.a written note.

I put my spectacles down. I close the door behind me. I return here and go back, open the door and shut the window. I close the door once again. I return to this place. I have a square shaped empty white space in front of my eyes and a keyboard beneath the fingers of my hands that have been struggling lately to be stable. What I have in front of me is empty. And I understand it's meant to be anything but empty. It deserves to be filled. Filled with words like wine in a glass. Molecules inside me keep on triggering tears but while in the process of playing hard to come out of my body, they become words. They struggle to get out. But it is this soul's fault that's afraid to open a door for them. It is this concern that the pathways on the other side of the door are made of cement and such rigid atoms and those that struggle won't last the way they are. They're made of thin laces and they bath in naivety. I have been fighting with urges. I have been fighting with ...

Maybe this is because life currently has become steadily non-happening and so I walk in circles these days, without coming to a halt. I find myself sleeping for more hours than I usually do and probably need. I must be going to sleep feeling longing for something or nothing at all for I feel even number when I wake up. I have things to do but I've kept most of them away for a while. I have friends to meet but I don't go out lately. When I do, its with my cousin brother. The fresh street and head lights add a specific feel to the pretty, happy and busy faces I see on my way and I am just shown another side of my mood that doesn't last long; a feeling as I reach home, knowing I'll again be the same person enjoying solitude. The time spent playing old games with the ones I have blood relations with put me at ease somehow and I suddenly miss my family. My own people. They're there in front of me but I end up missing them more than ever. I remember how I was brough...

Whispers. The whispers created by the unknown, making me believe some promises aren't meant to be broken turned their arrival into an intention of disappearing a couple of nights ago. And here I am tonight. The bed I lie in makes the saudade, the longing feel less no matter how it feels really. Painful, chaotic or simply unknown. As my body hesitatingly rests on this bed, my internal self hesitates openly for the belief lays inside that I can come out from there..for there are locked doors ahead that I can open. I begin to hear that specific sound of typical midnight as the clock ticks 3am and I fail to understand whether both, the little chirping and the sound of silence, make any difference to the sensations I initially feel as I wait for the same whispers to get back to me. I still believe they'll come back but as the night continues to pass every moment, it becomes more chaotic to know the wait makes my heart sink deeper in an unusual way. This isn't what I thoug...

As I set the jar full of myself free in a river that I don't know what I should call, it accepts my contribution and I suddenly start realizing that those before me have given bits of themselves to this river too, like the petals of a flower. Some plucked some of their parts and let go of them in here. Like those parts were nothing. Some gave away themselves completely and again, like they were nothing. I can't really see what they contributed but I sure see the space slowly getting full. This river appears like some invention by the unknown and I come to think its been flowing from the lane attached to my window, showing me signs that its time. And I have just emptied myself. In the idea of what its like to empty something. I can't see the petals but I see the water coming up and I remember one of the tales I was told, back in my childhood. The tale of a thirsty crow that puts small stones inside a pot of water, how the water level raises up and how its thirst vani...

And do I need to know the age of my soul, really? Do I need to know how old it is? I wonder. As the greenish sky-blue curtains of this bedroom don't mind letting themselves flow, letting themselves be dominated by the summer air, the wild afternoon air, I don't mind going with the flow either. Like a child, I happen to think whether these old yet fresh curtains sometimes purify and cool down the hot summer air first before allowing it to reach me. I become more childlike mentally and wonder if its always been like this. When I see the one who has lately become my everything, my pet, resting entirely over a cold surface that we would call veranda, a smile appears to my face out of..nowhere. A smile, I know, full of memories. I pass by this veranda every time I get in and out, but how this adorable pet of mine, having come to where he was awaited for two long years, owns a power to make me recall everything I witnessed here. Over this veranda. How I lived the best hours o...

I'll be lying if I say I care. I don't. I don't care how many new emotions I meet as long as emptiness fills me. Should I?  Like the Sun doesn't mind, can't mind letting its light accompany it like an inseparable part of it every time it arises, I don't mind this emotion filling me physically, emotionally. My lungs, veins, cells and my brown skin. My thoughts, dreams and fears and flaws. I am not the Sun, but I wonder whether its burning that spreads the light, that uncontrollably gentle and dominating light all over the floor and the air of this universe, is strong and pure enough to enter one's soul. I remember how unstable I used to get because of one specific source. No, I don't blame the source, I wonder if I failed to grab the beauty, the positivity as much as instability I possibly got. But I can't wonder much. I don't. I've probably come farther than the path where I would've had asked for assurance, security around somet...

That moment arrives when a normal day starts feeling like a storm all around you. The air feels cruel. The winds, even more. You hurt. It doesn't go away. It troubles you outwardly. Your head feels empty, but gets heavier every minute. The weight of never-ending thoughts, insecurities and the fear. You try badly for this storm to stop. You try not to let anything enter your mind for you know you'll have to pay for it. But what you avoid, identifies you. What you're supposed to be like, kills you somehow. Every thought leads you back to that same place. You long. You hurt. Like a beggar. Full of regrets. Full of what ifs and buts. You're nothing inside but everything inside you is just too much that you feel the space isn't enough. You feel weightless. But it feels like the burden is breaking you and pushing you down the floor, deep down the tiles of your room and even the sand thereafter. You don't stop trying but the storm always wins. Like it has won, r...

I'm passing The Overlord Award to Rahul  http://randomrahul.blogspot.in/  Only a sentence: A great platform if fictions interest you! *** I am back to my hometown, three weeks before the birthday. I'd left this place for the sake of giving myself a break and I figured it was a well made decision. On the contrary, I did behave weirdly the day I left her place, for some unknown reasons. Sometimes I wonder whether we became best of friends by an accident but what mattered was the bond we shared. As true as it is, it confuses me many a times. Not that anything's wrong. Here, since I'm back, I notice there are things I'm yet to figure out. If taken a look, I knew I was gonna find tremendous things yet to be sorted out but I did like the idea of keeping all those things in a pending zone of my mind, taking a break for a specific time, pretending for myself to throw up all my cares in the air and knowing I'm gonna have to head back to the zone that awaited me. Hu...

She gazes out the window, wondering what can make her swallow her pain.. All she sees are the city things, never the sunlight on the dying grain. The winds blow, touching her cheeks.. Appear the clouds, to not let the Sun burn her skin.. Flowers blossom, knowing she's unwell, wondering if forever, that's where she remains.. She knows all the efforts the nature puts in, not being a stranger. To make her feel good again and not to give in and be the same mess-maker. How she wishes the winds knew, that those remind her of a fragrance.. How she wishes the clouds understood, protecting her, they multiply his absence. The winds blow faster, the flowers grow bigger, Telling her not to be afraid.. The sun goes down like setting a crown, of inspiration and desires, on her head. For her life seems without any pleasing sky, down the street, across the breeze, there comes a butterfly. Asking her if or not can she feel a thing, she looks at it, about to ...