An Encounter with Self

55, 56, 57, 58, 59…. The number kept changing rapidly 00, 01, 02, 03…
She kept staring at the screen, blankly, without once blinking her eye. She was oblivious to what was happening around her. Even if the world would have fallen apart around her, she would not notice, she was too enchanted by the numbers blinking on that tiny screen. If someone would look at her, they would assume that she is lost in a daydream, gazing into the future, but it wasn’t like that with her. She was focusing on that split second where the number would just change and one would never experience that second again. This moment will never return and it is just going to exist in the past, linger there forever. She thought to herself how quickly all of this would fade away, in a moment of time hundreds of cells gave up their lives, in a moment of time even she will cease to exist.

She usually wasn’t scared of these thoughts (about dying) anymore. And it took a lot of patience and self-introspection to get there. It wasn’t that she didn’t value the life she was given, but she had come to an understanding that it wasn’t in her hand to control this decision. But today a new kind of fear engulfed her. She was rather shocked at this feeling. She was afraid she didn’t believe the skin she was housing. She felt as if her body and her mind are two different entities, having troubles about coexisting together. She didn’t remember feeling like this before or even if she did, she had a very quaint feeling.

She was still reluctant to look away from the screen, she was hooked. She was worried that if she looked away, she is going to miss out on a lot of things, and she wanted to gather it all, not let her limitations stop her from experiencing the world.

The holy ritual these numbers were performing had forced herself to look beyond the obvious, things she had missed in her everyday life and commute. She was afraid of the answers, but maybe she was starting to enjoy the process. It was weird to her that she knew she was looking for answers, maybe even had the idea where she would look for one, but she was worried that she didn’t have the right questions to ask.

At that moment, she thought of something, something that she knew had helped her in the past: poetry. The whole point of poetry for her was to dig beneath the surface, to know herself a little better, dive into the deep lingering thoughts and make sense of what actually worked for her and what she believed would work for her. They were just not rhymes and sounds, it was a tool that would dig up fossils, clear them out and give them a name.

She started mumbling something, random words put together as they flew her mind, she wasn’t worried about them making sense. She was starting to believe that eventually, everything falls into place. The catch was, the universe had a big role in it and her very little although powerful. She just had to keep doing, and doing some more, and then some more till she knew she had given it all she had and then she would leave it up to the universe to make sure the pieces fit where they were supposed to fit. She knew that it is not the way she would always want, but she did not have any power over that decision.

It was something she was very new at but knew the powers were immense: the art of relinquishing control. She was getting there, getting better after all these conversations she would have with herself. She wondered if all of these really made sense in the bigger picture, but she knew she had to keep going in order to find out.



The screen went blank and all of a sudden she could not see anything. She closed her eyes and tried making sense of what was happening around her. She did not feel in control of anything — her mind, her senses, her body. They all felt different parts floating in space, like the paper that breaks down into pieces and keeps floating till you stop noticing.

The next thing she knew was her alarm ringing for the nth time.

She was anew.


Voluntary Sadness

He felt sad from the pit of his stomach. It started there and he could visualize it spreading throughout his body. It wasn’t a physical ache, but the pain was worse he thought. It’s the kind of pain he has been familiar with — been through this before. Although, something about this felt different, more grown up, maybe a little more intense. This time he did not want to cry about it to his friends, binge on heart-wrenching classics, not gorge on the ice-cream or anything else to substitute the pain. He wanted to feel every second of this in order to fully understand what was happening to him, no matter how painful. On one hand, he wanted to put his face in the pillow and cry his heart out and on the other hand, he was okay, tapping the keys on his laptop. If someone were to look at him, they would not even have the faintest idea of the whirlwind that was being caused inside him; the battles he was fighting and the unchartered territories he was venturing into.

What is with this pain and this life, he thought? Love felt like a complex emotion. He wanted to hold on to it even though he knew it was toxic. He ached for her, he longed for her company, but she was nowhere to be found. She was a distant dream, a melody played in the wee hours of the morning, soothing and calming, waking you up from the deep slumber.

He never realized how a relationship he held on dearly to would teach him one of the most remarkable lessons of life. It was something with that girl he met one lonely summer. There was something about those conversations, something that called out to him. He did not remember the process of falling in love. Whenever he tried to recollect the memory of how he fell in love, not one specific instant came to mind. He felt as if he was always in love.

There were all sorts of questions in his mind. He was trying to make sense of the past few weeks, maybe months. Knowing too much about something isn’t too good either. One is always so apprehensive about doing anything, he thought. Over analyzing, overthinking and prone to more damage by the things he usually would not think too much about did not work in his favor. He wanted to replay each and every moment since the inception of this relationship, not because he dearly wanted all of this back, but the thought of this not working out had never occurred to him as something sustainable. He always thought that their relationship was synergic so they would automatically be drawn to each other, but somehow universe managed to surprise him.

That’s the thing about love: you can’t deny it, you can’t escape it, you can’t stop it. It is one of the finest experiences one can have in their lifetime. The interpretations of this experience are various and probably that is the beauty of it. You get to make your own story, keep it with you and nurture it.

