sometimes there is nothing

that I like to do more

than to sit cross-legged

on the cold floor

in an attempt to be free,

in an effort to ignore

everything that is always

on the other side of the door,

everything that I shouldn’t

let besmirch me anymore,

so that when I stand back up,

I can feel taller than before.


I am on Instagram now as _aaysid. Looking forward to read more from fellow bloggers (who seem more like pen friends to me now) on that platform as well.😊

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Strangely Familiar

I am afraid that I

might be forgetting

what you had looked liked;

the colour of your hair,

the bounce in your step,

a hint of quietude

in your voice,

are just a few features

that I have to try

very hard to recall,

and last night,

I slept with a fear

that I would not recognize

the version of you

that appears in some

of my lucid dreams,

and a few memories

that I have of you

are losing substance

as quickly as any

of my unprocessed thoughts;

in spite of all that,

I have no trouble

recollecting how generous

was your gentle heart

and how wise were

all of your words,

so I keep conjuring

you up from

all that you were,

and all that I

can no longer recall,

and you always

seem strangely familiar!


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My solemn internal monologue

Is gradually morphing

Into feeble stand-up comedy,

And my rational thoughts

Do not know how to duck yet!


“Never miss a good chance to shut up.”
Will Rogers

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

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we are the pink

in the black of the night,

a faint whisper

in the ear-splitting noise,

a whole paragraph

squeezed in a single line,

the evening primroses

in the sunflower fields,

a paper napkin

not folded, left misaligned;

are we the folks

ahead of our time?


“Where’s your will to be weird?”
Jim Morrison

Featured image from Pexels

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The Rebels

Deep down, you wish

To become a person

Who no longer

Stifles screams and lets them

Rush out of a thin

Slit between thick vocal cords

That have grown used to

A life of staying shut;

You wish to rebel

Only to see where

It takes you to

And what it does

To those who have been

Watching you struggle

Foolishly all this time;

You wait for a rebirth,

Because a lifetime

Is not enough to try things

That could tear

The very fabric you have

Been weaved into,

So all you can do

Is steadily slip out,

One little thread at a time;

It might create a ripple

Large enough to topple

At least a few things over.


“If ever it’s necessary to ride the bandwagon, it’s done with one leg swinging out and eyes scoping the fields.”
Criss Jami, Killosophy

Photo by RODNAE Productions from Pexels

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The Special Senses

I listen less

to colourlessness,

so that I can see

the world in melody,

and smell the perfect

balance of the universe,

which surprisingly

tastes like bliss!


Photo by Laziii Codar from Pexels

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You are at a point in time

Where a small change

In the way the day unfolds

Is enough to unravel you;

When the mere sight

Of glistening post-rain roads

Cracks you open,

And you come apart

As soon as you catch

A whiff of damp seclusion,

Way before your brain

Can process the earthy

Fragrance of it to solidify

The old memory traces,

And when the fragmented

Clouds above your head

Refuse to let the sun

Burn its brilliance upon

Your clouded retinas,

Your repose falls to pieces—

You are your own weather.


It rained here today, and I had listened to a breathtaking short story by James Joyce (hence, the quote) during my lunch break. The latter event was the highlight of the day.

“He lived a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful sideglances.”

A Painful Case, James Joyce

Featured image from Pixabay

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(Un)wise Advice

You cannot go back

To where you

Have come from,

For it might take

Way too long,

And might even

Prove you wrong;

In a party for one

You should not bring

Your thoughts along,

Even with a mind

That has withdrawn

Into itself, you

Can still claim

Your right to belong-

What you cannot

Say out loud,

You should not

Put in your song!


“I’ll take crazy over stupid any day.”

Joss Whedon

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The Knocks

some knocks at the door

go unanswered

for some doors

do not have peepholes;

some knocks at the door

get answered,

but some doors

do not have doorknobs.


“A knock on the door you hear, a knock on your head you don’t.”

Dixie Waters

Featured image from Pexels

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A Recap

It has been another foggy year, and apart from a few vivid moments, I cannot recall much. I am thankful for that, though. Why would I want to be haunted by the memory of everything?

I do not have time to make the “Best of…” lists this time around, and I am not quite sure if I have enough items to list anyway. As always, I am grateful for good health, family, friends, and being able to earn a living. I hope and pray that everyone gets to have these things in life, and a lot more.

For people like me, who can express themselves better on paper, this platform has been a blessing. I am happy to have met and befriend the kind people here, and I am grateful to have an opportunity to not only read good things and look at lovely photos but also to learn passively. May the artist in all of you always have the right canvas and a kind audience!

