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Momentary lapse

It was a momentary lapse, wasn’t it? That fractional slip when I felt I could not gather myself anymore. Gone is that moment, gone is the slip. I relive them for one last time… until I have to say I love you again.

O, my derelict heart. Listen to me, for once. Stop giving yourself away…

I thought I was letting you go. You came back. You left. You came back. Since when has my wild heart become your circus, where you traipse in, juggle, joke and pretend? Your act has become stale… You no longer entertain Me.

Yet you are still here. Do you not understand? Or has my heart not found the lock to keep you out? Unless we locked the door and handed you the key…

It turns out, my being understands you are no longer the gatekeeper, but my heart is adamant on being adamant.

Oh wait, it’s the sky pouring forth its feelings in my stead. Here comes the rain, asking me what’s wrong, as if it’s unaware…

I am incapable of stealing the key back, let alone asking for it back. Maybe it’s time. Keep the key. Keep the memories too. It’s time to change the lock.



I have carried my whole world inside me, and it’s coming apart. I have breathed through the deepest darkness, thinking that it would take over me, and carry me to someplace darker than dark art. It did not happen. I travelled, but I somehow found my way back.

Am I in one piece again? I can hear my voice again. Is it the same?

I am on a simple quest for connections.
To see. To be seen.
Not as what others want to perceive, but as who I am and what I believe in.

I have imagined what it would be like to draw a circle. Sometimes, I forget where to start. But wherever my starting point will be, I’ll make sure to garnish the rest of the line, of the journey, with my words.

I don’t want to please you. I don’t want to write for you. Yet I keep scribbling. The words keep tumbling… and you keep coming to my mind.

Under the Rain

We heard the wind chime, and the bells chimed along.

We found shapes in clouds, found oddities,
And a million possibilities.

He walked beside me, yet he was all around,
Overwhelmed, I could not stay rooted to the ground;
He knew it, I knew it too: to each other were we already bound.

I once called him my sun
‘Cause he brightened the planets –
When he once walked with me under the rain,
Just before the showers gathered all that I had gained.

We met again, under the rain;
To us, it seemed like a drizzle
So much our hearts would burn and sizzle,
Hidden from sight, hidden from pain,
These hidden meanings were anything but plain.

He looked over, figuring out the mystery,
Eyes narrowed, wondering why everything was glittery.
It’s the rain, I assured him, it smacks of a conspiracy.
Don’t reason it out, we’re framed to a greater degree.
Walk, let the rain fall over me:
I’d rather hide you, let the rain confound me.

He pried open my secrets, reminded me of how we met.
Suddenly the torrent sounded like a litany,
The storm, the raindrops, unravelled in a flurry.
He spoke, softly amidst the mist and dew,
The rain sprinkled upon us, delectably,
No longer am I lost, said he, now that I have found you,
And now we are one, and now my world is you.


Weird things.

“People think dreams aren’t real just because they aren’t made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.” Neil Gaiman’s words are haunting me today. Should I have called this ’13 Random Thoughts – Part 2’? I wonder. I have been wondering a lot lately. And weird things have been popping up…

  1. Once upon a time, I realised that clouds were not like cotton candy, were not fluffy, and I couldn’t float on them.
  2. And then I started to wonder… what if… what if there were such things as parallel universes? What if at this exact moment, when I’m typing this, another Me is flying to a country I (present me, that is) never knew existed? The other Me would be unveiling the conspiracies of cartographers (thank you, Mr. Stoppard!) while I keep losing myself in a myriad of words. I do hope my parallel self is as charming as I am, though. Just saying.
  3. I do not know if I believe in luck – an ephemeral temptress (read: mistress) who seems to always glide among the shadows, and remains unreachable, unlovable. Frustratingly so! Does not believing in something make it less real?
  4. People are always in a hurry. Where are you going? Which train (bus, if you’re in Mauritius) do you need to catch? And would calamity really befall if you missed it? Why can’t you be a few minutes late? If you can’t, why didn’t you leave earlier? I’m starting to compile a list of things that bother me. Watch this space for more.
  5. Chess aesthetics are a paradox or a weird combination of harmony, symmetry, and complication.
  6. One of my favourite words is ‘ethereal’. It evokes so many things in my mind, like an otherworldly scent of cherry blossoms and rainbows, things that make me happy, and a curious child. Language is mesmerising.
  7. Questions keep swinging across the playfield in my head, a tennis match of sorts, or rather, a Quidditch match of sorts. I am, for obvious reasons, the Seeker.
  8. I like to compartmentalise my thoughts. I open one drawer, read the notes, and then lock them up for another day. I wonder if I could compartmentalise the people I come across – preferably not in drawers, but there are some I would love to lock away for safeguarding, and some I would just love to lock out of my life forever.
  9. Gratitude is too often overlooked, because we feel that the world owes us what we have. Nobody owes us anything. This isn’t a business; it’s definitely not give-or-take, nor can it be an individualistic game. Something to try (do it, why try?): The gratitude jar: fill it up with positive things that happened to you over the year, and read them all on New Year’s eve, or anytime you feel like the entire weight of the world is on your shoulders.
  10. I cannot decide whether I’m sad or happy sometimes: can I be both, or is there a middle ground where I sit cross-legged and contemplate the mysteries that surround me? I don’t know, but it’s oddly calming. In the words of Tennessee Williams, “If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels.”
  11. No matter where I go, I remain a believer: in beautiful things, in comforting words, in worthwhile moments, in poetry, and most importantly, in myself.
  12. There are some people who walk about, and it feels like it’s always raining on them – not just any kind of ordinary or torrential rain, but dimly-lit showers reminding one of joy bursting through an evening sky…
  13. It doesn’t take much to create beautiful chaos. It really doesn’t.

