The Yes Man

He self-destructs sometimes

By joining a crowd

That is praying for clouds

In spite of being

A puddle already!


“Some people are kept righteous by their not being courageous.”
Mokokoma Mokhonoana

Image by Hands off my tags! Michael Gaida from Pixabay

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You are the periwinkle

In black and white,

A rounded soul amongst

The solid lines,

A silhouette against

The well-defined,

An idealist living large

In a city of cynics;

You proudly stand out,

Yet, you blend in fine.


Image by Hands off my tags! Michael Gaida from Pixabay

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Brain Fog

I see you,

But I can’t see you.

It’s the brain fog,

It is one of those days.

You make a good point,

But I woke up

On the wrong side

Of the floor today,

Can you make it again

Any other day?

It looks like yesterday,

And like the day before,

And the day before it too.

Everything’s ablur,

But I am giving myself

Points for being here anyway;

I am sitting at your desk,

Mistyping passwords,

And I brought

Herbal tea on a black coffee

Kind of day.

I wish I could

Restart this day,

But I am also not up for

Reliving today today.


Photo by James Wheeler from Pexels

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A Choice

I order myself

To disappear, every time

I misappear

In front of someone

Or something that appears

Out of nowhere,

But it never gets to

The point

Of a grand reappearance-

The one I could

Rebelliously sit out.


“There comes a time in your life when you have to choose to turn the page, write another book or simply close it.”
Shannon L. Alder

Image by sergei akulich from Pixabay

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Disjointed, Short Stories – Part – III

I. A Beeping Reminder

Oh, how the beeping was fainting every day! Presbycusis was catching up with him. It was always 22:30, it seemed. A timer for something. He no longer remembers what he had set it up for.

22:30. The last time he had heard from his parents. Many years ago.

II. Hush up!

There is a stranger in the hallway. I have not talked to anyone today. They tell me that I go about deflating other people. I don’t know what that means. What if this stranger is actually looking for someone to talk to? Besides, his coat looks too big for his body. I should tell him.

III. Missing

I was enraged. All the A’s were missing from my cereal bowl. How I loved them! It is strange, but the A’s taste the best. I let my mother know about the missing A’s. She shows me my biology report card instead. There is a C there.

IV. Different

He works six days a week, goes on educational trips, attends seminars, and reads in his free time. He tells them that he has made it. He asks them to not waste a single minute of their lives.

He is her favourite motivational speaker. She listens to him while washing the dishes. Three times a day, for three hours. There are fifteen people in her house, and not enough money for a dishwasher.

V. Changing

My older brother has the best taste in movies. Every Sunday, I call him to get recommendations. However, I had not anticipated how different everything was going to be this weekend. I call him, and he suggests a documentary! My brother had his thirtieth birthday two days ago.



I felt like taking a break from poetry, and then I thought about writing flash fiction. I have shared such stories before as well. The previous ones can be found here and here. 😊

Image by Roman Grac from Pixabay

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We could stay quiet

but we seldom do.

We are like fine dust

that exudes invisibly

from the seasonal crops

during the nights

of the Harvest Moon,

triggering old asthmas.


“It is hard enough to remember my opinions, without also remembering my reasons for them!”
Friedrich Nietzsche

Photo by Pierre Sudre from Pexels

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To be entirely here is absence

from somewhere else,

and a thought this daunting

keeps me from being here

completely at times,

and I often wonder

if somewhere else wants me there

or if this place right here

could use my absence?


“I mean, maybe I am crazy. I mean, maybe. But if this is all there is, then I don’t want to be sane.”
Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere

Photo by Anni Roenkae from Pexels

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I love what sleep

Does to the eyes;

Melts the brown in them,

And defrosts the white,

The red tendrils lost

Behind a dreamy sleeve,

The eyelids but a slit

To let in just the night

That proclaims that things

Are all right for a while.


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You are found

In the spam folders,

Haunting the news feed,

Chirping like a blue jay

On the world wide web;

You are too virtual

To make sense.


I hope we are never treated

Like a telephone number;

Hurriedly, illegibly scribbled

On the back of someone’s hand-

Too random to be remembered,

Too inconsequential to be saved.


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Out of a Dream

I dream of a place

where dreams

are more real

than reality

could ever be,

and I am as real

as one could ever be

living out of a dream

that could never be

lived out otherwise.


“We dream to give ourselves hope. To stop dreaming – well, that’s like saying you can never change your fate.”
Amy Tan, The Hundred Secret Senses

Image by hdphotos from Pixabay

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The Pep Talk

You are going about

Your usual day,

“Don’t cry, don’t cry,”

You say to yourself

As you step onto

One of the many

Stones in your way,

And the bounce

In your step

Just wouldn’t stay,

But as the day continues

That bounce isn’t the only

Thing that you lose…

“I am fine, it’s all right,”

You lie to yourself,

While you secretly hope

That one of these days

The world shall choose

To step out

Of your way, but for now,

It’s okay.


