Tuesday, November 4, 2014


Photo courtesy: cYabari
Dear Anxiety,
If you so much as write to a neuron about making me anxious about you, I will turn into a mannequin. I know how much you love motion.
And if you so much as storm into my veins, planning on bursting me into an egotistical rain, I will just turn into a background. I know how much you love attention.
I dare you back,

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Friday, October 3, 2014

The Kind of Universe it takes

Of all the ways I could speak to you, I chose this. In a parallel universe, however, I might be just running the distance to tell you what I'm about to tell you. And what I was about to tell you has just been stolen by the parallel universe.

Friday, September 19, 2014

Paradoxical Breathing

Dear Lungs,
I don't know how many ribs have become cross with life, how many gasps you've struggled ever since, or how many recruitments have turned out to be corrupted. I hate to be a spectator of my own pain, standing like a street pole rooted in the same ground where things have fallen, where it continues to stand up tall and erect. But it's very important that I find the right numbers so that when you look back someday to find out what had happened, I won't have to give you a file with a vague story and you won't have to entertain a possibility that may be you made it because of me. You'll have made it because of you. It's important that my pieces learn what they're capable of going through, all on their own. That way, every time we're scattered about, which is more often than not, we won't be lost without each other. And we can always compare notes, later.
Out on a mission,

Acceptable Reduction

I don't believe in reconstruction. I cannot reconstruct you, and you cannot reconstruct my idea of you. You just don't fit into my idea of you and that's that.

The Missing "!"

If there's anything blue about berries on a cake, it's not their wrinkles; it's the way they sit on it and realise how small they are; it's how they give off their color and get just a tag in return.
So forgive me but, I cannot use an exclamation mark just to make it look like a party, especially when I'm letting out a secret, freshly out of a sugar-coated oven, to you.

Friday, August 22, 2014

Monday, July 21, 2014

Dear Viewer from the Outside,
I'm only a scar without nerve endings. But this mutated pain keeps digging new routes inside me, and colours each of them. That is why I have too many colours. And although this looks beautiful, the sparks come from conflict.
But I'm not here to complain. I  do so only on rainy evenings, when the world is only there to see colours and play physics. Here, I'm a decoy.
Please find the real me,

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

A tale of two paper-cups

Some winters stay; they pin themselves onto the valleys on your tyres, roll on with you, and spy on the other seasons you go to, burning with envy. They sleep on the footprints you left, churning up with new earth and water, living you and losing themselves. They wait inside empty paper-cups; one of these days, you ought to want more of the coffee from the memory these winters live in.

There's decay on the line. But these winters would rather stay; I'd rather stay. One of these days, you might just notice me, lingering, waiting. And we might be sipping coffee again.

Monday, June 9, 2014

Being me

This has to be it; the plateau of consistent instability. This has to be the point where, even if I look down and all the teensy but supposedly great marvels look up, the strings of formality wither off in the depths of the distance. This has to be reality, on my table and this has to be me ready for its autopsy. And with every incision, I’ll free me of and deprive them of the business of trying to impress or be impressed. And because this has to be it, I can’t be all sorts of things for all sorts of people anymore. Because I am more important than the versions of me in their heads.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Until next time

To you I've run a million times, to you I've submitted myself over and over again. I dawdle over people and things and reserve my impatience for you, for that is what you mean to me: the intransigence I can afford to turn into. You're my idea of the urgency to collide. I don't care how it contradicts the concept of belonging to something. If I'm the pointer ticking on the clock of our lives, you're not every second of it, you're the occasional time I reach. I don't care how it contradicts the rightful need to freeze time. You're a moment I have to deserve, not a lifetime stretched and held by law. So I let you leave, so I let me leave, so I let room for acknowledgement of what a moment can mean. And I'm running. But this time around, I won't see you soon for impatience is trying to burn the other pages I've lived, and if I let it, you'll also mean a conflict to me, and I'll never be able to submit. So I have to work harder. So I'll see you after a while.

My Refuge

From time to time, neither pyjamas nor uniform can keep me contained; from time to time, my cargo of bitten nails impose the kind of tax I can only welsh on, my cape of endurance is ragged all of a sudden and it violates the sanctity it's supposed to stand for, and the circumstances repudiate my sacrifices in the past and leave me with one option: to run and hide. So from time to time, I simply run to you inbox.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Out of sync

I don’t recognise these heartbeats, these lub-dubs, not automated but influenced and beggared; they’re too fast and fishy, and I don’t have the kind of mind that keeps up with the fluctuations that the heart keeps bringing home.

I don’t recognise these heartaches, like raindrops expanding into oceans too big to land onto my palms; they’re too deep to be small and I don’t have the kind of mind that drops and drowns into the chemicals the heart keeps recommending.

Because the sound of syncing that turns out to mean sinking is not unbeknownst to me, I have the kind of mind that runs away from the heart.

Sunday, February 23, 2014


The network stutters so that in the confusion that builds up between us, you and I can build in those versions of ourselves who know why the network is here in the first place, that is, to imitate connections, which it does; only we developed a phobia of connections on the way, sometime between when we promised to permeate through the wires and show up by each other’s side and when we found separate back alleys to stop by and deal with oneself before meeting at the coffee table used-to waiting, sometime between when we didn't dial and when we dialled too often; sometime between when we found stories to tell and when we found stories that hurt and we stuttered.

And the network keeps imitating the lulls we keep allowing.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Just for the fun of it

You asked me to be less philosophical and more practical, more to-the-point. You asked me to abandon the spaces I carry around, and move in to a box you could carry around. You asked me to cloak my transparent mood and reciprocate a bit of the crowd’s charm. You asked me to bleach my thoughts and colour my responses.

I listened, played by the game you designed. I danced, tapped at the demands you changed. I knew better but I wanted to complete the joke.

And then, finally, you asked me to be me.
 And I laughed.

I obviously laughed because that was sarcasm to you from you but you need not know that; I laughed because how I laughed was to-the-point, your memory-box was sure to carry it around forever, it had every charm any crowd could ever have and it was a colourful response. I laughed.
It was a very, very practical thing to do and I nailed it, after all.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

The Insurance Policy

You are juggling too many people. Although they are dazzled by a sense of connection now, one day when they realize they were only being juggled, they won’t buy greeting cards for you anymore, or write one, for you.