 I’ve read that people have on average 70,000 thoughts per day. I wonder how many you had while reading these. This was supposed to be a fun post, but I guess it’s just one of those days.


This is a selfish post. It’s about me. If you have traipsed in here hoping to find yourself, then maybe you will, in my idiosyncrasies. Or maybe you’ll scoff at my foolish words. Maybe. One of my favourite words. Regardless, this is a beautiful selfish post, if I say so myself.

I have been practising the art of letting go. “The art of losing isn’t hard to master,” I’m told. Not quite the same thing, yet not quite dissimilar. So, I went ahead and lost toxicity. I walked away from ugly relationships that couldn’t be mended. I walked away from unhappy places, from candles that would no longer burn. Things we do to preserve our (in)sanity…

In the process, I realised I had unknowingly, subconsciously foregone my compulsion. I, the list-maker, had not drawn up a satisfactory list in a long while. I, the aspiring writer, had not written as if my life depended on that pen scratching across the paper while I secretly admired my eccentric handwriting. I, the compulsive reader, had not read for pleasure, and was irrationally lashing out in angst at the fictional characters who felt more miserable than me.

My universe has become colourless.
I need the fireworks back.

Being compulsive makes my madness feel explosive, it makes me feel alive and out of breath. It makes me a knower of things. It makes me roll around in the sand and splash in the water.

Today, I choose to go back to who I was.
I choose to love trees with wide-eyed wonder,
To read with happy thoughts,
I choose to discover something new,
To never let go of the madness that drives me.



I can feel the nightly drizzle on my hands.
December, you say? I can’t see it. I wish I could feel it… except there’s a wish in every step we take.

The mornings are the same, but the times have changed. They feel hollow, but part of me is screaming.

Where did they go? All of them. It feels so cold, so bleak. Yet someone collided with my heart.

I hear the echoes. Maybe I’m someone else. Maybe I’m still the same. Maybe you’re someone else. Maybe you changed.

I have thirteen wishes – one of them is to make it stop. The other is to find you. Or find you again. What’s the difference?

Did it matter? To me, it did. And to you?

Where did you go? Where have you been? I just heard you walk in again. Or was it my own heartbeat?

Wish List.

It feels like holding a heart made of glass.
Is it mine, or is it yours?

You once told me I complete your songs. And you still complete my sentences.
You told me your heart skipped a beat. And you dream along with me.
You asked me to draw with the wind. And you think I’m a star.

What do I wish for?
I wish to feel like this forever.
Define “this”. I can’t. Feels like an anomia.
But I… I am breathing only for this.

So… it does feel like holding a heart made of glass.
And I am following it.
I know it will lead me to you.

On Maybe.

Maybe this is how we are meant to feel forever.
Maybe this is how it never ends.
Maybe this is why it matters.
Maybe we are more than just friends.

Too many ‘maybe’s’ we cannot understand. Too many colours of our hearts we would like to splash across the sky. Too many clouds we need to move around. Too many strings to untie.
And then, there are words we write.

Why do we write? To express. To let those too-insistent voices come out. To feel blue. To feel words that are sometimes just enough. Or just not enough. Barely encompassing that space in which we want to breathe.

Maybe we want to start in one way and end up in another.
Maybe there’s no clear beginning.
No clear end.

Maybe there’s just you.
And then, there’s me.

Dark Night

It always starts with a melody,
Like a waterfall shielded from perfidy,
You strutted to me, like a prince without vanity,
Asking me to walk to you, to create another reality.

I gazed in ultimate ecstasy,
As the wisps of smoke reinvented insanity:
The colours, the scent, you… a whole other galaxy.
The more I looked, the more you… you all seemed imaginary.

Where were we? Where had we reached?
I’d forgotten all alacrity!
Where are we? Where have we reached?
I’d follow you in greater depravity.

There are too many words in my head,
Too many that I write for you,
Too many that defy you, define you,
Give meaning to the flashes in my head.

Continue reading “Dark Night”

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