The Old Man’s Watch

“What time is it?” The child asked.

“My watch seems to have stopped.” The old man said.

“Don’t you miss it? Don’t you get lonely stuck in the same time? Don’t you miss the idea of a future?” The child inquired.

“The past is my future.” The old man replied.


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Dying is not the curse of the Covid.

We were all dying anyhow.

It is the distance it has put between the living.

Humanity lives only after selfish survival is ensured.

We were all dying; but now we are doing it alone.


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Quote of the day

‘’I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people, rising from this abyss. I see the lives, for which I lay down my life – peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy. I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence…

It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known…’’

~The Dark Knight Rises (2012)

A String of Epiphanies

It was here, 
I saw her first. 
My crooked-nosed fairy. 
A sun-kissed girl.
Encircled, consumed 
by her own brilliant light. 
It was here, 
she swam across the darkness to me.
It was here, 
I heard her first. 
My enigmatic siren. 
Oblivious of her own chaos, 
crooning, crying- 
she sang of a peaceful world. 
It was here, 
I found out what a lullaby did.
It was here, 
I saw the enchanted sky.
Her eyes black jewels.
Ignorant of their mischievous shine;
calm, composed
she spoke of love so seriously.
It was here,
the thunderbolt struck me first.
It was here, 
I tasted the stars. 
My favourite cigarette smoke. 
A temptress shimmering, 
talking, burning. 
Trapped by her devilish tongue- 
It was here, 
I wanted time to forever stop.
It was here, 
I found the iceberg’s depth. 
Endless ICU nights. 
A colourless fate. 
Shocked & shivering- 
It was here,
I learned to beg. 
It was here, 
I learned how prayers were made.
It was here, 
she danced in a sinking ship. 
Death simply felt too inconsequential 
for a being that alive. 
It was here, 
I ordered my desperate wishes on the universe. 
It was here, 
I confessed all that I did not deserve- 
all the life she gave me.
It was here, 
I learned how smiling angels wept. 
She promised me it was okay, 
but I was afraid to fall asleep in her arms.  
It was here,
her ruffling fingers and soothing songs 
broke me again.  
It was here, 
I woke up after the sun had set.

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The Funeral

When I’ll do it, I’ll do it without mistake.

I shall bear no scars beforehand.

Multiple attempts won’t be needed to me.

If it shall be, it shall be swift and clean.

With the ruthless blade of my indifferent mind.

And it shall be that way only.

No one shall know I existed.

I shall arrive and depart in the same quiet hour.

No one shall see what I don’t want them to see.

No one shall cry and put on a show.

There will be a celebration of my impotence instead.

And I shall remain attendant to loathe everyone who need to be loathed.

I never liked attention and I deem it will be like that always.

My departure will be silent and peace less.

The castles will echo empty, their servants shall run away.

And I’ll be glad that I moved some stones.

The oppressors shall hold their heads forever high.

But there will be guilt brewing inside their hearts.

And like the poison that slowly kills, I shall birth their funerals with it.


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Oblivion Road

I love myself, I do-

Enough to not die, but not enough to live.

I wake up and I walk.

I do all which is necessary.

I do all that’s expected of me.

But I’m empty, there’s no passion in me.

I walk, I breathe and I exist.

I assure you I’m not dead.

Not yet.

But I’m not alive either.

I’m a warrior with least resistance.

I’m a light on the oblivion road.

I’m a gambler of time and hope.

I measure less and less as I grow old.

I walk and watch other people run.

I walk and manage to move no place.

I love myself, I do.

I just don’t like me anymore.


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Destruction is a continuous thing.

You don’t have to do anything for a thing to die.

Entropy and time will do it for you.

And for a human being dying should be a one time thing.

But when it becomes incremental, when it stretches over your lifetime, when you die a bit everyday-

Death no longer has a meaning.

We all suffer. We all feel suffocation. But as long as you feel the struggle and pain- there’s hope.

There’s still a bit of life in you.

And it is incredibly easy, tempting even to give up that last shred of emotion and quiet down.

But I can promise you- there’s nothing worse than empty detachment.

Because if you’re sure there’s no hope, no way to get better, no way to escape this madness, no way to control this chaos, no way to swallow your emptiness- then there’s no incentive to take effort itself.

And let me tell you something, my dear self:

An effortless life is an endless death.


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What I do not understand, what I can not control-

is divine to me.

Until I’m a stranger to myself,

Until my mind is a mystery,

Until my thoughts remain my incharge;

I believe there’ll be a god in me.

And he’ll be just like the other Gods.

All powerful and corrupt.

He shall deal in prayers, but not answer a single one-

And he shall play me like a puppet.

And I being a god-fearing man, will oblige.

Wrung tight, dangling helpless in the web of my dreams.

And he shall make me endure things.

Punish me by the whip of my desires and whims.

Bend and shape me for my weak flesh and fickle mind.

He shall deliver on his promise of suffering and hell.

And he shall call that forced normal- a life.

He shall show me how pessimists are created.

And I shall believe him.

Until I’m numb to the pain, and can not feel anything.

Until I’m a sadist capable of inflicting it on my own.

Until I’m a magician capable of conjuring misery out of my mind and not run from it.

Until I’m able to bend the uncontrolled and derive pleasure from it.

Until I’m able reject the idea of a painless life.

Until I’m able to suffer voluntarily for the pursuit of my dreams.

Until then I shall be the prisoner of pain.

Until then I shall envy God.

After that I’ll write the truth.

And they’ll call my pain discipline.

And I’ll understand, I don’t need to be godly or divine.

Once I accept that, I’ll find the infinite power there is to being a man;

And then, I’ll begin to understand life.


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An Abundance of Sadness

I love poetry.

I often wonder, why my poems always turn out so sad.

It’s not as if nothing good ever happens to me.

It’s not as if I’m a ungrateful SOB taking all the good things for granted.

Hmm… Maybe a little bit..?

But the real reason, I think, is that in good times I live.

I see and feel things.

I lose myself in the present and heal.

In mania I work,

I zoom by without a thought, grateful for the silence.

On boring days, I think.

The voices come & whisper-

dark, but restrained, almost civilised.

On bad days however it’s a different story.

On bad days, I obsess & ruminate.

On bad days, I put my hand to the paper.

On bad days, I summon the devil out to play.

The voices are loud, harsh & bleak; and they narrate me new stories.

So, I write.

On bad days, I write.


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