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.



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!

Soul Made of Glass


Who is scared of silence? And who is scarred by it!?

What lays beyond the sky?

What burns beyond the fire?

Where does smoke allude?

What lays beyond the beyond? Reality? And what is reality?

What happens to the soul–

And often does glass break, but seldom does it break! Confusion–reality.

SO you wipe the slate clean…wipe the glass, the crystal as it turns to dust..

But what is the soul made of??

Seldom is it made of glass…seldom does it stay put. Often does it wander…And seldom does it break

What happens to the soul? Heart is a fickle thing…it is a spectacle…a phenomenon.

If it works, it works…if it disintegrates–it still works.

But the soul? It dies…slowly. Or does it.

But the Soul made of Glass–it snaps. It shatters. The unheard sound of how the glass…it tears its bond apart…to diverge…

The unseen…the unheard.

Ah so the body…which is a parasite…feeds off of the soul…Or is it the other way around??

What is the force beyond the great force!

And inside the weak body…the soul—one made of glass….it snaps…demolishes itself…shatters..and not a single thing is felt…Thus, numbness infiltrates…exudes shadows of the so called life…while in actuality the form is of lifelessness…

Where breath is instilled..and so it functions. The thing we call body..the breath is no more a life form.

But what is life…whence the soul remains torn, ripped and broken. A million pieces left unchecked. Whence the heart is still strong, yet weak.

Hark. Silence scars the broken soul. Where do shadows come from?

So Man. How do you do? Why do you survive? What catch is there for you?

There is music in the background–so we all get lost in it. 1531531_482408765209768_615811683_n

Man. A shadow.

Soul. Made of Glass.

Let There Be Silence– Smoke In My Face.


In the shadows that falter somewhere. Somewhere the ghosts whose cries of solitude and despondency cuts through the air–shrill, sad.

While we become restless–because of the thousand faces we see in the mirror. The million and one voices that we hear when we are alone.

It is all there. We are at a loss maybe.

In each greeting, we hear whispers.

From a vantage point we stand alone–hearing the bleeding world howl.

And from there we hear the birds being happy.

And from there we hear dreams coming true.

And songs and music.

And death and whispers.


Let there be silence.

Let there be dark.


The visible vapor. Is it mist? Where does it come from?

Now it rises.

Now it turns dark.

Now it dissolves in thin air–making it thick.

Now it rises again.

Where does it come from?


IS it my soul?

Is it?

It comes and it rises–dissolving into air.

It leaves me–there while i stand at the vantage point.

It’ll come back to me–i know.

Is it heading towards salvation?

Being chastised?

There it rises–like mist.

There is smoke in my face–and it is me.

So i keep standing there–at the vantage point…listening to the silence