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A Summer’s Day

It has been terribly hot here since a few weeks, and I have a lot of work to do this weekend, so I took some time out to imagine the kind of summer day I would like to have one day. Maybe I will, but not for the next two months though. Anyway, I am grateful for a mind that lets me find sanctuary in imagination. 😊

I made a to-do list today

On a piece of paper

And tore it to shreds!

I could no longer feel

The knots in my stomach,

And the grey clouds fled.

I have been reading all day,

Taking in the sky’s blue

And the sun’s mighty red!


Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.

John Lubbock

Image by Aleksey Kutsar from Pixabay

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The Adulthood

At dawn, my right arm wakes up

Before me,

Jolting the hand attached to it

Into action,

Frantically hunting for the source

Of noise–

I have broken one cell phone

Like that.

At noon, my feet tend to experience

Tactile hallucinations;

An army of invisible ants marches down

My toes

Bringing the earliest hints of weariness

To life–

I take them out for a walk

Like that.

At dusk, my heart latches itself

Onto memories

Most of them old, insignificant,

Probably false

By playing them out like

A record–

I let it be weird and wild

Like that.

At night, my eyelids have a hard time

Staying shut;

My eyeballs too excited to

Stop spinning,

Playing a slideshow of images that don’t

Require projection–

I can sleep with eyes open 

Like that.


“I believe that everyone else my age is an adult whereas I am merely in disguise.”
Margaret Atwood

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Some of your stories

feel strangely familiar,

and my heart rejoices

even if it gets to

live one out

in non-real-time.

I wonder why some part

of me drifts away

and finds homes

in the old coffee houses

that I know only

from the pictures

you have shown me?


“Once upon a time there was what there was, and if nothing had happened there would be nothing to tell.”
Charles de Lint, Dreams Underfoot

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She leaves behind the past,

And some memories

She unwittingly drags along.

Her house overlooks the sea,

With a foreboding-

She does not belong.

Her life was a musical,

But there was

Never an opening song.

People like her are exquisite,

Still other people

Get them all wrong.


Image by GIOVANNI_MARCELLO from Pixabay

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One book.

Separate pages.

Distinct contexts.



At different times.


She checks herself out

From her personal library,

Based only on what she sees;

For she was not like a cover,

But more of a book jacket,

Comfortable and beautiful.


He always buys books

From the wandering peddlers;

There is more than one town

On his nightstand.


Image by Pexels from Pixabay

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The Hope for Better Days

I shall drink out

of my favourite vase

without throwing

the wilted flowers away,

and I shall poke

the lonesome cloud

above my foggy head

with a stick that I shall fashion

out of every thing

I should have thrown away

a long time ago.

I might sing myself to sleep,

but I shall not sleep a wink,

and I shall beat

some eggs and feel bad

for the whites,

and the bright yellows

outside my window

that I can see, but cannot

touch for a while,

and this thought shall bring

an offhand smile

that I shall not smile

in hopes of it growing

into a big grin one day!


Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

“You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.”
Pablo Neruda

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The Rain Dance

The meteorologists are confident that our part of the world is going to see some rain soon. I hope they are right. I hope there are no floods this year, and the rainy season arrives as a blessing for everyone.

Well, our lives had slowed down,

Waddled like a baby duck

Through the hottest days of June.

A quiet, weakly pulsating, hollow,

Yet palpable stretch of time,

With no promise to end soon.

We slowly let the air in,

And gently breathe it out

To get into the rhythm of monsoon.


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Those We Knew

As we grow older, losing friends becomes inevitable because we are people after all and that is what we do. We lose each other.


I think I am greater

than the sum of my parts

but I am not sure what that entails.

There is nothing like a quiet

afternoon in the Fall

but you already know the details.

Orange is your colour

and I remember telling you that

in one of my protracted emails.


You abandoned all pretense

at politeness and told me

to take you out of my second-rate art.

I erased a few dozen words,

emptied out the sent items folder

and that seemed like only a start.

There is a hole where the world

used to make sense before

but now everything has fallen apart.


Photo by Maizal Najmi from Pexels

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I was feeling weary,

And it took me

A few moments before

I could talk myself out of it,

But I also knew that you, too,

Were feeling blue,

And that your reset button

Was malfunctioning,

So I got strong

Because you could not,

And one of us

Always has to be it

To get through what we

Go through!


*I think I may have posted this one before, but I’ve been reminded by an app that today’s the one-year anniversary of this poem, so I felt like celebrating the occasion by reposting it. 🙂

Image by Aleksey Kutsar from Pixabay

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Not friends with vanity any more,

I might as well become my own mirror;

I’ll ignore the smudged fingerprints,

And I shall not fix the minor cracks,

and shall not wipe off

the permanent misty tracks.