To recap what I have done here this year, I have chosen the titles of some of my most viewed posts to compose a poem:

I thought we were galaxies apart,

Oblivious to the knocks

On our estranged hearts,

Contentedly lost and held back

By our false sense of integrity,

Out cold and out of order,

Arithmetically unsound

And drunk on the idea

Of escapism; sleepy-eyed,

We let a thought spiral

Deepen the dissociation we felt,

But we were not alone

In being conflicted about

Embracing the other normal,

Small and restricted,

With a hint of evanescence,

And a little wistfulness,

We were getting there,

Building a home in the skies

We are right here!


Thank you for being here. Have a great new year!😊

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Never Again

I wish

There was a way

To cut through

Some things,

Skip through

Some things,

Unlive through

Some things,

And most of all,

A way to

Never have to

Go through

Some things

Ever again!


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the things that you see

in your daymares are even worse

than the ones

in your nightmares at times,

if not outrightly

then in the grand scheme of things.

beaded scarves, raindrop earrings,

and stiletto heels that look

regal in the silver moonlight;

I am scared of anything

that costs more than I make,

I am terrified of anything

that can outlast me.


Photo by Miguel Á. Padriñán from Pexels

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As the years

Turn to dust,

The folded scraps

Of yellowing paper

Safely tucked away

In the pockets

Of worn-out coats,

Missing a button or two,

Become fewer

And farther between,

Until no memory

Of discrete moments

Can be retrieved

Without being consumed

By the history

Of almost everything!


“With each passing moment I’m becoming part of the past. There is no future for me, just the past steadily accumulating.”

Haruki Murakami

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Not every house

Can have a fireplace,

But every home

Has at least a few

Photographs from before

To huddle around,

And that snugness

Might make up for

The missing heat,

And might be

Just as sweet.


“I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.”
Walt Whitman

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Bottled Up

just like a ship

that you reassemble

inside a bottle

surrenders to fate

and cares for seas

no more,

I allow myself

to hallucinate

a little bit more,

forgetting that

anything bottled up

may stay away

for ages,

but one day

it might wash ashore,

but somethings

cannot be rebuilt,

especially the ones

you do not ask for.


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How can you feel like water

If nothing flows right for you,

And how can you feel grounded

If the earth decides to befriend

Everyone except your dog-tired feet,

And how can you keep burning

If the fire in you keeps losing flame,

And when the wind is incessantly

Being knocked out of you,

How can you be in your element?


“The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.”
Stephanie Perkins

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A Break

This year has been a blur and it feels as if all I have done is live from one break to the next. I find myself unable to recall what I had been taking a break from most of the times. It had felt good to dissociate nonetheless. I think.

Tonight, I am taking a break from taking too many breaks by taking yet another break. It involves me, a book (which I am co-reading with a stranger; he reads aloud while I read quietly, otherwise known as an audiobook), and some loose granola with chocolate chunks in it (got to keep things interesting). Have a great Saturday everyone!

*The featured image has been captured by me.

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Looking at you

Look incredulous

Looking at those

Looking at you,

Looks as odd to me

As it does perhaps

To lookers looking

Right back at you!


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A Haven

you have to

put it somewhere;

the grim darkness

that threatens

to blow out

a few perpetually lit

candles on the cake

inside your head

which celebrates

its level-headedness

in spite of

its inability to hold

any thought

long enough for you

to sound smart,

and its willingness

to fall apart

on cue-

you put it in your art!


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Being Unseasonable

Is it winter enough

for impassiveness

to set in?

Everything seems

like a chore lately.

I put “wake up”

as the first thing

on my to do list,

and it is usually

all downhill from there!


“Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread. That can’t be right.”

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

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Going Nowhere

I missed another train of thought,

and now I am stranded at the station,

I cannot refund my one way ticket

for it was never a two way situation-

I had listened to you but had spaced out

during my half of the conversation.

There is an empty wooden bench

and it can serve as my workstation;

I believe I shall be here for a while

so this might as well be my destination.


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I got stabbed,

Stabbed with words,

It was all right;

There was no blood.


Bees sting her a lot.

She thinks they hate her.

They believe that she

Is worth dying for.


He’s been walking around

In his father’s shoes,

Two sizes too small;

He believes that he

Has to learn to fit

Into his world, after all.


But I didn’t understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair.”
Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun

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I wait outside your locked door,

drinking in the dank air

before I knock,

and I don’t take my jacket off

as I wait some more;

more than my fair share,

off the clock,

which I want to think

shall pay off

but no one’s keeping score;

nobody seems to care.

Why keep stock

of a guy who could drop off

any minute, outside your door?

And it seems quite unfair

to sleepwalk

this far into the night

only to fall off one’s mind–

what would I ask for,

standing in my jacket there,

if the lock ever clicks open?

I’d take off.


“Ain’t many guys travel around together,” he mused. “I don’t know why. Maybe ever’body in the whole damn world is scared of each other.”

Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck

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A few untroubled poems (hopefully) about what troubles us:


this time last year,

I had a different set

of worries;

today at this time,

I have more worries

than before,

the only difference

is that I am not

that worried anymore

and that, in fact,

is worrisome.


I hear myself

voicing my fears,

but they come out

in whispers

and stay suspended

in the static air,

but the suffocation

that follows

becomes unbearable,

the faint

whispers unhearable;

I wonder

what it is like to have

a voice that can

diffuse across thick air,

I wonder

what it is like to have

my own voice,

but none of my fears!


you sit quietly

with your head

bent over a table

as your troubles

threaten to leak

through your eyes,

but it feels weird

to cry at a place

that is not your home,

and it also feels wrong

to lead a flood

to your home-

it is yet another worry

you do not want to

cry about here.


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Home was a place inside

Where the outside noise

Was welcome to stretch

Its thin, long limbs in peace

In spite of the deep silence

That had set up camp

And had no plans to leave.


“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

Robert Frost

Image by Richard Hay from Pixabay

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every night you dream

about the day

you are going to have,

so living through

the actual one

feels like such a chore,

for you have

been here before,

but once again

you have no control

over the way

the day unfolds,

maybe that is why

you cannot tell

what is real anymore,

maybe that is why

you do not want

to fall asleep anymore.


“For years now, I’ve wanted to fall asleep. The sort of slipping off, the giving up, the falling part of sleep. Now sleeping is the last thing I want to do.”

Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

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A Sweater

there is nothing quite like

an oversized sweater

to disappear into

in cold, December nights-

your thoughts, for once,

an unraveled skein of yarn,

your world nothing

but a soft, woolen cloud

that is in no rush

to throw you out,

maybe this is what

warm and safe spaces

are all about.


Featured image by Pexels

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The Other Normal

Three minimalist poems about everything and nothing in particular:


Poles apart

Not magnetic

No sparks

Static charge

Fizzles out.



On my mind

Like yesterday

Today as well.


There too,

Here as well.

No escape.

Since ages.

Forever as well.


A crowd

To silence

The voice

In the head,

The voice


The crowd



“I bear the wounds of all the battles I avoided.”
Fernando Pessoa

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a whimsical little feeling

traces a full circle,

makes a full round,

changes blues

into purple halos

that take just a blink

to fragment

into shapeless floaters

that indent

an otherwise smooth

and flawless display,

before disappearing

and melting away

to become another

impermanent thing

that runs in a circle

only to fall off the ring!”


“Being temporary doesn’t make something matter any less, because the point isn’t for how long, the point is that it happened.”
Robyn Schneider, Extraordinary Means

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Short Insights


It no longer feels weird.

To share the bed

With textbooks.

A constant presence.

Not friends, never were.

Neither the opposite.

Just there. Every night.


Six in the evening.


I am half-done.

With everything.

My back is all done

With me.


I stopped going out.

At night.

We fell out.

My shadow and I.


It has rained,

Enough already.

It is dead.

The cloud.

Above my head.

The forecast, once again,

Was incorrect.


“The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.”

Henri Bergson, Matter and Memory

Photo by fotografierende from Pexels

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it is downright unfair

to be known for

the way we look,

and not for

how much of ourselves

we pour into the world;

a girl with a silly,

skewed ponytail,

a boy with glasses

too big for his face,

a woman with a wild

look in her eyes,

a man who wears

the same shirt every day-

a girl can have dreams

aligned with her mind,

unlike her ponytail,

a boy can see the world

a lot more clearer

for his age,

a woman can have

wild passion for

the pen and the page,

a man may not want

to spend more

than he makes…

our looks might

be the cover page,

but they are

never the preface.


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I have been looking

for you in odd places

where contrasts invoke

more dread than joy,

not many smile if they

find crimson glisten

against the expanse

of white – blood drops

against the snow;

a shudder runs

down the spine.

I have been told

that you can be found

in far less

sinister circumstances,

like in the scatter

of everything benign,

but I have not

been very lucky

to make you mine.

I am scared

that you might be

too rare a commodity,

and that you could

only be acquired

for an impossible price;

I have been looking

for a change,

the spice of life,

but I think

it might entail

a complete redesign.


Featured image from Pexels

“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.”

Robert Frost

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chase the mid-day

blues away

well before

the nightfall;

it is not wise

to let the ghosts

of the afternoon

befriend the shadows

of the night.


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Road Trips

in the back seat

the inside noise

slowly disappears,

and only the subtle

sounds remain,

such as that of

quiet breathing

and gentle

foot tapping

to nothing

but the soft rhythm

of your

beating heart;

with the windows

rolled down

to let the wind

in your hair

blow away

the feeling

of cornered despair,

the life

that you knew

before you

were here becomes

just a blur.


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Working Late

Tonight I shall be working late, but it will be all right. It has to be.

