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.




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

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



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

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


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!


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


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

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


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


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! 😂



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

Ice Cream


I pretend to expect

nothing at all,

so when I found

some strawberry chunks

in the chocolate ice cream,

I couldn’t recall

the last time I got

what I was not looking for.


Perfectly frozen

ice cream bar

cracks from side to side,

so do you,

and so do I.


You melted

Even before your sundae did;

You made

For an equally sweet puddle.


Photo by Teejay from Pexels

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