It took
seventeen years
to realise the concept of life.
The more you understand,
the more thought evaporates.
And that evaporation
is the core
of an evolved consciousness.
But evolution itself
is only a thought.
What remains at the core—
is memory,
the remembered destiny
one lives for.
-
Those
Scenes of serenity
Moments that grow
Mirroring life's amenity
Wrapped in a tender flow.
Those whereabouts
Echo as memories
Painting their whispers
In timeless galleries.
The whither
Widens the heart's hue
Rhyming with the cosmos
Enhancing my view.
And
We, breath in the same rhythm,
Exist within a same rhyme—
Beyond the borders
Of space and time.
We are woven
In the same story,
That universe has already told,
Not in sound, but in feeling,
In soft, alive light.
We paint the whispers
On the walls of the mind
Where past and presence
Gently intertwine,
Till the seer is the seen—
And all that remains
Is what’s quiet and keen.
So I gather these moments,
This tenderly rapped flow,
And learn—
I am both the question
And the answer I know.
-
आसमान से गिर रही बूंदे,
उन बूंदों से गीली हुई मिट्टी,
और उस मिट्टी की खुशबू मे —
मुझे खुद की परछाईं दिखी।
जैसे मैंने खुद आसमान से गिरना,
हवा में मिलना
और मिट्टी से खुशबू तक का सफर तय किया हो।
कितनी अजीब बात है ना
इंसानों से ज्यादा बारिश की बूंदें अपनी लगती हैं।
किसी की बोली से ज्यादा
रात की गुमनाम सी ख़ामोशी अच्छी लगती हैं।
शायद मैं भी बारिश की बस एक बूंद हूं,
आसमान से आई,
हवा से छुई,
और मिट्टी में समाई।
बस बारिश की एक बूंद,
जो मिट्टी से,
पेड़-पोधों में समा गई,
बीजों से फलों में,
ओर फलों से,
जीने वालों में।
और शायद
ऐसे ही जीवन के इसी चक्र में
घूमते-घूमते
मैं किसी की आंखों से देखने लगी,
और उसकी सांसों में बस गई,
और बस उससे ही खुद को जानने लगी।
और अब
उन्हीं आंखों से मैं ये बारिश की बूंदें देख रही हूं,
जो इतनी अपनी लगती है,
जितनी कि मुझे, मैं खुद भी नहीं लगती।
-
The poison of noise,
I keep let my mind consume,
Perhaps knowing,
It is keep taking my energy away,
Yet I don't afraid, Of the cost,
It demands.
I keep wrestle with everything,
Until I feel tired,
And unwilling Even to breath.
I see the energy leaving,
Yet I let it go.
Perhaps—
Sometimes the poison is the only thing that keeps the heart beating.
Even if the beat is ragged.
Even if the cost is everything.
The people who are truly lost,
Are those,
Who can no longer hear,
The call of the deep.
But I,
I can listen it,
Too loudly— to ignore.
I seek silence,
As much as,
A hungry being seeks food.
But I know,
Not every hunger,
Not every desire— can be fulfilled.
The world of noise,
And
The sphere of silence,
Perhaps—
I have to breath in both realms,
Without belonging to neither.
let the poison drain me,
Perhaps it keeps me alive,
And I — it.
-
I am struggling with the outer world—
like a deep-ocean fish forced to live at the surface.
My gills gasp at air, and others call me weak,
yet I survive through adaptations they cannot imagine.
No predator chased me here,
no food lured me upward,
no dream pulled me from the depths.
I was simply born into the wrong habitat.
My struggle is not for conquest or hope,
but for survival in an alien realm.
There is no “why”—only the draining effort of translation,
trying to make the ocean’s language understood by surface dwellers.
Always failing. Always misunderstood.
For I am one who thrives in depth—
depth of ocean, of skies, of thought, of truth.
I have visited the abyss where bones melt,
and yet, I cannot return.
My soul belongs below,
commingling with roots and leaves,
dissolving into rain,
spreading across horizons the sky can barely hold.
And now, lost, I linger at the surface—
unable to descend, unable to belong.
-
“The gap between thought and emotion is as vast as you and the sky.”
The thought,
The emotion,
Not two things,
Not seperate;
But two expressions of one awareness.
Isn't it misfortune for humans ?
We are forever separated from our own wholeness.
Our thoughts will never fully capture our feelings,
And our feelings will forever defy our logic.
Isn't it a state of perpetual exile.
The human seeks the sky,
Just as the thought seeks the emotion, and the emotion seeks the thought.
Doesn't it awaken existential loneliness *within the self.*
We know we are soil,
Yet we keep avoid,
The confrontation with dawn.
In this world
The only thing that is unique and separate is;
The thought—
And the perspective,
That holds it.
Beyond it
Everything is universal.
Probably,
We are unique droplets,
Desperately—
Pretending we are not the ocean.
Or perhaps
We're like a bird who doesn't know,
If sky exists.-
The life
That holds me
With my heartbeat,
Carries a self to the future,
And leaves a self in the past,
Yet hands me nothing for the present.
Maybe,
I am someone else,
Waiting for someone else,
To become someone else.
Or perhaps,
I am a stranger,
Waiting to be strange.
The "now" is always empty-handed,
And turns me—
Into a wraith
Within my own timeline.
Yesterday isn’t remembered,
No former memory, no pathfinder.
Neither desire for tomorrow,
Nor ambition tied to the time ahead.
And today is hollow,
It has no feet
To follow.
Life is, Either
Loop of identities,
Or
Maze of questions,
And perhaps,
Existence is itself a warren—
A knife,
That cuts deeply,
Splitting the human
Into pieces
That re-alive
With each wound.
-
“Most of all,
I like dreams—
not the kind
that unconsciously revive,
but the ones
we truly live.”
A fantasy
of lifetimes,
imaginations
of vast times.
Those moments of sleepover,
dreamy yet prospective,
stitched
along reality.
-
I look upon the sky,
where eyes memorize the stars—
Unless, Until
I’m filled
with the strings of guitars.
The music it holds,
in its dance with my hands,
the way
it melts with the moonlight,
and how it makes my eyes ignite.
The silence between the stars and sky,
a heart unchained—
no edges left to define.
I and my eyes,
just realizing the infinity,
through the scenes
of divinity—
And the universe hums back to me.
The cosmos responds,
And the sky melts,
Into conversations that correspond,
And the heart felt,
until I forget which are strings,
And which are sky.
Or perhaps—
The nature, The sky,
Would keep expanding its orbit,
Until the sky is a chord,
My eyes are strings,
And I am the note held.
-