Oblivion!

  There was always this blow of passion, something soothing and yet demolishing, woeful were the days when lies stepped up to her and she would say "My dear, put your shoes on." Stained in the brief encounter with the wild touch of pressed ambivalence, and her happily sad embrace. She would look from outside the window and count the steps of nothingness. Afar it was and yet so near in her backyard the voices of howling motives the desires that burnt her the way she always intended. The red lips gorgeous as always, the thin long hair, hiding the painful slither of her beauty and those eyes showering with her own departure. Oh the suitcase is full and so is the mind. Where to? She knows not. Trembling in the silence with nothing but her bare skin the nude clothing caressing her bones like the only true care she ever really got. "Darling, the shoes" she says. Dancing the ballerina out of her, slowly, then fiercely, utterly, then ...

  Mornings hurt me, and for a pretty different reason than just waking up. Mornings are when you are forced to wash your face, and while I pour the splashes of water onto my weirdly round face, the stupid water would gently caress the facial hairs right above my lip, and there it is - my mustache! Oh, how heartbreaking the reminder feels like. Me and my mustache have a friendship of ages. It started with the linings of milk on my face as a child and smiling like a maniac about it, to now actually having it. It’s not as visible as I’m making it sound like; but yet, with a little attention as one would give to a stranger at the side of the road doing a random dance, it shines like a diamond on my face. It rests calmly and cherishes the honor I have given to it. Facial hair comes like disgust and a form of mockery for girls my age. But, for me, it has been a medium to mock others. “Bruh! My mustache is bigger than yours”, has shredded so many guys, and in such violent ways, as if tha...

And oh, the feeling of being able to love someone! Sweet, enchanting, ebullient, and whatnot. The warm feeling of being somnolent. I wonder if love comes the same every day, every moment. As a brother looks at his little sister dancing along the music he composed; a dad managing to sneak peek at his son while he so tiresomely stood late nights to compose the same music; a wife who waited by the bed for her husband who was busy making silent conversations with his soon-to-leave-for-college son; the dog who patiently waited as he wiggled around the corridor while the little sister cried at her brother’s departure. So solemn, isn’t it? Moments. Terrifying, and yet, fulfilling. People know about departures, don’t they? But they get attached anyway. To places, to things, to people, and to time. The worst attachment of all. Nostalgia. Pretty common word, eh? People yearn to go back to the time they felt good, they yearn to go back and reminisce about life back then with the utterly important...

A little enchantment slowly trespassing through life, so bittersweet this moment, Oh! The redemption of getting over the little pinpricks, and finding love. Love. Those pages of books and narrating countless equations, the subtle art of points and lines and curves, falling in love has never been so easy, has it? The wild attachment, the daily thoughts, as the dissonance speaks and draws this surreal antipathy of the moment, how delicate, and how cruel! Falling in love with non-chalantness, relentlessness, and slowly dubbing the beauty with your names and frames, the table you look at, the walls you devour, the pens you trace with, and fun is the hour. Slowly, recklessly, and yet so sublimely quick as the passing time. Momentous, hitherto the feeling of bewilderment, canned is this little card-deck, perfumed with the sweetest damn rays, the words and lines so therapeutic, and oh! how someone would love to be there. Haven, of the infinite jewels, the cascade o...

The pride of existence, melancholy of shine, renouncing a faith is a haunting paradise. Somebody woke up. A dream of a hefty life. Somebody so un-broken, so unwilling to peace, humble and yet, a faulty rampage, it's a war! The worlds, sickly- and living this rigor, this pivotal dissonance, the cries of the hollow presence. A message of hate, peace of salvation, piece of that peace, and yet there is the unannounced hoax-- deprived epiphany-- aristocrats at lease! The silence guides up bereaving the empty sodden orthodoxies of hypocrisy! The blame game goes on, the someone is put to sleep. And goes back the world, living its own peace. The moulds grow deep, the birds chirp till they weep. A window gives up on time. The lights fly riling up the heat from the superiority of a statute of this moral absurdity trying to set aside the brokenness. Of present. Of an utopia never coming to life. Unleash the rebel, the mask of history needs a fa...

