To love again

It’s almost unbelievable how someone born from blood and agony, and made of dust and bones is capable of feeling the pain of birth in the same way and reciprocating in a whole different manner but also capable of feeling the love the very next moment a mother holds it close to her chest.

Isn’t it magical how love is an entity, completely different from anything, just on its own, born without a single trace but leaving behind many. From the moment we open our eyes the first thing we reach for is a safe place, a haven where we feel like we’re loved, where we feel safe.

It’s only natural for us as humans to crave that kind of love again and again until it’s right within our grasp, only a few breaths away. And when it’s there, every thing that used to make sense becomes incomprehensible and everything that didn’t, makes a bit more sense.

And when it hurts, it hurts in all the right places. And oh, what I wouldn’t give to feel the same fervor running through my every nerve, to feel how love tastes on my tongue, just one more time.


Cold books

These books that I yearn to read are a familiar kind of cold

And I submittingly touch their vellum,

for nothing soothes my soul more than a sensation, any sensation skimming through my apathetic skin

Or the harsh coarse squalls ripping my hide off of the skeleton just to seep in between my bones

These books have pages so scarred but with the ink of their own

And I feel it with my fingers slipping through each letter of every word across the length of every page

The coldness is still there and it freezes my hand the moment I slide my fingers between the darkest of stains

To be seen in one’s barest form, to be felt by a strangers hand, How must it feel when the strangeness goes away?

The edges are still sharp as ever and the skin is just as crude as it were when I first dreamt of touching it, raffish and rougher than the rocks churned by brooks

And now that it’s in my hands, I don’t crave it anymore

Now that it rests on my skin I feel like it belongs there

Like I’ve read it’s every chapter, felt it’s every letter, smelled it every time right after picking it out of the shelf; all of this just to get to the end of it.


There’s a certain semblance about loneliness. The more you feel it, the more you get used to it. It’s in the bed where you sleep. It’s in the pavement you walk upon. It’s in the city crowd you find yourself crossing the streets with. It’s in the people you see everyday. You’re not lonely for a person but for a feeling and you don’t know what that feeling might be.

It burns like alcohol inside your guts but just as piquant.The causatum of it makes you feel a bit more; a bit more than everyone else, even the good things. And eventually it makes a person out of you. Yet you never get addicted to it. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to.

But darling, what brought you this far to the middle of nowhere?

Love to you

We believe in numbers, facts, or if I have to be more specific, science. Yes we are a result of millions of years of evolution and everything we are now is all thanks to that. Everything we know of is governed by the undisputed laws of science, the rising and dropping of our chests, the rustling of dried leaves under our feet, the sky changing it’s colour from blue to rouge to orange, the birds migrating in flocks and even the feelings separated from the prevalent ones, the scientific explanations as to why do we feel what we feel.

We also believe in something far superior than science and beyond that we believe in love, a neurological response to someone or something that holds a certain sentimental value to us. Sounds really simple when science explains it.

Mind sure is as complex as it gets, yet it cannot make you feel as if you were just swept off your feet, the moment she walked in the door or how your heartbeats synchronously rose with your every thought when she smiled holding the sun in awe. It cannot make poems flow out of pens so effortlessly as if every book in every library in the world has sonnets waiting to be claimed by her lips or fill your chest with a certain kind of warmth like you had never felt before. It’s all felt by the heart, it’s what makes us humans. It’s the capacity to love and be loved.

A hot coffee in the morning or at night makes no difference yet it feels so different to you. Watching the fireflies pass by you fills your heart with an unusual feeling of ecstasy or the subtle calmness in looking intently at the constellations. To be able to feel these emotions makes us one damn lucky specie. And even though it’s almost trivial like listening to the ticking of the clock on your wall, it’s a part of life nonetheless. It’s the meaning of life.