I’ll stand back to embrace the parallax,

And my reflection’s imperfections!


Photo by Mariana Blue from Pexels

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It seldom worked.


Felt real;

Made peace with.

Thoughts set free.


Too late.

Grim words penned;


Made sense;

Left at that.

Every you knows

Someone like me.

A small world.


Image by Darkmoon_Art from Pixabay

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we’d merely glanced

at one undimmed menu

before deciding on

a meteor shower,

and to wash it down

we had ordered

some fluorescent rain,

but after a few spoonfuls

we’d felt quite full,

for it was more

than what our subdued

lives could contain!


“Life swings like a pendulum backward and forward between pain and boredom.”
Arthur Schopenhauer

Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels

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When everyday life overwhelms me a bit,

I find myself fixating on quiet, little (un)happenings,

Beautiful despite their apparent insignificance.

Such as spaces between the words in a book,

Post-lunch dip on the busiest of workdays,

A longing for solitude even when in good company,

And daydreams about being anywhere

But wherever you find yourself at the moment;

The little somethings that may not be nothing after all.


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Inside the depths

Of their rational minds,

In the dark, forsaken cellars,

A few unruly thoughts ferment,

But they might choose

To feign indifference

When all their sober ideas

Begin to break under the influence!


“Flirting with madness was one thing; when madness started flirting back, it was time to call the whole thing off.”
Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance

Image by Игорь Левченко from Pixabay

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Coffee Overload

If you do not want to hear a strange buzzing inside your ears, and do not feel like thinking faster than you can act, then it is wise to not have coffee muffin cake (with dalgona coffee icing) with coffee! I feel like staying up all night to read and watch a movie (taking a little break this weekend), but I’d be surprised if I manage to get anything done tonight! Turns out there is such a thing as too much coffee after all. 😁

I am currently halfway through Normal People by Sally Rooney, but I am not so sure if I’d finish it. The pile of unread books on my nightstand is calling out to me.

As for the movie, I want to watch Stowaway as I have heard good things about it, but I am pretty sure that I’d end up rewatching either The Shawshank Redemption or The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

A Coffee Muffin with Dalgona Icing

Featured Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

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Arithmetically Unsound


If you are one-third

Of the person

You used to be,

Are you less bitter,

Or are you more sweet?


If I fall off my orbit,

And my center of gravity

Can no longer be determined

By the proven equations,

Would I still make sense to you?


You cannot calculate

The magnitude of solitude,

And put a price on the moments

Shared with the ones

Who had saved you from being

With yourself all the time!


“Now the world had ceased to be the world, and I had ceased to be me.”

The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami

Image by Shutterbug75 from Pixabay

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Some Days

On days like these

I can find peace

Even when it feels

As if I am being eaten alive,

But on days unlike these,

Something as trivial

As the sound

Of my own heart

Beating a little faster

Is enough to drive me

Over the edge.


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We exist

In one book,

On separate pages,

In different contexts,

Bookmarked and dog-eared

At different times.


To still be connected

Without an actual connection,

Makes for a comforting illusion

Of company.


Image by MasterTux from Pixabay

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Your Things

It is both amazing and borderline creepy how somethings never stop being relevant or relatable. You hesitate to declare them as “your things”, because of the unpleasant reactions you tend to receive when you mention them in front of the people you know, but deep down you cannot help but acknowledge that those are definitely your things!

For example, Billy Joel’s song, Vienna, has been resonating with me for so long now that it feels as if I’d known the lyrics since the day I was born! Is it weird or what?

Image by Ulrike Leone from Pixabay

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Out of Order

It makes sense

as long as every part

of you feels here

and pushes you through,

but when some part

of you despairs,

and pulls out

one worn out chair

to sit for hours

at a stretch and stare

at something that is

not quite there,

your entire being

then wants to share

in that one part’s

resolve to rue!


Image by Lucija Rasonja from Pixabay

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Life comes full circle,

But you insist on

Bringing it to

Your angle of view.


We make two sides

Of a parallelogram-

Our paths never intersect!


You say that I

Let nothing orbit around

My personal sphere.

I don’t even feel

Three dimensional

At times!


“Everybody at the party is a many sided polygon….Nonagon!”
They Might Be Giants

Image by Okan Caliskan from Pixabay

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Out Cold

I braid in my hair

spectral moments out of

someone else’s life,

but I feel like the salt

that has been left inside

a tiny shaker for too long,

and bouncing off the walls,

floorboards, and the ceiling

is this strange, little feeling;

is any of it real?


Imagination is the only weapon in the war against reality.”
Lewis Carroll

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A little something for the love of illustrated poetry. 😊
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Home was a place inside

Where the outside noise

Was welcome to stretch

Its thin, long limbs in peace

Even when the silence

Had set up camp

And had no real 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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His World

My father teaches me

To live in the moment,

And not to spend

More than I make,

But I am not a good student.

