With time, even love turns into dust.
Not with anger, not with betrayal —
but with the slow fading of words unsaid.
It slips through our fingers,
not because it wasn’t real,
but because even the deepest fire dies
when no one tends the flame.

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When a lie has shaped your life for so long, the discovery of truth is not a liberation — it is a breaking. It shatters the world you once knew before it can set you free.

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The ebbs and flows of life are what make each of our lives appear equal in the end.

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I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
In secret, between the shadow and the soul.

~ Pablo Neruda

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They are not made in a single day.
Just as the mud surrenders to stillness
And becomes wood through time and grace,
So do souls, weathered by life,
Turn trials into quiet strength.
The ground they cling to is not just earth —
It is faith, it is love, it is memory.
Branches reach not just for sunlight,
But for something eternal, unseen.
Leaves fall, but the tree still stands,
For what is rooted in spirit does not die.
A man is known by what he bends toward —
Compassion, truth, or the Divine.
And like the tree, in silence and season,
He becomes what he was always meant to be.

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Home is not just home,
It's a safe space—
Where masks can fall without fear,
Where silence speaks and hearts are heard.

It's where the world loosens its grip,
And we return to who we are.
No judgment, no demands—
Just warmth wrapped in quiet understanding.

It's more than walls and windows—
It's where the soul comes to rest.

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Maybe, there is no home for me to find.
Maybe, home is just a memory now.
The walls have fallen once again, too soon,
and I must move, as if I’ve never stayed.
To start afresh, and build from dust and will,
to learn to sleep beneath a stranger’s roof,
to hold my breath and hope the ground is kind—
to start the cycle, all of it, again.

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The problem of identity -2

And so once disillusioned with all
one reaches for the stars,
for gods, for truths that claim to be eternal,
for the Universe itself,
as if merging with the infinite
could finally silence the quiet dread of being just a flicker.
And yet—
what if smallness was never the problem?
What if the ache to expand
was not about becoming more,
but remembering
that even in this limited form,
the whole already resides?

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The problem of identity -1

Human beings, as they are, feel small,
Therefore something bigger is needed to be associated with to enlarge the identity
Starting with family, society, religion, country and sometimes the abstract concept called humanity but even these vast containers of belonging eventually show their limit.For the mind is restless, always seeking a still grander mirror to glimpse itself in.

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And One Day

And one day, the organism feels old.
He is no longer his usual self.
Just colouring the hair doesn't help much—
Old age creeps in from every corner of his being.
Life: financially stable,
But emotionally fragile,
Where a sense of loss quietly overpowers any sense of gain.

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