Oblivion!

How beautiful is the world outside me! The blue of the morning and the foggy afternoons I crave as I stare at the leafless trees drenched in vast nothingness, holding onto naked branches as they try their best to let go. Nature always has a say in the chaos, in the entropy of life and lifelessness, but it missed the human soul. In those shimmering lights from cars and buses, I see a foreshadowing of my own, with trembling fears and a scarred red, waiting silently for the lights to go green. It snowed, and I could sense that wet feeling of coldness on my skin. For once, I knew what cold feels like when it does not come from within. For once, I knew that there was something colder than me. For once, I wasn’t alone in this coldness, and for once, I felt happy. In the nights without jackets as I walked in the streets waiting for the coldness of the wind, I was reminded that there was lifelessness waiting for me. It was cold, it was what I needed. In those sweet shivers I felt with every br...

Hey dear life,  I hope you are still here. As I write this plea to you, I hope you are here silently listening to me and cheering me on from inside these walls which I constantly find myself staring at. These white walls, the white curtains, the white rhetoric, I can only assume this whiteness to be a witness to my melancholy. I know I know melancholy is supposed to be blue, but hey, for once, let me define the ghost in my mind with arbitrary feelings. For once, let me see the darkness in this white that deliberately amuses the core of my being because it sucks up the entirety of me in its existence.  There was once a friend I knew. A happy friend. I remember smiling at her before parting ways with her that Saturday as I rode the bicycle, and she left off in this myriad of diabolical void. She rushed off into it, and was smiling, waving at me. I couldn’t wave back because I was too stunned to see the reality of that mirage slowly coming into place. The waves crashing at the se...

  Back, holding back, holding myself from the anonymity I dare not overlap with my melancholy. You see, my moment is a lack of it, and my grief, a blissful happiness: I cannot imagine my life without them. Without predicament and a ruthless sense of being, without momentary smile shed under infinite sadness, without the real grotesque horror of the void, the abyss, I am nothing, because I cannot fathom the entirety of the cosmos which would exist only to make me believe it is okay to be alive. I need to feel, and if feeling is sadness, and if feeling is living that sadness while knowing I would rather not be in it, while knowing I would perhaps be gone without the stain of it in my bruised lips with tainted eyes looking for a hope on a gray sky, I would rather be gone. I would rather be gone.  Imagining the sidewalks with a wide red coat as I elude the harmony of reminiscence in the stuck train stations all so white and all so blue, so empty on the afternoon, the synchronous e...

 Only if airplanes could really fly me to memories and memoirs, then today this nauseated feeling crying inside me like broken sunglasses staring at the sun wouldn’t be there. The void, the abyss, the way emptiness chases you when you are full, only if my golden hoops knew that they are dangling happier than their wearer ever would be. Such a deliberately complex concept it is, happiness. The presence of it, the absence of it, neutralizing the avoidances and meritocratically praising the eye of it, it’s demeaning on its own to not feel happy, but the happy unhappiness the mirror reflects, I get disgusted to be alive in my soul and my body because of how scarce it is in its existence. The diabolical muse of the strings somewhere playing the orchestra of “Yellow”, and the moaning motive of its polaroid of sadness slowly steps in the paleness of the clouds, you see, even off-white is not white after all. In liking different shades, I forgot what the original felt like. It was a melanc...

I feel relieved today. Perhaps, the waves that are crashing on the seashore look at me with comfort and isolation as I sit here with my untied shoes and pale legs in withering epiphanies of what could have been a better way to come at the beach today. Perhaps my backpack could have stayed home, perhaps my hair could have flown slightly in the other direction. Perhaps the waves could have erased the little sand name I wrote but it didn’t. Maybe it realized the necessity of fragile validation for me and stepped away. As the waves crash in themselves with moon’s dangling effect terming brevity a scoundrel for its existence somewhere among false lowlands in the middle of nowhere, a brush of fresh air hurries my eyes to the portrait of strangers enjoying the beachy light as it is while I imagine a hummingbird resting across my arm and smiling at me.  The silence of the sound of waves cools the lack of feeling I feel everyday. Maybe that is why I feel like a liar whenever I even use the ...

