Mind Confess by the dilemma of thoughts that corresponds the coerciveness of confusion. It's a feeling of vagueness that has no solution. Something like a wall of brick that was calm but haven't any purpose. So what makes you thrive to ignite yourself in this emptiness of world by the realisation that vagueness as a mean of fecundity of concept.

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A gliding mist of confidence, her eyes bend love, nourishing bonds. Exasperatingly loveable anger flows, drawing all into her gravitational space.

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In the long night's tenacious sound of longing, my heartbeat echoes with pain, awaiting sunrise's gentle protection, where joy is renounced to the shadows of past hurt.

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Human existence is defined by the relentless pursuit of transcendence, where knowledge is the spark that fuels our ascent. Caste and hierarchy are mere constructs, societal facades that veil the true essence of our being. Yet, it is the inner fire that drives us to seek wisdom, to fill the existential void, and to emerge as the fittest, forging our identity in the crucible of self-discovery and survival.

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Love's journey unfurls from mapped destiny to uncharted soul.

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Janmashtami's winds whisper secrets of my youth, when kites sailed high and freedom's joy was boundless. Now, as tradition's gentle grasp enfolds me, the kites still flutter, their silken threads weaving memories of a time when life's canvas was limitless, and the sky, the only boundary.

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It's morning for me and a radiant dawn for nature. I find a bloat of love that my stomach holds for my beloved. As soon as I confess my love to her, my surroundings and I end up bathed in the light of her eyes, which makes dawn either day or night for me. As a deluge of her emotions flows in the form of rain, it makes me perplexed about the current situation. Hitherto, I felt a sensation of love from that rain, but I ended up in hopelessness when I gazed into the heart of her eyes.

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As a blind soul, I navigate life's symphony through touch's gentle whispers, where darkness holds no shadows. In this silence, her sparkle eyes dance beneath my fingertips, a celestial map, guiding me through life's unseen paths.

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Initially not ironical, a decent writer, but incidents and people refine the craft, transforming into a good writer or poet, yet a paradox emerges - an itch of pain that never heals but persistently follows the flow of words.

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I am lost in the house of my mirrors, unable to find myself. I forget and become lost, yet my bedsheet knows more about me. The stretchmarks are visible, and their voices are audible, but I'm unaware of the impact I'm having on the bedsheet. On a scorching summer day that feels icy cold, I'm consumed by tremors, unable to wrap the bedsheet around myself. I see the bedsheet reflected in the mirror, but my own reflection is absent.

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