Oblivion!

 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...

  Somewhere in my life – be it buses or streets, or homes and museums – somebody has always told me about how it has always been with them. Moments of understanding, and moments of faith, all so truly astonishing about how life has played out so differently for them. I have listened to their stories, mused in their favorite music, admired their art, loved their presence, been lost in their happiness, and felt closer to the idea of connections. In those moments of lively conversations, those moments of immense gratitude and sometimes those moments of helplessness towards the world or the self, I am reminded that nothing has been constant in this life for anyone. Has it?  I see new phones, new covers. I have shouted dayyumnnn to the Tesla's speed somewhere in Kathmandu. I have adored the hazelnut lattes of Himalayan Java and paid excessively high for peach tea. I have been on bike rides with friends only to see the Christmas decorations, and I have been around people I barely kn...

There is a plight of ambience  so serene, so somber, and an apathy of faith in the canvas the pigeons are brewing their nonchalant views in.  A hollow siren of broken cages all discrete and echoing of chambers-- of cups broken and coffee spilled.  What would the barbaric man think of you master? A puppet disguised as a puppeteer, or a silent whimperer too cruel, too wondrous, too white  to be a connoisseur  of a life well lived, in a city of capes and mystic drapes?  The buildings decorated in blue Christmas lights showering meaning to existence-- so surreal it is, and so cautious, so provocative.  How lifeless the mannequins  disguised as humans,  crowd the cities and streets, with roles of aversion giving a life lesson  of empathy.  Can you see the violence that exists in the empty halls of the room filled with the void of malevolent peace,  where a circuit of archived destinies and epiphanies create a filthy love for systems...

I am afloat.  On a sea of little lies, I am reading books of dystopia, and women, and love as if I stand to correct them all, live them all and savor them all.  I type my epiphanies and write my strangest, wildest, melancholic thoughts under the impression of communicating with  the additional dimension I so patiently  and consistently studied last night.  With nachos dipped in mustard sauce,  and a chocolate cappuccino by my side, staying late night to comprehend The Republic,  and staying late night to understand the quantum. I sleep along the chapters of the anime I wish never ended.  I wear the perfume before bed because my dreams have to smell like mine. I put on the best pair of socks I have;  a barefooted dream feels like a crime.  Why did I be so precise?  The necessity for words of delicate length,  I aspire for elegance while playing the darts,  and I hope for vengeance during the ballet.  Am I too complicat...