12 Haiku

-

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.

-

The Floating Moss

-

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.

-

-

-

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.

-

Paid Content

-

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.

-

ODE TO 4 MONTHS OF WRITING
BLOCK AND ONGOING:

I wake up, do the chores,
I survive, I go to sleep,
and I repeat, thoughtlessly.

I'm tired. Tired of this half lived
half anticipated life. Tired of loving
but unable to love back.

My poetry now refuses to return
until I could accept it to takeover
the whole of my life.

-