A feeling like yearning

There are feelings that I felt as a child but could never experience, could never comprehend, feelings that I want to feel now more than ever. And there are things that often takes me back to the time beyond which I can’t go any further, like the lonely little house on the edge of the road or the neon lights hanging down the walls in a junkyard, the cemented floor beneath my feet that looks exactly like the one I once scraped my knees on, the little clover leaves growing amidst the wild flowers or the abandoned campervan on the side of the road with vines growing all over it. I know most of these things shouldn’t be reminiscent of anything but they are. It fascinates me like magic; how a magician merely does a sleight of hands and holds his audience in awe. Everyone knows what happened but not exactly how.

When i was a kid there were many things that were always so hard to understand and often so intriguing. I was infatuated with them, more or less, never realising that someday in future I’d be so overwrought to understand the same things.

Nevertheless time won’t turn back for me and I might never experience those moments again but only live in them merely for seconds and for me that is one of the most beautiful feelings in this world, to be remembered and forgotten in a moment of infinity. Afterall, what could be a more satisfying feeling than the feeling of yearning for the lost.

We’ll be alright

One thing I learned watching my father that I’m not afraid to share is that keeping the hurt and pain inside makes it easier for the people around you to believe that you’re one of them. We all become good at it, eventually. So good that when our hearts can’t bear all the silence and the pain we give to ourselves they turn to one thing or another, as an exit, as an escape from everything. For me it was writing.

My childhood is a distant memory now but I’m still confused, not about love but about myself, about what I give myself into and what do I take back, about the bare necessities for a simple and happy life, and most of all how some days seem longer than years when all you have is time.

Despite the fact that my upbringing was never easy and involved very less exchanges of this ‘time’, I grew up alright. And I learned most of the amazing things from the people around me, from my family and my friends and somehow they, while living their whole another life turned out to be alright as well.

I guess in the end, no matter how things turn out, we’ll be just alright. We’ll be just alright.

Unapologetically yours

We all experience those moments after dreams that feel so real, where we spend minutes sitting quiescently on the bed trying to recall what was the dream all about. There are flashes in your head, bits and scraps of your dream but you can never recall the whole of it. Sometimes you remember the ends of your dream, sometimes just the beginning and sometimes what transpired between the beginning and the ending.

You, you were like a dream to me. I remember the parts where I woke up every morning with a smile on my face so wide it’d put the moon to shame, just because I got to see you. It’s strange but I don’t remember thinking the same way back then. Maybe I was unaware of all the things happening around me when you were around, like how every street we took back to home got imprinted on the back of my head like a blueprint, how it made me smile just to listen to you talk about things that made you happy, or how our hands brushed against each other’s again and again as we walked together with neither of us so much as bothered to move our hands away.

No matter how hard I try I can never be sure if I had any idea back then that I was falling a great deal in love, when we spent hours under the moonlight walking undaunted, when I searched for you in the crowd of people I was used to seeing all day for years, or when I tried to not move an inch as you fell fast asleep on my shoulders, afraid that I’d somehow wake you up and you wouldn’t be resting your head on my shoulders anymore.

I could go on and on but somewhere I’d always miss the parts which although so tiny and insignificant, were the best parts of my life and if only I could remember all of them I wouldn’t be writing these words right now.

All these memories are the proof of something and I’m sure now that it was. It was like we almost were. And that’s how all of my dreams have always been, almost.

Image courtesy – Google

Illustration by Henn Kim

The purpose

Ever since life was created with two sets of limbs and one beating heart the sole question has been about the purpose of life.

Why are you breathing right now. Why isn’t anyone else breathing the same air in your place. Why are you you. An ant works it’s whole life away carrying burdens ten times it’s own body weight to the exact same place, at exact same intervals, every single day. No matter how small a life is a life. So is that an ant’s purpose. To work it’s whole life and die.

There’s nothing about it but pity and absurdity. If that’s the case then we humans are no better than ants that we so unapologetically trample upon without even so much as a thought.

Makes you wonder what’s God planning up there. Where’s the purpose for life. Waking up every morning to the same air, on the same bed and doing the same old thing you have been doing for past years. Where’s the purpose in that. Becoming a doctor who saves lives, an engineer who builds the nation from it’s bare foundation, or a soldier who lives for his country just to die for it. Is that what you call purpose, aging and perishing without anyone’s knowledge. Do these little events in between one’s lifetime make you nod your head as an answer to my question.