Hi! Do you love your life yet? Or are you still in your Nastenka finding era? Maybe even living the counts of an immaculate human being wrongfully convicted of something? What if it’s nothing of that sort and you are basically just hoping to fall asleep on your couch because it’s been a long time since you have actually felt something? Maybe you are still waiting for the Darjeeling Limited to come take you to your destination, or perhaps you are waiting for the time to snoop back at you and let you understand the glorified prejudice associated with being Mia. All in all, dear, how does it feel to be lost in these modes of disquiet apprehension all so relatable to the life you are living and yet all so distinctly different that every moment of fleeing from this subjugation feels like a wakeup call that you are not giving enough details to what stands right ahead of you. Oh, how wonderful the story of Henry Sugar is! But, hey, you can’t beat life and intersectional feminism by being wond...

I have always liked Kathmandu – the softness of eagles, effervescent noise amidst noise-canceling headphones somewhere in the cafe across the street, in the yellowish hue of Gongabu in the morning as the students in black backpacks  sing the songs of international artists and the buses muse along folk ones.  I have always liked Kathmandu, for in the rusty dusk  where microbus stands are filled with  a monstrosity of people desperate to book a seat for heaven, and in the crowd of vehicles,  the red of the sun somehow loses its way in the mundane.  Oh and let me remind you,  the rain in Kathmandu ricochets  in the taste of a lavish lavender (I guess). The windows of old houses peeking through the animality of a silent existence that  somehow resides in the eyes of solar panels sunkenly  placed in capped rooftops – the messiahs to the temples and the priests of the Gumbas all come along in the eccentric entirety  of emotions as a minut...

It's a nice evening. Warm – perhaps too warm – with the Sun dangling in epiphany, as if it wants to send the Icarus in me away. I think that's the reason any way, in the heat of Terai, waiting for moments of a soft breeze to let me feel relieved at the warmth of the dusk, isn't that a connotation of my absurd reality? How deeply I have to feel, to even understand the pretense of countless existences which I'll never be a part of. The freshly black tar roads, with spontaneous white flowers dropped off momentarily and with crisp leaves memorializing the trails of eccentricity of the fine evening, I feel scared to move along it. My shoes will stain them. But I move anyway. I suppose some things are meant to be worn off, shed and given up to reality. Maybe that's why evenings taste of a hue of bereaved satisfaction and a happy disappointment alike: it has given up on the light of the day.  Beautiful streets with little girls playing in purple skirts and pink balloons, t...

 I am in the back seat of my car. Waiting. Listening. Singing alone to the melancholic tunes Hans Zimmer put his soul into. Yes, you might think that he doesn’t sing, does he? No, he doesn’t. But I do. It’s different waiting in the car. I am not sure what I am waiting for. Life? The red light? Both seem equally unobvious here where I am. I got liberated, you see, with my cold feet and warm hands, with my notebooks and a little epiphany. Is this where I spend the best of it? Contemplating the tiring desires of me as a person, questioning my role and slowly letting the time pass by amidst the travelers who are waving at me, thinking I am experiencing this moment as a stranger. Oh, how I wish they were right. Pardon me by the way, I don’t know the difference between a stranger and an outsider. I feel like the latter one today. Perhaps, every day. Perhaps I don’t know what feeling means. But I will get there.  Sun is setting, and my feet are lifted up on the steering wheel. I can ...

  How miraculous it is that with every one of your mundane deprecating thoughts for the self and the moments of the selfless harming, demeaning, terrorizing and a sheer trepidation that follows in the alterity, the monstrous antagonizing reciprocity of my immanence so subtly  written in pages of anonymity devours my love for life in the name of a pretentious freedom! I play with words – with the eyes of dissonance, despondent is this soul of a clueless symposium in fault for being existent, for being a being with flesh and hope. With bougainvillea in the background and bamboo leaves – shading the turmoil of ever sore Kathmandu  from the details of broken houses and shedding griefs.  I stand alone in the somnolent hue of the dust,  diving along to the chatters sunburnt kids easily burst in rhyming games, to the tales of the old man  who sits tight in the vindication of him never being like them.  “Why am I so different?” In the myths and bouquets of sun...

