Thursday, 19 January 2012


I wrote a letter to my inexistent reader today...but it didn't go through.
So I am posting it here. What do you say?

""To be honest, am not sure why am writing to you. Perhaps because I feel so lonely and lost at this moment, or perhaps today feels like one of those days where a person is slapped hard into reality. Why is life such a lonely world for those that think too much, analyze too much?

I am not sure how your life is but here, in this big, vast, multicultural city, I find beauty everywhere. Yet, I cannot seem to find peace, nor love, nor fulfillment. I spoke with a colleague of mine yesterday for close to an hr and she is big on spirituality so her words about feeding the soul with silence and contemplation resound so loudly within me today. I have lost myself in the sea of people, in the chaos of forming relationships, twisting them, arranging them, manipulating them and ultimately, losing most of them. Nothing lasts here. Everything is disposable. Everything has become a cliche. All morals and beautiful truisms of life are plastered everywhere and preached by everyone but I am not sure just how many practice what they preach...

They speak to me about love, forgiveness and beauty in small things. But I haven't seen a single person to stop and smell the rose (which I do), nor a person speak the truth about cultural realities or emotional disarrays. Life here is a beautiful jungle, made up of inconsistent concrete, a mish-mash of people, a mosaic of cultures and a hidden iciness of loneliness. Politeness is ubiquitous and yet cruelty, seems its constant companion too. Niceness and kindness is only on the surface and so is their pseudo-sensitivism. not sure what else to say, my inexistent reader. Share...I like reading your beautifully woven words. And yes, I equally would like to have a pen-pal. There's something therapeutic about it, I think.""

Wednesday, 11 January 2012


I found her scattered amongst her ruins.
Her photographs all around her.
Her clothes lying helpless on the floor beside her.
Her old records playing whiny sounds just for her.
Her lovers in her mind, vividly and quietly tormenting her.

I lost her all around me.
She moves swiftly like the wind,
an impermeable light that I can't seem to grasp.
She's impulsive,
flickering like a candle light,
but I know she can be a rock of love and support,
when she is not in flight.

I want her.
I want to be her.
I want to engulf her.
I want to gorge her psyche and dissect her.

She is an incorrigible sentimentalist.
Won't let me do what I must.
I muster the strength to contain her,
but her energy dissipates through my fingers.
She is flimsy like a summer dress,
a light, a caress.

She is me. Or she is you...
One and all, love will come through.