War of the Words

We fight but it never

feels all right!

You tell me how much

you hated people,

and I tell you how much

I’d hated them too,

knowing quite well that I,

too was a person,

but forgetting that you

were one too,

and then I say

how exhausted I’d felt,

and you say that was who

we were supposed to be;

chronically tired,

and thoroughly bored,

we turn trivial skirmishes

into full-blown wars.

You keep hitting me

with lukewarm irony,

and that’s what people do

when they run out

of rebukes and begin

hoping for a truce.

These wars of the words

are never quick enough to kill-

a gash on the conscience,

a blow to the heart,

none the wiser,

none the worse for!

I end up in tears

over a tiny wound

on my ego,

while I watch you

tend to your bruises too.


To Read What You Need

The mystical aspect of life can both be wonderful and bewildering at the same time. You cannot help but marvel at the way certain events unfold sometimes – unexpectedly but not unnecessarily. I had Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet on my to-be-read list since ages, and a few days ago I suddenly got this strange urge to shelve the other book I had been reading, and go for it instead. I had not realised how much I had needed to read it until then. The universe must have known though!

It is rare to come across a book that does an excellent job of describing everyday feelings this eloquently. It is a marvelous, melancholic, and achingly wistful book, with so many quotable passages.

“Impressions are incommunicable unless we make them literary. Children are particularly literary, for they say what they feel and not what someone has taught them to feel. Once I heard a child, who wished to say that he was on the verge of tears, say not ‘I feel like crying,’ which is what an adult, i.e. an idiot, would say, but rather, ‘I feel like tears.’ And this phrase – so literary it would seem affected in a well-known poet, if he could ever invent it – decisively refers to the warm presence of tears about to burst from eyelids that feel the liquid bitterness. ‘I feel like tears’! That small child aptly defined his spiral.”

“I’m a navigator engaged in unknowing myself. I’ve overcome everything where I’ve never been. And this somnolence that allows me to walk, bent forward in a march over the impossible, feels like a fresh breeze.Everyone has his alcohol. To exist is alcohol enough for me. Drunk from feeling, I wander as I walk straight ahead. When it’s time, I show up at the office like everyone else. When it’s not time, I go to the river to gaze at the river, like everyone else. I’m no different. And behind all this, O sky my sky, I secretly constellate and have my infinity.”

Excerpts from The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa

Out of Flow

it has been so long

since the time

came to a halt

albeit figuratively,

but it shows;

the room seems less

bright every day,

and I think you know

that your iris

is merely a rim now,

and the world

that peeks through

your giant pupils

has an eerie glow,

but there’s no point

keeping a fireplace lit

in hopes that

it could somehow snow

in the middle

of the summer so

it is time to talk less

and listen

a little bit more before

you have to throw

anything that made

it seem like nothing

could grow,

because you might

be the only one

out of flow.


Photo by Jens Johnsson from Pexels

Oh Well!

I. 😒

I hope that you too

have a book in your lap right now;

I hope that you too

are studying your eyes out.

II. 😊

I hope that you too

have a book in your lap right now;

I hope that you too

are reading the night away.


Photo by Jonathan Borba from Pexels

A Ringing Reminder

I kept reminding myself

of myself too much,

and became a little

too aware of

the way I kept ringing

in the background

of everything I did

or did not do;

I began putting myself

on snooze a lot,

I am relieved that I

did not dismiss

myself entirely though,

or maybe it was the universe

that had me scheduled

for every day.


“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Following Suit

Whenever I get to know someone who seems to be everything that this world is not, I cannot help but wish to get to know their mom as well.

it is the selfless way you move

through this unkind world

that speaks volumes

about the kind of woman

your mother must have been:

someone who engulfed flames

but refused to drink from waterfalls

until you had rivers of your own

flowing through your backyard.


Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers, motherly sisters, motherly fathers, and to anyone who’s like a mother to someone! Your ability to love selflessly is one of the few things that make the world go round.

Featured image from Pexels

The Apple Jam

Every day, a particular something reminds me of apple jam.

I wouldn’t say I like apple jam, but I buy it quite often.

I am not good at making it myself.

Cooked apples give me the creeps.

All right, I admit it, I buy it for the cute jar it comes in.

It looks good sitting next to the bottle of ketchup in my kitchen cabinet.

I like ketchup.

Though nothing reminds me of ketchup much.

Except for blood.

Gosh, I wish I could love the blood-red apple jam that tastes nothing like ketchup!

I hate myself for treating it the way this world treats us sometimes.

Hating us for the things it cannot control about us.

Measuring us against those it deems perfect!


Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

The Visual Sense


I cannot be blinked

Into oblivion-

Quite like the floaters

In your peripheral vision;

Stronger than ever.


The dirt enters

Her eyes a lot.

It keeps her



Your reflection

May mirror

Your every move,

But it can

Still look

Nothing like you.


“The most beautiful images are often the least honest.”
Manu Larcenet, Ordinary Victories

Photo by Donald Tong from Pexels

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