Posted in Journal


My head feels like it is bogged down by bits of bygone conversations. Every time a thought arises, it gets inevitably entangled in words, phrases and stray sentences floating around like clutter in space – precious pieces of relationships that fell into disuse and now end up orbiting my conscience endlessly. Matter cannot be destroyed, not really; I suppose it is the same with memories. All we can do is transform them into something unbecoming and trick ourselves into looking the other way.

Continue reading “Debris”
Posted in Musings

Dancing In The Wind

Every time you leave, my hours feel endless; stacking seconds against each other seems to take forever just because there are so many of them. I feel like a little cafĂ© down the road with its windows thrown wide open, waiting for a pair of feet to scurry across the threshold, announced by a soft musical ding. I put out whimsical menu boards colored in chalk and bake word-cakes, only to throw them out resignedly as they go stale. Every day, I keep myself open for less and less time, hanging up the “CLOSED” sign with a sigh a little earlier every night. But I’ll never shut down. You know that, don’t you? That you can stay away for any amount of time, and then walk in out of the blue like nothing happened, and there will still be a sweet treat in here with your name on it.

Continue reading “Dancing In The Wind”

Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.

George Orwell

(Why I Write)

Snippet #22