Me.Myself.

A tin-full of sardines, gloriously dead, are all. Lifelessness remains a passive corollary to living.
The opium-eater doesn't know what to confess anymore.

That’s about it, I’m afraid.

Just.So.

One or two pieces of a lonely universe
That is all for tonight.
A little stroll perhaps, along the woods
Mine is the kingdom.
Pitch black nights, burnt matchsticks
And a sudden flicker.

Much less is known than not
Like her stare into the rain outside.

Cryptic

Let’s not talk of love or chain, and things we can’t untie. The eyes, they do get soft with sorrow. And, yet, there is a kind of anticipation in the air. I have lost my years almost casually, and you know, just before that awkward moment, I have not had any regret for being myself!

It’s Christmas. The moss-stained and glum stones of Park Street cemetery get greeted by a gust of foreign wind. Do the dead have their country? Or, slightly twisting the words of a self-searching Irishman, must we say, “There’s no country for dead men”! The queer implication of identity, related to a certain domain, has always been an enigma for us, the living often share their problems with the men under their feet. Even when the wired sense of identity transmits itself into reality, the cracked looking-glass is fairly visible inside the fervour of symmetry. So much for the Lord, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

I will not look for another as I wander in my time, walk me to a corner, and we will hunt down the secrets of this life, and may be of this death. Together.

shawkol madhuri lukaaye jaay...

A moment of awkward silence. It’s in page two-forty-eight, damn!—I happen to know it by heart. Just turn over the page. Yes, there it is, sitting pretty amid the yellowish nothingness.
The never-have-beens often take a break from their rustiness to listen to the bluesy notes of what could have been. And, a minor note from nowhere vibrates inside the memory, even when we sweet-talk the beast into its den.
I have lost the ribbons I had saved for someone.