What’s so sentimental to the term motherland that the soldiers are ready to die for it. After all it’s all just dust and rock. Why are there even reasons to go to a war where people can die. Countries divided by boundaries and people divided by religion and race. What was the need for them in the first place. Weren’t we sent to live on this planet because someone up there wanted us to. When did we took the way which led to division.

It’s been so long since everyone went their ways that we have forgotten we are all just a life. Take that away and we weren’t even there. It’s like endless pitch black space.

So if it’s so important for us to breathe there must be something far more important that settles the question. I refuse to believe that we are all just ants wanting to pursue professions of our choice, get old and eventually turn into the pyre ash. As a matter of fact what’s more amusing to me is that sometimes I think the purpose of life is to find the purpose to life.

Image courtesy – Google

Illustration by Daehyun Kim aka Moonaki

Like you

Like the dying flick of a candle abates in air,

I too melted into your memories

And after many a winter moons

As they shaped into you,

I found myself too,

Though not complete but a lot like you

Image courtesy – Google

Ten minutes in a bar

It was as if I was the guy who sings in a bar on every weekend, the only day I get to see you. And you walk in like sunshine but just a little deep in your own mess, enough to make me smile, though purely out of love. I wait for you to find a table and settle down and after some time you do. You order your first glass of beer and although the second would be enough to make you a little tipsy you’d somehow remain composed as if you know you are going home all alone but you haven’t had the first one yet and as you drink your first sip I strum my guitar and play the song I had been writing from the day I saw you walking in through that door dragging behind all the magic in the world, so effortlessly.

Then you turn around just to see the face behind the voice and you see me looking at you and our eyes meet but without a hint of any recollections or recognition from any time, you turn back to your table, looking languidly at the empty glass and then at the second one, deciding if you want to get a little more drunk. The man behind the counter looks at you. His eyes are filled with pity, disgust, but mostly resentment for his job and with a fake smile he asks you the same old question, “Do you need a refill?”

You then look at him with a blank stare while there’s nothing going inside your head yet everything at the same time. You try hard to make a decision. But then again my voice, somehow pushing through everyone else’s, reaches your ears and you smile at him and reply with a gentle no. He smiles back, a little wider and sincere now and this time his eyes only reflect pity for you.

I’m still singing and it hasn’t been even eight minutes yet, but it still feels like eight hundred and I’m still waiting for you to turn around. Maybe a smile other than your own would make you a little less sombre. But you drink that second glass of beer anyway and my song comes to an end too.

Disappointed, you try to finish the rest of it and leave the bar as fast as you can but I strum my guitar again and your hand, sliding across the edge of the table, slows down a bit and you let yourself sink into the chair once again but you never look back at me.

This time it’s a song about broken hearts and you twitch a little and I see a tear dropping down your cheeks on the table mixing along with the spilled beer on the table and I wish somehow I could drown in that. I wish I could be at the table, sitting beside you but instead I just sing and keep singing. The crowd is good and so is the song. Still, no one gets what’s it about but you. You, who is now looking at the dimly lit ceiling, maybe thinking about something or someone or just trying to stop anymore tears from falling down and it breaks my heart and my voice breaks a little too.

So you finally turn around but I can’t smile. Damn it, I can’t smile back. “Smile god damnit, smile” I say to myself but I just keep looking at you and you at me. You see the glint in my eyes, shinier than usual and then you smile, broken but little by little you smile. My chest becomes less stiff and I let my breath out that felt like it was being held for so long and my song finally comes to an end- the longest ten minutes of my life and there are only two glasses of beer on your table, which is lesser than usual. You decided to not get much drunk but this time the reason is different than the usual one, this time you have someone to walk you home.

But only, you never liked beer and you never came to the bar and I never sang and I could never walk you home. But I did write the song. I swear I did.

Image courtesy – Google

Illustration by Mandy Jurgens