Somewhere he was thankful, somewhere he wasn’t. He did not know when this would fade if ever it would fade. He was just there in love, hurting and aching, but still in love, so undeniably in love. He dreamt of her, in the quieter moments of life, when no one was paying attention when he would feel the wind in his hair when he would look at a child. It would bring him extreme joy and extreme pain, sometimes more and sometimes less — that’s love, always moving, making you feel things you have never before.

Amorphous State of Existence

Have you ever been to a pottery class or, have you ever witnessed a potter in action? If you have, you might easily be able to empathize with what I am about to write. If not, I hope my words fill in those details and make the picture vivid enough for you to get the feeling of experiencing it in person.

So, the potter. It is really fascinating to see how he/she works. I think he/she is a magical being, possessing life-giving powers. When I look at the magical lab, I think it is divided into two fractions: chaos and orderly. One half of his room is occupied by clay, this lifeless matter, lying around waiting to be picked up — chaos. Another half of the room is occupied by aesthetically beautiful pots, cups, vases and everything you can imagine — orderly.

When he picked up the lump of clay and threw it on the wheel, I was almost certain that shaping this raw material and morphing into a cup will never turn out to be the same as I saw the other one lying on the orderly side of the world. I always thought he had some hidden machine which would wither into perfection, this epitome of exact measurement. But as soon as he started moving his wheel, his hands dancing around the wheel, joyfully playing with the clay, performing an art, the one that takes you into a trance. He so delicately starts giving it some form, he was very conscious about the pressure he would put on it, the rhythm of the wheel had to be in sync.

It is a very exhilarating experience to see something come to life from nothing. The idea of something or someone being born, something or someone ceasing to exist might seem like very general and obvious ideas. One might mistake them for ordinary. Unless you have seen them in action, you can’t gauge the power of such processes. Babies being born are a miracle, but it is extremely beautiful to see an idea being born as well, turning into something powerful, with deep impact. The idea of death scares us all, but watching your favorite mug turn to pieces or experiencing the pain of departing from your loved one; it changes you, from the core. They are small but powerful changes. You start appreciating the little things that you would have once failed to even notice, you might be more alert about the things you say, the places you go, the decision you make. And I mean it in a good way, you try to be more respectful towards your life.

A lot of this might seem gibberish, here and there, but do not you think that is our state of being. We are crowded with dreams, wishes, ambitions, fear and inhibitions, biases, longing, self-awareness and the list might never end. It is a big set to choose from, differs for everybody, but the list will remain, multiple threads being processed. We are always trying to make sense of this world around us, constantly monitoring ourselves to be the better version then you were a minute ago (might seem exaggerating), but in the hindsight you know that is what you are doing.
We are constantly evolving, changing minute by minute.

Our potter is the life, the experiences, the choices that we are making and I am yet to find out when the potter of my life is gonna stop and I can look at myself and feel the same calmness that I experience when I look at that cup from the other side of the world — orderly side. But I have never seen anyone so refined, so furnished ever — everyone is constantly changing, taking new shapes, coming to life in various forms and that made me question — will I never reach the orderly side of the world? Will I ever be at that stage where my brain would just take a breath and just learn to relax like me with a martini and book on a beach.

And if I do reach that point, will I still be living? I wonder what it would be like on that side of the world. Will things be calmer, quieter and soothing? Sometimes I wonder if the potter shapes the clay as he goes or does he already know what he is going to make?

Do you wonder that as well? Do you ever question: when will you stop being in an Amorphous state of existence?

Will one always be in an amorphous state of existence?

After you left…

After you left,
What remained of me
Was not a corpse,
But might as well have been.


Some words don’t talk, they kill

Some moments don’t leave, they haunt

Some people just disappear, but they never really leave.


Things you want to leave behind

But they just never leave, always haunt

The lovers of our past lives.


How easy we think it is
To wade through life
With a soul that knows yours
Voluntarily blindsiding the truth:
Their power to poison you from the roots

The Thing with Distance

Things that distance teaches you
Are not how you start to value: a person or a place

It teaches you
The importance of a small conversation

It teaches you
The joy of small things

It teaches you
To value a shared meal

It teaches you
To be kind even when vexed

It teaches you
To smile a little more, to love a lot more

It teaches you
To be human


My weapons are words
Never said
Always written

What do I think?

What do I think, when I think of us
Wrapped in a blanket underneath the stars
I think of a beautiful poetry
Written in love.

What do I think, when I think of us
In the hot summer afternoon under the tree
I think of words being sipped from lips
Reaching the heart

What do I think, when I think of us
On the darkest of nights, with no light and sight.
I think of a symphony
Spreading chills through my spine

What do I think, When I think of us-
You and me.
I think we are the relics
Of a love story left untold.


Mastering the art of not giving a fuck about anything
And there it was running through her mind
That silent moment of acceptance;
All the fuck she gave about everything.