 And just when the world broke itself  in chunks of sheer trepidation, searching the canvas, to bleed upon and avenging the turmoil, vorasciously serpented,  the door was opened. And in,  flew the dust.  On each piece. A shadow cast of ivory, desperately disparate souls, The Holocaust, but even more brutal.  The eagle speaks of doom. It's feathers procured  with disbelief, screaming with silence.  It beams the dark. Redeems the violence. Like a soft eruption, a storm that awaits. It's the bloodshed  that's flooded. And with the obscure sanity of the insane, a dream is made.  The dream- Devour!  Footsteps are seen, pretentious,  pretending to behold, but surrendering peace with each piece of the world. The dream of fault this shadow behaves,  and among the weeds, a seed is planted. And again, in the burning symphony of silence,  the eagle flies. Fingers are raised. The resemblance is uncanny!

Running with toddler footsteps screaming “Buwaa….(grandfather)” as he waited at the doorstep with both his arms at our arrival, me and Dada (my brother) jumped right at him- all in the vigor of spending the upcoming thirty days in pure bliss. I always got to stay with him a bit longer, for I was the younger one. With that memory still intact, I watched the gentle smile that made home to his shabby face while I walked towards the once young gentleman seated on the corridor today- a subtle reminder that while I enjoy my time being a “young adult”, people around me are turning old.  As I waited for Baba (my dad) to come pick me up from there, after merely thirty minutes today, I could see Aama (my grandma) struggling to keep her words “stay a little longer” within herself. But she knew that I wouldn’t and that would hurt even more. She must have consoled herself with the fact that Dada was on his way on his bike, and would stop by.  The journey from the capital to my village, I r...

The best thing about the starry sky is that as the night gets darker, the night gets brighter too. The anonymity. Everyone can see the starlight, but not everyone can feel it. And when you are left touched by the existence of the cosmos, you come to realise that there is more to life. It’s a vague cosmic interpretation out there; go look at it; go feel it; go sense it, because, you never know when you become an unknown to this world. Your existence is a part of that massive star that is exploding somewhere in the universe, you are a part of that. Part of everything. Yeah, we are explicitly minute in this vastness, but the other way round, this minute existence is a part of infinity. It is an infinity. An incomplete infinity. Always something remaining. An oblivion.

Let go of hopes. There is a vault of serenity recruiting a fire. Painlessly seaming. a hidden sanction bereaving the masters. A rhetoric. Bruised shoulders, emancipated disguise- serenading the eyes. a woven distrust And that is it- the blind side! Woven in advent, appraisal of hate, he stands at the gates, and gives off the vent. A brewed pinnacle, showcasing the past, the fire ignites- hovering the empty. The light- Demanding! A hollow craving for the grave. The grace that awaits when the wolf smiles, beware— there is always a taste of the color red. The transforming gaze, unleashing the tear, ravishing the fear, un-fairing the fair. And he who knows reminisces the throne. It’s a daunting fairy tale, He was he the way he wanted him to be. And thus, the howling cries!

  And when the cloud hides it's leaks, washes the dirt, a grass on it's side tells, "A rainbow!" A faint smile the wall gives, and says, "Nah! It's just colors."

 It was the day I had watched Spiderman: No Way Home and for me, the best moment was when Andrew Garfield had stepped in, wearing the spiderman suit. He was reprising Peter Parker. Yes, it was just for a short time but, it was surreal. A cinematic masterpiece for me. As a child, unlike other girls of my age, I used to fantasize being spiderman, thanks to him. And, after all these years, seeing him again was really beautiful. I was in the theatre watching the movie with two of my friends, both huge fans of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but, nah! I didn’t care about them at all. My bliss was right ahead of me. Playing on the screen. And as much as I was thankful towards Kevin Feige for making it possible, I realised how small things in life tell us bigger stories. It was obviously a memorable movie, any fan would agree to that, but the more memorable part was, it took me back. Back to 2012 when I wore a Spidey Jacket wherever I went and told myself that I need not to be scared becau...