The evolution is you

~I’ve never liked hospital beds, especially with people on them; sick people. Whenever I’d walk into a hospital room, I’d feel the shift in air like I had just walked into a different reality than the one outside the door. I’d always found myself meek and somewhat mute around the person lying in a hospital bed. It’s like I’m watching myself lying in that bed, unable to do anything, not even so much as speak something.

These people, these timid, pitiful humans only reflect weakness. Often they’d refuse to eat anything when asked to. You could beg them or cry as much as you want but they’d never take anything more than a bite or two of that apple you peeled and sliced so carefully. It’s almost like they have given up on anything worldly. They would hardly talk, only one syllable at a time which is only audible when you put your ear close to their flimsy moving lips.

The only thing you ever feel around them is a certain kind of weakness. I know that weakness. I feel it on some days. Or sometimes countless days in a row. Ofcourse I don’t have needles sticking out of my hands, nor the intravenous drips or the clean white bedsheet laid out perfectly on the bed I lie upon, but I do lie in the bed, unmoving for hours, refusing my appetite a right to eat, forcing my eyes to stare at the ceiling without blinking or ignoring my nerves to lift my hands, sluggishly resting beside my limp body like begging for alms.

I’d feel no desire, nothing worldly at least. I’d feel no colours or the dying rays of the sunlight forcing it’s way in through the window or the squeaks of robins flying right outside.

They call me sick too, even when I’m not on a hospital bed.

If I could go back to the time before universe was created I’m sure I could get an idea about this feeling. The fact that universe once itself was empty is proof enough of my existence at this moment.

Maybe what we call weakness is the absence of feelings portending.

We’re timid, imperfect humans, possibly living just about the edge of the universe, trying to figure out something that’s not even there yet. We’re waiting for a feeling we don’t know about.

They call it evolution. I call it you~

A million times, over again

I’m a man of science more than I’m of faith and that’s because faith cannot explain the revolution of Earth around a ball of fire, or the colliding and merging of galaxies to form a new one, or the creation of a star from the nebulae. But I often find myself trying to balance the beam between the two.

Right now, at this exact moment, thousands of stars are collapsing and turning into stardust some million light years away and there you are, outlasting every single one of them. Sometimes I ponder that maybe the reason it took me so long to find you is because you’ve been colliding, merging and metamorphosing into you and what right do I have to expect a certainty like you before it’s time.

You have delved the darkness to find the light for so long that it became the only color you ever remembered and what darkness left of you, memories claimed.

Yet you never stopped searching for the light and now everytime you look at the sky you store a new colour in your memories. This is your becoming.

And I know, I’ve faith that I’ve waited with you, apart from you, for something like this, something like you. This is my becoming.

And if you allow me to, I’d wait a million years, a million times, over again.

Becoming you

~You were lying there, deep in the chasm, unadulterated and bare to the skin, like a fallen tower measuring the length of the ground with it’s senescence. Your face candidly confronting the sun, unapologetic to your bones and I never felt so meek and mindless, daring to step closer and so I did.

I saw your breasts, succulent, like mountain peaks, so brave, so bold, so tempting. Balanced between the crease running down to the omphalos of your belly. Your legs entwined with each other like tangled grapevines, guarding your purity. Your hands marking your body, scorned by the dead and the living, still embracing your atoms.

I never felt so much belongingness in an entity yet as unbounded as you were, curiosity took over me and I stepped on where your shadow separated both of our realities. I saw your auburn eyes, half closed, still boring a hole through my chest, up to the cupola of the universe. So daunting, so luring.

I’m afraid yet I’m not. I heard you breathing, your chest falling and rising with the rhythm of my own and that’s when I leaned in and I touched and I let myself slip into you. I became you.

And there were you, again and I, again.~

My starcrossed lover

I have a bad habit. A habit of loneliness and when I’m lonely I’m vulnerable to every thought in this universe, anything it can spare.

When I’m lonely I sit on an elevated porch, on a bench by the basketball court, or on the floor of the house I live in as a tenant, or any place where I can feel the empty air around me as clear as I see the words with my glasses. But it’s more like a routine than a habit and I’d say that most of my days are spent being like this.

I think of time and how the world moves around it rather than on it’s axis. Strangely people have come to acknowledge and respect it as the most powerful and most strange paradox in this universe.

I think of love now and how even before men learned that anything existed beyond their land, beyond their children and cattles, that their exist oceans stretching to thousand miles leading to whole another continent with completely different people. How did they find love in a group of handful of people? Did love subject itself to distance before our time? The concept of star-crossed lovers was lost to them, perhaps or perhaps the entirety of love.