Summer chilly night, the moon half-lit
Witnessing a dilemma that life poses.
Half smoked cigarette at 3 had something to say,
about life, universe and everything.
Sitting there quite by the window
It was everything a respite would consist of
But something went missing
The silent tunes buzzing at the back
Some Bukowski to feed the brain and the heart
A big BUT
Stood there staring in her face
It wasn’t the presence of a shadow or a hint of embrace
It was the subtle absence of peace of mind
That was missing
It was big empty cut, a space
A void
Carved right out in the middle of her chest
The smoke coming out of the empty void
Daunting her of the part that went

Healing is a process

Does love really fade, or hide or die or say bye?
Does it really every leave your system?
How do you stop loving someone?
How do you discard those million memories, scenarios and moments?
Do you just delete the pictures that have dominated your gallery and your mind?
How do you delete their existence from your thinking?
How do you wake up every morning and not think about them?
Or how do you train your heart to not skip a beat when you see them pass by and not take a notice of your presence?
How do you not cry yourself to sleep when the pangs of their memories are torturing you?
How do you stop loving someone who has become your second skin?
How do you?

Good Night

Dream sweet, my pretty boy.
Sleep awaits for you to go in a deep slumber
It will show you the world within,
land of love and imaginations,
countless stories waiting to be woven as your dreams.

Muses of a long time lover

How beautiful could you be?
You saw the bent lines and kissed me
With all the love you encompass
Beautiful boy, your eyes talk to me
Like no other poem ever has
Your fingers entwined with mine
I feel your bones, i feel you
I feel your skin
Your touch awakens me
The whiff of your smell; it is a sweet melody of your presence
Your embrace.
I am not afraid of letting my pleasures take over me,
I am terrified by the thought
of losing my soul to you.

Looking for my abode- I

When the words you want to live by,
no longer seem to help
Walk outside,
go under the blue sky
Bask in the vastness
Let it guide you home!

Letter to my old self

Hello dear,

I hope that you find this letter in good health and the merrier of times, because you will not like what is about to follow. I apologize for starting the letter in a rude way. It is not all bad, but it is not what you are hoping either. You might want to make your walk longer today, you are not going to get enough a while later and while we are at it, please read a book or two more because I miss smelling those old pages and taking it all in: the beauty of those long lost words.

You shall wonder what has happened after all and you should, your life depends on it. I had a peaceful day after a very long time. I had the time to sip my coffee alone and in peace, I had the chance to eat my lunch alone and I finally got my hand on The Ulysses. If I had just known how much easier it would be to not think about anyone but myself, I would have done that more If I were you.

Don’t be fooled by Beethoven when we says:

Ever thine. 
Ever mine. 
Ever ours. 

And mind that Voltaire is not going to do any good either when you will be swayed by his words: No, nothing has the power to part me from you; our love is based upon virtue, and will last as long as our lives.

Those great men with love and passion led the bravest of lives and from what I feel, misery never left their side. It is a word of caution my friend, think twice before you close your eyes and lean for a kiss, It will eventually lead you to believe in a happily ever after, but sadly none exists. You will get your heart broken over the pettiest of matters and you will let go of what you know as the love of your life. Love will consume you to the deepest of your soul. It will find you in the wilderness of the night and will sing songs to you. It will whisper in your dreams and make you see things which will forever be your fragment of imagination.

You will, my dear, have moonlit walks and dinner by the lake. You will have your share of warmth in the bed and supper in the coziest arms. But you will not be spared of the long nights spent writhing in pain, agonizing over spilled words. You will have to walk barefeet on the summer afternoon sand to known the pleasure of walking by the beach in the night. You will have to feel the burn to know the tingling feeling of sand sliding your skin.

I think I have given too much away. I do not mean to dishearten you. You will have a good life, but I have warn you of the things that lie ahead. You need to make a choice. Would you do it all over again because I know how much it means to you? Or, would you rather walk away because lonely nights have always scared you.

Be you. I do not know if this is the best of the advice, but this is all I got for you. Come reach me soon, I am waiting with a million other tales.


It was all pretty while the
LA sun was shinning down on us.
You flew back to the Manhattan clouds
And I saw the snow storm
Come down on me while I still
Roamed the Palm beaches.

My Humble Abode

It has four walls but fails for a roof
Some would say that it is a summer night bliss
But I would rather call it a home.
I dwell without belongings.

They encompass my laughter and tears,
Stolen kisses and broken heart conversations
Corners that let me breath in peace.
I dwell without belongings.

Luxuries like scenic sunsets and posh nights
Is not what it provides.
But it gives me a sight,
A sight to see beyond the city
A city of myriad hues and muses.
I dwell without belongings.

It does not have a door
But it opens its arms to everyone
It knows no bound
For the ones who know:
How star studded sky or the bird etched blue pashmina
Can make your day and night!

I dwell without belongings
In my humble abode.

Life & Poetry

Live the poetry,
A drunk writer would want to relish.
Be the words,
That would never leave the lovers lips.