Hey Sisyphus, can I be your rock?  Running, deafening,  defeating your pretense in every  lack of my sorrow to guard yours, and condemned to be so mystical –  but never a mystic. Those terrains of hatred; and the procedures  of such medieval liberty  of my own affirmations and crimes to be the blue hoarder of humanity so astonishingly wishing for a reason to behold the line.  Oh dear Sisyphus,  make me the rock that knows  success is not my path; and neither is happiness.  With architecture of an empty street, agony of time and space you  so teasingly let the soul of mine feel — to tear up the canvas of a little love  of modernity touch my feet and become a taste of the wind –  stratified, and modest,  crude and yet the oldest.  Wisest is the sin you make me do.  Falling and falling so effortlessly with nothing but desire too weary,  too paradoxical and too  monotonous for the game.  Dear Sisy...

I am caving away from the daylight. Ludicrous, summoning – somewhat the anecdotes of resemblance with agony and despair slowly making ways to assist my little wish  to paint walls  with stickers and shimmers. The bulbs red and the walls blue;  a film of sequins so deliberately crushed on  the glass in twilight;  and voluptuous is the world that exists within my soul.  How dimensionless the song slowly  shifts away! It antagonizes me,  soothes me;  and all along the woe of mirth and  the aloofness of my life I make believe.  Enchanting is the word I use,  “Thanatos” is the word I should.  Echoes of disquiet mocking my will – a life of affirmation waiting by the windowsill –  silently, strangely.   The myths and judgments passed and hoarded,  with seemingly bereaved motives of gins and sins.  The dreams, falsified –  woven in incarnations of a happy lie,  falling and falling,  with mod...

Moments. Have you ever thought about it? Sometimes the system of lies and deceit of happiness is too malleable, and too serene that you let things slowly devour the best of you and you keep waiting for the right time and right moment to embark on journeys of life and love. Too humane and prosperous, journeys often start with a smile on the faces – with backpacks packed the perfect way, screams from your fiancé so deliberately asking you to fit that one pair of her shoes in your suitcase because she doesn't have any space left; or your mom who mercilessly puts the mango pickles wrapped in old newspaper into your small briefcase; or your dad who gives you his new pants with no words but a sarcastic smile; or your sister asking you to bring her some souvenirs from the faraway land, which you will, but for the satisfaction in annoying her, you tell her no now. Moments where you try to deceive yourself from the world, and craving for that momentum in yourself, you embark on this adventu...

Words slowly drip along the lines with melancholy pitifully draped in elegance.  She looks at herself with eyes of resentment and mercifully traces dolls of symphonies and tones loud and eerie, soft and brutal, waiting for silence to heavily devour the laughter that echoes in the room.  She lives along the disk of resistance, with a bow tucked in her hair in agony; she screams  at the corset too beautifully worn, but always so stupidly carved. Is she supposed to wear it, or is it the other way round?  Wine glasses and whisky on rock, dressed for the occasion of living a mortified version of embellishment with lilies and roses and cupboards full of books,  terrorizing the maidens and mystifying the hours  of a cold dark shade  of epiphany within the oblique reposition.  She is abstract enough to justify absurdity belonging to her tools of oblivion; concrete enough to become complete amidst the misplaced sequins and broken nails.  With analog c...

The evening resembles a plight of ecstasy, too surreal, too benevolent, and the way my dear profusely dresses in the cardigan of torn Denim feels subtle. Are you entirely ready? With your  brush strokes so hefty, so cruel as it draws humanity  onto servitude, what is your art, my dear? A way of  establishing peace or fear?  Too scornful, resentful, relentless, and the words of  sheer agony that smells from your paints, a woe of a widow, and an awe of an oppression, and under that cardigan of yours, the red gown you wear to glorify the pretense, to demean subjectivity, and to derail love, all so prettily sworn upon, too prosperous and too preposterous  as you praise the color of blood. Is that hate my dear? Hate to a life so crude and raw. Should I call you 'a human', or ' a-human '?  You see this turmoil of vindication you seamlessly throw upon me, with your wise words of liberty and peace,  a sense of disbelief for the swords and weapons in the h...