My forefathers and your forefathers came to this land from thousand miles away and settled here, never knowing how their lives would turn out. They came here as children and they learnt about this place about the people here and one of them felt a warmth in their heart, affection perhaps, the kind felt for someone they wouldn’t mind sharing their existence with, from their heart to soul, from life to skin everything they could spare and love happened.

You, I and everyone else is a result of thousands of years of love accrued into one person, the soul of our fore fathers breathe this four letter word into our lungs and like the chimney blows, it occupied our entire being.

You and I are starcrossed lovers. We’ve travelled through miles and time altogether to be here at this moment and the only conscientious thing to be done now would be to love each other.

Between these words

I never talk about my grandfather. It’s mostly because we never shared a bond that could be the palpable reason for the closeness we never had.

He was always by himself, mostly into his books and his scraps of writings which I’ve only heard about from my father. He wasn’t an outwardly social person, much like I’ve turned out to be but I’m my own man as he was his own.

My mother comes up to me while I read Murakami and tells me how my grandfather used to be into his books too and how he ended being secluded and drove himself into depression in his final days. She tells me that it’s better to be normal than being too much into books. But what does normal mean anyway?

I don’t know if I adapted these qualities from him subliminally, even while maintaining my distance from him but It excites me, if even a little, that books were a part of our family way before I existed.

Maybe I could’ve known him better, maybe I could’ve read those stories or those poems which he so secretively scrambled in his brown vellum diary but I was too young to be infatuated by a mind like his. I only saw that diary once and never again.

I still don’t know much about him but all I can fathom is that he was what he was in those words he wrote and those books he read. I wish to be seen in these words too, besides my flesh and bones. I’m free in these words, I’m whole in these pieces.

Untill I forget

An average human brain has 100 billion neurons and each neuron fires 200 times per second, transferring billions of information and storing it all inside. It never truly forgets anything. It’s funny how I’m about to totally contravene my own statement.

Most of us end up forgetting our childhood as we grow up. We end up forgetting the playground by the school, or the store that had our favourite candies or the friends you never saw again after they moved away.

I remember going to my grandma’s home every summer and she’d always have almost a dozen of sugarcanes for me, that she used to grow in the little garden along with the varieties of flowers that mostly my grandfather took care of. They had an unusual love for plants and flowers. I loved chewing on those really sweet sugarcanes.

We lived a very simple and humble life and I’ve only a few debilitating memories of it. But that’s it. I only remember parts where I was happy and never those parts where I cried when I hurt my knees or the nightmares that’d wake me up in the middle of the night.

Maybe this is it. Maybe we get so attached to the good times that when they become memories, they overcast the ones that our brains deemed unnecessary.

But I don’t miss those good times. I don’t miss those memories which have nearly faded to nothing. I don’t miss my grandma and I don’t miss those sugarcane plants that once filled my mouth with saccharine.

Maybe someday I’ll forget about everything, even your memories and, regrettably, never miss them again but until then, let me feel the only real thing I’ve ever felt; let me feel something, anything.

Life is as you live it

It meddles my thoughts just how some of us see life as monochromatic and others see it as variegated. Our realities are severed at the very point when we choose to believe what we believe in.

But the truth is, life comes to you as you live it. A man living under the shades and behind silhouettes will never know the joy of sunlight kissing his skin. So, you become what you believe in.

But here’s the thing, there’s nothing wrong with either of them. You live with what you’ve got even if it means sadness being a part of it. We’re made of the same dust that once created the universe and some part of us is within every atom in every corner of it.

The universe is ever expanding, ever growing and so are you.

My becoming

The simple facts of science have always baffled me. And the greatest merit of science is that it’s the testimony, a proof to the truth. We have pushed through millions of years to become what we are today, carrying though a process so intense that once shook the world to It’s core and yet here we are.

Of all the severities life has faced, it has given twice. Of all the chances it has taken away, it has gambled twice. Maybe you too were a chance life gambled away but I rather like to believe that you, most certainly, were my becoming, my proof.


Have you ever seen a dandelion and how a gentle blow of air from your mouth disintegrates it and it disperses away in the air, traveling to the unknowns as far as the winds can carry it.

The soft and gentle nature of a dandelion while remaining almost completely independent for it’s survival contravenes Darwin’s theory.

Everything in this universe is bound to change. The transitions in your emotions, no matter how bleak, are like dandelions. They grow, change, and then disperse, all within you. You’re a universe of emotions and god, that’s beautiful.

Me, because of you

The reason of me existing, of anybody existing and breathing on this planet is all thanks to the very first cell that came into existence after some million years of this planet being born from clutters. And somewhere inside us trace of that very first cell still remains reminding us of how even the most minute crumbs are an integral part of something.

Even though my memories have deluded me to believe that your trace has faded, I know it hasn’t and I know I’m what I’m because of you and your intangible crumbs. And you remain. You still remain