Monday, 12 May '25
I come back here to find poems that I haven’t read in years, archived and engraved like a childhood memory lane. My first virtual home that taught me the etiquettes and expectations of this psychological warfare, the ephemeral happiness, the gated love and sadness, the intangible being and overbeing. I didn’t know of Maslow’s need hierarchy back then, but looking back I can tract my climb. Came here for the hunger for words, leading to sense of safety, belongingness and esteem, leaving for the greater audience to actualize my childhood dream.

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12 Haiku

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My writing has lost its urgency, its swiftness. It is left with longing. With a half remembered sense of self. So, I'm doing now what I do best. Diving into the unknown and leaving myself to my survival instincts. I shall write each day to myself all the mean, meager, mundane matters until I'm left dumbfounded. I shall drive my words back to my mouth to make them scream out of my hands as my fate.

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The Floating Moss

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November Qualms

Clocks striking nonunanimous
to the beating of heart. A surge
of desire filled my lungs,
my head, my gut. A little dizzy,
I breath bigger, deeper,
to calm myself down.
The quiet of the early winter
midnight is shuffling
through the cabinet again
of the year's emergency
quota: full of empty jars,
licked and kept unwashed.

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I guess making a post would be better than writing on status.

• Instagram: @pathbetweentrees (for books and movies related mostly, I'm most active here). @pathbetweenpoetry (for poetry of course, that I'm thinking now to use to repost my old poems from here with some edits).
• Substack blog: bithika.substack.com (for long / themed pieces, if you subscribe, you'll get them in your email, otherwise you can access via the website directly)
• Tumblr: @saphhireshorelines (literature/ movie related, thinking of making it my YQ substitute for random writings)

Please do share where you people gonna continue writing or other handles were you'd be available.

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Paid Content

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Was reading a lot of letters last couple of days of Tagore's and Woolf's and fragments floating in the internet, and realized that I barely have anyone to construct letters for, that I don't have an intimacy of ideas or emotions with anyone I could write to. So I make you up again in my head thinking for a while at least that I have it all.

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