to each other. But. We are not threads. We get attached, and detached. We can be one, and many at the same time. We are humans.

With souls. With deranged bodies, where the soul rests. With perplexed emotions, that we have to carry.Carry because otherwise, we are just a mass. We have eyes..which can dream, which can see. Which can recognize colors. And be deceived sometimes.We have hopes-which are fathomless. We have a heart–frazzled. A mind–bewitched. And. We are tired, but restless. We exist. But we are not threads.

We are imitations of each others and so different. We are not twisted fibers that hold together things. and we are. We are not threads. We are imitations of threads..or it, ours. Entwined. Complex. Detailed. We are humans.

Our existence is a plan. A frightful sleep with the eyes open. An awakening with eyes tightly shut. A path. Just a path. A story with many chapters and poetry and prose and morals and an end. All bound together by various threads of countless things. It takes one single motion which cuts the cord. Does it all scatter?

We are humans. Threads stitch us. Maybe this makes no sense. Maybe this makes a lot of sense.threads

Maybe. It doesn’t even matter.

Of Sunsets and Life


971734_494634307298022_257740671_nNever a comforting thought–that. But ah.. sunsets. How your heart sets, skips and does wonders during sunsets.

The grief ridden eyes find solace in nothing except a deep lingering sleep. They will say–it is common heartache…but nay. It is naught but that. It is grief. Not an inbred shift of innards. It is like a setting sun.

The worst thing about storms is, that before they strike hard, there is calm and peace. The worst thing about calm and peace is–that it never lasts and is immediately followed by storms.

Thus sets the sun. Deep into the horizon–to emerge again. But in all its glory–things repeat and stay the same.

And so–the little prince could not find the words and the nerves to reply. What would it say? They were forty four sunsets. One after the other.

It was not heartache. It was just an empty void.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

All i gathered about life. Each and everything. It must and can be summed in these four words. Not mine. NO. But they were written down by T.S Eliot.

‘Life is very long’

And thus…we go on living. We don’t know why we are doing so. But simply because if we don’t–life will stop. We don’t know what to do. So we keep walking.

SO we keep watching sunsets. And brace the long long life.



An Excerpt


“I look at faces to hear voices coming out from a hollow soul within their empty selves

and find myself in a pool of misery so i can look at

faces and recognize the voices and it is a circle of

so many broken dreams, and torn faces and ugly reality

that in the end….

no one comes out wining.”




The oppressed mind–makes the eyes stare in the dark

Every one and no one was to rejoice

In past memories and future shadows

An inkling–

The past has faces while the present has emotions

But the eyes constantly stare

A tune, a song, what is it!?

Which plays in the hollow of the naked dark day

The tired body–makes the soul dream

Of freedom–from the shakles

Each and all were to part–

You took that road which I was not allowed to take

I took that path which you could not find

The eyes, constantly gape

In the glistening bright night–none stirred

Each toiled!

And the eyes….they stared, in the space, deep into infinity

Then, the soul was free, so it was lost

The body–was dead and so it was born again!