Character three — It’s exciting to know you are here. After the more serious couple of characters, we wanted to have some fun today. A lighter, maybe even humorous, side of our imagination. I have always wondered about how much I would know about humans if I were a wine bottle in a…

And it is blissful! The first human being evolved into existence roughly around 3,00,000 years ago. Since then, over a hundred billion human beings have existed and ceased to exist. …

These winds of winter remind Me of your coldness. Strangely enough, even This rumination is soothing. The Cryptic cold silences of Your gaze, and the indifferent Icicles of your fingers numbing mine; Like frozen crimson fire, which Burns the thoughts akin to the Leaves fluttering in the harmony of autumn, Creating ripples in the mirror of poetry. These winds of winter remind Me of your coldness, As they lift the veil of life, Unveiling the misty death. Joy once that brought rapture, Now turns to cyclical verses of anguish, These winds of winter, remind me of you.

Winter arrived yesterday evening With soft and nimble steps On the brown leaves in the courtyard, With a whiff of crisp dusk And blunt-needle-ends, it Caressed the unguarded skin. The sun, dissolving on the horizon Had an aroma of dewdrops. The crescent of the moon Peeked out hesitantly, and nudged On the blanket of haze. Winter arrived yesterday evening, Leaving the fingers cold and Breaths white. The warmth of your pillow, Once more felt like the pocket Of personal heaven, Long gone with the dirge of The past departing winters.

A fever, a dream, A pillow of crimson oleander. Poetry of a distant, radiant star, A delusion, a mirage Of blossoms on autumn’s first morn. A feeble figment of imagination, The holiness of heart’s affection, Fine excesses of a fiercer hell, A devotion writ on water and time, An embrace of thunderbolts, Toxicity of thy starry gaze. Not spring, nor autumn, It is the season of thee, I yearn for. A fever, a dream, A pillow of crimson oleander.

Would I feel the same? — Without words, would I feel the same? Like mountains hidden in clouds, Would the heart still be dubious? Without words how would I tell you About the flake that landed on me And merged into my essence, Like your shadow did? Without words, how would I confess That the rhythm of my beats now matches yours? Without words, wouldn’t it be simpler, Where our souls would converse Without hesitation and judgments? Without words, wouldn’t you know That in this paradox of life, Extremes of the continuum make the whole? Without words, we would be free, for us To give in to the naive abandonment of joys Of the little moments that kiss us without Past or future, where the moment is infinite. And yet, words they are, to tell you, what Words can never encapsulate.

Let’s leave our shoes behind And jump into the puddle of Cold moonlight. Let’s take that tear-stained face Off the pillows on the dark nights, Without any mask, and meet In the glow of distant snow. Let’s gather our vulnerabilities, And our insecure hearts, and Confess, what words never can. Let’s hold a knife together and stab The treacherous past, and in its blood, Bathe, freeing ourselves of time. Let’s leave our shoes behind And jump into the puddle of Cold moonlight, Where shadows and souls dance On the beats of breaths and The tune of life.

There will be more autumns The year grows old with Long nights and shorter days, Where every withered flower is forgotten, Their colours and fragrance, transient, Engulfed by the perennial decaying nights; Where every fallen leaf, broken and rusty, Murmurs in soft rustle, whispers of bliss, and words of poetry. Autumn rain caresses the silence of dreary…

The Inevitable Storm — The period between the years twenty and thirty of our life has to be the trickiest decade. These ten years (roughly speaking) comprise of transitions and awareness that no education system, parenting guide, or social support group ever prepares an individual for. At twenty-one, I was preparing for a competitive…