I am a fan of my own playlist. I have added a few new songs to it and this one song by Taylor Swift lasts for ten minutes. One can do a lot in ten minutes. I might not get anything done though.

There is so much that goes on outside my window. Even this late at night. Someone is always awake and decides to be on the other side of their windows. Unlike me.

I can see very little from the slit between the curtains. It is too dark. Nobody has any lights turned on. It feels a little suffocating to be looking out from this tiny an opening. My tiny room seems a lot bigger in comparison. Maybe nobody has any work to do tonight. Good for them.

I had a movie, Horse Girl, queued for this weekend. I forgot about it last night. I cannot watch it now. Not if I want to get any work done.

I played a short audiobook in the background as I was editing a document. I feel guilty now. I only have a vague idea as to what it was about. Should I mark it as read on my list? It feels wrong.

I wish I had some dark chocolate. The weather app on my phone tells me that it is very pleasant tonight. I wish I was on the other side of the windows too.

I wonder what you are doing tonight…


Featured image from Pexel

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To be only

A small stroke

Of a brush,

A paint drip

Or just a tiny

Unplanned smudge,

Might not feel

That rough

If it lets you

Live it out

On a canvas,

And lets you

Stay frozen

In an artistic

Little moment;

It might not

Seem a lot,

But it could mean

So much.


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she sees you

and the woolen scarf

wrapped snuggly

around your neck,

but does not say

a word;

the things

which we borrow

are not ours

to keep,

the warmth

that we steal

might not even

be real.


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Always the ripples,

But never the stone,

All you have sometimes

Is an illusion of a choice-

To be a mellow instigator

Or an ineffective,

Transient aftermath…


“There are no safe choices. Only other choices.”

Libba Bray

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Shooting Out

We become meteors

To escape

The constellations

In which our stars

Are deemed

Neither bright enough

Nor warm enough;

Is it strange that those

Who keep looking up

Feel hope when

We shoot out

From the sky?

Maybe it is worthwhile

To dim

Your dwindling light

If it can help irradiate

Someone else’s life.


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your expired ambition

leaks into your nightmares,

and then something

within you gets shaken,

but not your conviction,

that you still make sense,

and that you can keep

up the fiction!


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It is frightening

To outgrow places faster

Than you can outgrow

The people you share

Them with, and to feel

As if you have become

A wrong kind of person

For all the right

Kind of things out there,

But still not be

Able to leave.


“I was mortified by the prospect of becoming hopelessly trapped in someone else’s story.”
Lionel Shriver, We Need to Talk About Kevin

Featured image from Pexels

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It felt right.

To not need

A person.

Our own person.

Both the rescuer

And the rescuee.

One person.


Same person?

Both quit.

No person.

It feels wrong.


“It is one thing to lose people you love. It is another to lose yourself. That is a greater loss.”
Donna Goddard, Waldmeer

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I shall be quiet,

I shall not speak

For a while,

I shall not see anything

That shall require

Processing in

My recuperating brain,

And I shall not listen

To anything

That I should not be

Listening to anyway,

But I shall still be here,

Just not taking it in;

How tough it is

To let yourself heal

In a world

That does not

Let you disappear,

But might not even care

If you, in fact,

Manage to disappear!


Featured Image from Pexels

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Too Credulous

A few short poems trying a little too hard to make sense:


as I lie awake

I keep thinking about

how I had crossed the path

of a black cat today;

I hope he is okay.


we are two birds in a cage,

but the cage isn’t real

and neither are you.


life is weird

and we are weirder,

why are we not then winning?


 “A man finds he has been wrong at every preceding stage of his career, only to deduce the astonishing conclusion that he is at last entirely right.”

Robert Louis Stevenson

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As if bored

In its very meninges,

My brain now creates

Artificial memory!

There are flashes

Of unfamiliar faces,

Strange places-

Of these hallways

That diverge

Never to converge;

I yearn

For déjà vu,

I miss the mind

That I knew.


“The attempt to escape from pain, is what creates more pain.”
Gabor Maté

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Blackout Poetry – II

I prefer the same

coward heart to fight

an utterly impossible fight;

I fail to honour

the reality – my romanticism!


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a fleeting sense

of association

catches you off guard

when you look

at someone

and they nod

as to concede

that just by being

another person,

something unspoken

does in fact exist

between the two of you,

and that’s that.


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If you try

To measure time

In scattered moments,

Heavily burdened

With solitude,

The universe

Might lose a few

Heartbeats for a while,

But to you

It might seem

Like a lifetime.


“The house was very quiet, and the fog—we are in November now—pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost.”

E.M. Forster

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The Quiet

I can hear

the noise

as it creeps

ever so slightly

into spaces

left vacant

by the absurd

everyday quiet;

my thoughts

weigh me down

at times,

and it makes

no sense to sleep

with a mind

this broken,

with the eyes

wide open…

I silently

make peace

with the noise.


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