I worry about things,

Live outside the moment,

And go broke sometimes.

My father tells me

That the world is cruel,

And keeps an eye out

For the weird ones,

But I am strangely normal.

I am awfully naive,

Fall prey to the wickedness,

And lookout for the weird ones.

My father believes in

My version of things as well,

And says that we balance

Each other out in a way,

But his version is growing on me.


Image by Dariusz Sankowski from Pixabay

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I purposefully step

On the cracks

In the concrete I walk on

And my back,

Already too broken

From the weight

Of all things uncrackable,

Does not give a crack!


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We know, albeit not thoroughly,

How frighteningly similar we are,

Not because we have the same

Eye colour, length of hair

Or general disdain for anything

That is unlike ourselves out there,

But only because how similar

The lumps in our throats are!

Such commonality is not only

Hugely unsettling, it also seems

Exceptionally unfair- to see a person

In the light of their problems,

And to only have woes to offer,

Or troubles to share!”


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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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On Hiatus

I wish I could take a break

From myself,

Hit snooze,

Put my thoughts

On mute

For a short while;

Be awake,

But not move an inch,

As if I was deep

In sleep like a child,

Nothing rings

On the other end when I dial,

My mailbox

Gets no note from me,

And all the things

That I keep aside

In a pile,

Stay there, but do not fall over,

And I wish I had

An on/off switch

With a tiny, red light

Above it,

So when I go out like this,

The world, too

Could know about it.  


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The Sky People

we had our eyes on the sky,

at the clear blue of it,

at the sunset, twilight,

and the night of it;

our hearts one rainbow away

from bursting into colours.


Reposting because I felt like that today. Again. Some days, all you can do is hope, and it seems enough. 😊

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Not Never

I see grey in my hair,

And my sister tells me

I am supposed

To see silver instead;

The image in my head shifts

From a dark night

With grey clouds

That do not promise to rain,

To a night sky making way

For eternal starlight-

We bloom, in our own time.


“The secret of a good old age is simply an honorable pact with solitude.”
Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

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She fears the day

She would run out

Of imagination,

And lose her wits;

She is scared of being

This close to reality,

That in her own version

Of things

She no longer fits!


Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else.”
George Orwell, 1984

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Healing and Repair

I found this short poem scribbled in my old textbook of Pathology. I wonder why I don’t learn through verse anymore?

Scars do not bleed.

Scabs spill scarlet,

If you pick them.

Scars do not hurt.

Scabs throb badly,

If your nurse them.

Scars do not heal.

Scabs can mend,

If you let them.


Image by congerdesign from Pixabay

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we do not have a common narrative;

when my world was upside down,

yours was the right way up

and what was left was not all right!


My every little thought

gets bigger, goes berserk,

and dies.

Your every small gesture

gets noticed, goes places,

and multiplies.

My every sombre word

gets mumbled, goes awry,

and dies.

Your every feeble idea

gets better, goes viral,

and multiplies.


“Little Alice fell down the hole, bumped her head and bruised her soul”
Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Photo by Asad Photo Maldives from Pexels

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There are so many books that I have yet to explore,

But I cannot keep adding to my shelves anymore,

And tonight there is nothing that I would like to do more

Than to sail away on a paper boat

Assembled from all the pages that I have read before.


“If you truly love a book, you should sleep with it, write in it, read aloud from it, and fill its pages with muffin crumbs.”
Anne Fadiman

Featured image is from Pexels

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I miss being crafty even though I was never a craftswoman! I used to paint horribly, sew terrible clothes for my dolls, and was knee-deep in loud, DIY friendship-bracelets craze back in the day. When I chose to pursue science, however, the artsy-craftsy side of me happily locked itself in a box. I have the key to that box, but I am not sure it would do any good to open it now!

I quench my artistic thirst by using coloured pencils to highlight the text in my books, and by grading my students’ response sheets with a red pen.

Sometime ago, I turned one of my posts into this desk-calendar, post-it notes kind of thing by using a free template from a graphic design website, and that had been the most crafty thing I had done in ages.

With that being said (and shared), I’d like to add that I am utterly grateful to be able to appreciate art, and to follow a lot of great artists here and on other social media platforms. Looking at paintings and beautiful photographs is one of the highlights of my day – enough to pleasantly rattle the old, locked box! 😂

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I wish I knew

how to stop you

from sneaking out

of my journal to spill

into my dreams;

there’s too much

of you in my life already,

and so little of me.


it seldom makes sense,

but in her ways

she is set;

she keeps a diary

of days she cannot

wait to forget.


there is something

quite eerie about

a lifetime that outlasts

the life itself – a memoir.


Photo by Sunsetoned from Pexels

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