In search of air that would de-suffocate, I tress passed. Looked up into the eyes of sky_ almost evening it was when like a scarlet sphere, wholesome & passionate, sun was sinking into the arms of horizon like it was destined to.

It's moments like these when सुकून takes over. And when I close my eyes to dwell in peace, upon opening, in meanders the moon, rising up from the same horizon that has put sun to sleep.

Slowly, blue sky turns into purple. Tinge of red leaving behind aubergine that fades into a canvas black where stars are etched

The one which you & I call night, मेरी जान_ is a transcendence of walk into some brightest of dawns!

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Falling in love feels scary now.
With so many what if's clouding the head that I let love be my poem abandoned, perhaps for a life another when it comes home the first time without breaking me apart.

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And when masses return to their shelters,
It's the knight who's out alone,
chasing and hunting down his wildest fears.
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"ICU's & DANCE OF IRONY_"— % &Seeing a son speak something to his critically ill, intubated father, I stepped back, respecting personal space. But ears don't oblige, do they?

Was he reciting Ayatul kursi, blowing surahs, I wondered. But later heard apology, heard pleasing, heard a son who longed for his father's health & life.

How much ever old & grey we might grow, we never stop being kids to our parents now, do we? — % &And then comes in a wife with tears spewing, asking with brightest of hope, "He'll be okay right?"

And then come the children who still think their father would walk & talk like every day, the next day_ out of this room, and out from this blue walls & tubings.

Now how do I answer that hope without smudging harsh reality onto their faces _ that a pupils not reacting, e1vtm2 guy would be fine? How in the world can I answer that hope when everything's such clueless?— % &Ah, hope! One vile word. Child of love, if I may add. And love? One such meanest thing it is, you see, that can rip you to shards & strip life out despite being all in life. And when people talk about suffering, I've always wondered if they talked about the one actually suffering, or the ones in love with the suffering, or both even?

And in situations where there's least of hope alive, being looked up at for hope, kills. But how to let them know it ain't as simple as it's thought to be? And that despite prime duty being bringing hope onto table, there arrive situations, often more often, that leave us utterly clueless.
— % &Especially critically ill in the ICU's_ a play of illusion, a satire on hope, or call it even a dance of irony_ It's a place where life logs horns with flames of death, either to win over it, or to extinguish thyself.

And in moments like these that come every once in a while, you realise, the momentum of your present, the gravity of breath you're able to respire, the potency of life, and how it's a blessing, to actually just be together_ in all hale & health, with no supports attached, and with loved ones around to share laughter, love, grief, or even a shot of gin! — % &

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And as much is the essentiality of food, clothing & shelter in one's life, so is important, the art of expression. Be it speech, touch, words, travel, art, your work, or silence even _ choose your language of expression & express! 

And when you do, do it as if
that's the only thing strings of your heart
had ever played tunes for, thumped for, and lived for.

For at the end, इक ही तो ज़िंदगी हैं मेरी जान।
Day's either way a chaos, so express_ atleast before dusk crawls in_ get rid off of the burden on heart,
before those lashes, alas ptose in calm।
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"ON WRITER'S BLOCK"
// Captioned //

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