Saturday, December 30, 2017

So... you don't have any plans for the New Year? 
Don't worry, I've got you covered. 

Step 1: Buy Benadryl. 
Step 2: Watch the new season of Black Mirror. 
Step 3: Read David Foster Wallace. 
Step 4: Curl up in a ball on the floor and stay there till it's 2018. 
Step 5: Take solace in having almost ensured an upward trajectory to the start of the year. 

Boom. At your service, is the one-stop solution to all of life's happiness. 

Thursday, December 28, 2017

Teach me how to dent time.

They say that hindsight is 20/20.

Pithy aphorisms don't make it any less infuriating, do they?

It's not easy when your one true misgiving with the world is the linearity of time. For 2018, it is this hearts' earnest desire to have problems slightly more pliable than the laws of Newtonian physics.

That. Just that.

Monday, December 26, 2016


After the battlefield is finally cold, and the sun has set on the massacre it witnessed, it is memory that poisons those who survive. No matter which side you pledged, dwelling on each blow will kill even the victor. Eventually... and indiscriminately. 

Sunday, December 27, 2015

Lessons That Came Too Late - Part 1

"A nature that does not sue for happiness, often receives it in large measure"

Monday, November 23, 2015

Listen Without Prejudice.

Given enough time, everything decays into rage. It courses through the veins, thicker than blood. It burns brighter than most fires you and I have known. It lives. 

Burning out is a gift, a blown fuse being the final line of defense before the carnage. The limit of human capacity for enduring pain protects not itself, but the source. 

But there are those who don't burn out. Those misguided into striving for invincibility, can only come burning and blazing, or not come at all. They forget how to half-live, they know not how to half-love. Run enough pain through them, and they become live wires; obliterating everything they touch, knowing neither peace nor loss. The current, it's possible, would never stop.

Saturday, September 12, 2015

"In a fine country, in a sunny country,
Among the hills I knew,
I built a house for the wren that lives in the orchard,
And a house for you.

The house I built for the wren had a round entrance,
Neat and very small;
But the house I built for you had a great doorway,
For a lady proud and tall.

You came from a country where the shrubby sweet lavender
Lives the mild winter through;
The lavender died each winter in the garden
Of the house I built for you.

You were troubled and came to me because the farmer
Called the autumn "the fall";
You thought that a country where the lavender died in the winter
Was not a country at all.

The wrens return each year to the house in the orchard;
They have lived, they have seen the world, they know what's best
For a wren and his wife; in the handsome house I gave them
They build their twiggy nest.

But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home
To a leaky castle across the sea,-
To lie awake in linen smelling of lavender
And hear the nightingale, and long for me."

- Edna St. Vincent Millay
"There are things I have wanted so much and for so long, I would only consent to have them if I could keep wanting them."

Top of the list of things I would have said eventually, had they not already been said in a manner so faultless.

The sky is no man's land.

Monday, September 7, 2015


One doesn't play with fire, without expecting to get burnt. 

In doing so, the objective of the game is not to avoid damage. The whole point of the exercise, is to balance ones' instinct for survival against the predilection for self-destruction, and discover which one wins. The war, after all, is always internal.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

On identity and the passage of time.

Cut to 10 years later, and the goth kid in me:
1. has the most corporate of corporate day jobs.
2. wears dark lace under button-up pastel shirts and business suits.
3. grins at her painted-black toenails when things get too... insipid.
4. reads Poe and prowls derelict, banyan-lined streets post-midnight.
5. lights a candle to stare at contemplatively, every time it rains.
6. definitely listens to The Cure secretly, between presentations and when no one is looking.

Sunday, June 7, 2015

This Is Not A Pipe.

It is when people come to a point where they think they know you, they stop noticing you. When that moment is reached, you could simply keep feeding their illusions and self-serving need to believe that they understand and are in control of much more than reality would have it be. 

It becomes so terribly easy to step behind a curtain of their own making, cast mere shadows on the cloth, and let mere assumptions vivify the act right into real life. The audience will love it so dearly, so completely (for narcissistic love of one's own creation is convenient enough), that every contradictory truth in the field of vision becomes immaterial. 

Surely, evolution has done the world a great disservice. 

Breaking silences and gentler things.

I often wake up wanting nothing more than to strip the world bare. 

Pull little parts off with my own hands, crumble them like clay, observe the texture of every slice, the cross-section of every joint, and somehow come closer to making sense of all these events that are entirely unlikely but painfully predictable, all at the same time. Instead of just watching them unfold before me, just as I imagined them a thousand hours, weeks, or years ago. Just as I could never really believe they would. It's the ultimate existential conflict. Subjective optimism is up against objective reality. The crazy, stupid things we do to keep the little flame of hope alive. 

I'd like to crumble every bit under the tips of my fingers, smudge them with the friction of the ridges that make up my fingerprints, and re-engineer reality to be little less obvious. To be a little more kind.
"If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And vows were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,--
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking."

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

spin the roulette  love
whatever the odds
let's play this game again
chalk down an ode to the gods
of psychological warfare

Tuesday, June 25, 2013


Chock-full of sentiment is the air. Heavy and opaque, it settles down and crawls near the floor. Forever shifting, never spreading. At least, not until a gust of wind creeps in and whips around the remains of a day or a life strung together like pearls on a painfully delicate gossamer thread. I see more valour in fragility than anything else now; the mere fact of an existence being an affront to probability, odds or fate. There's a fire in me that continues to rise. I stand beneath this dark sky and feel it course through my veins. I stand at the edge, my body steeped in a heady brew otherwise known as thrill, and prepare to take flight. 

I've seen enough change now to know that given enough time, even this world stops disguising its narcissistic need to repeat itself.