Saying the unsayable

The unsayable controls the dialogue
It controls the urge to say
And yet it cannot control
It lets the flow continue
It drives one to try
Until it is said what one dies to say
It will never be said completely
And so one tries
To speak
To write and to show
In forms chosen
In forms not chosen
Still, one tries
To say the unsayable
Forgetting it’s unsayable
And that is how art is born
From this quest, undying
The determination to say unsayable
It is no ambition, no aim to prove a point
It is a quest that gives a purpose to life
What one wants is to say
Say the sayable and the unsayable
It is the quest to say it before one dies
And be understood
If not acknowledged


Even when things are fixed

What stays, stays
What doesn’t, doesn’t
Changes aren’t sudden
It takes time to break
What was well kept once
Check in the mirror everyday
So you’re not surprised
To see a broken smile
One day
And want to break it, pull the mask down
See where it began
To break down
That day you regret being not around
The mirror
And neglecting
The tree well kept once, now broken down
It is a mockery
A stranger making fun
Of your spirit
Once held by you
Now held by that who broke it down
The worst is yet to come
When you begin to hate
The cause of your state
But was it a stranger
A stranger has not that power
Then who did it and when
You were tied always to dignity
Trying to hold your ground
And the mirror now says
That some things cracked underneath
Some things developed fissures
Some things might never repair
Even when many things are fixed


It’s water
The more it tries to reach, the more it loses its path
Its direction is an illusion
It shows up when water has no interest in it
Water sees it when it wants
It’s at its peak, it will see
It will let it not pass, it will let it not go
The more it gushes under the pebbles, the more it wishes to be sturdy
Every time it’s running, it knows it’s not running right
There’s a force beyond its comprehension
It’s water so it knows not
Whether to dissolve not when walking over dust
When surveying the dry land
When rolling over a desperate tongue
When it moves away
It goes deep down
It thinks it will find a way
And keep running
But it is gone
Absorbed, then returns
It’s water
Its destiny is too an illusion

What we love

There is the nature of life that is constant. The same life in different colors, different ways of living and different are its stories. But it is the same live, we making it different. There’s no point in coming full circle with it. If doesn’t make sense if we run behind the same dream that most of us have called shallow, stupid, hollow. It’s not insane but unwise to make it work that doesn’t give you anything greater than what a beautiful kite flying in the sky may. It’s futile. It’s a marriage between a jewellery and a bird. It’s depressing. One doesn’t know how to make the better of the other. But what good is it if an ambition does you more good than flying a kite in a clear sky? It can’t be flown on a rainy day. Maybe it does you so much good, untold, unheard, yet undying good
Well, wish there was a way of knowing the true gains of your so called hard work. And also how it mattered to those who felt it.


Fiction is what let’s you tell, abuse, shout, confess, accept without having to do any of these. It is explicit. It is bold and brave. It is the best form of audacity. And yet it is in some small way cowardice. Cowardice because it is, at times, painful to put thousands of thoughts together and pack them in a story as fiction and yet that is all one can do. That is the second method. One never tells that one has told something but there is always this satisfaction of having told it. And what’s great is that it reaches to someone who wanted it, even if it is far from reaching those who didn’t want it. One who seeks, will find. That is all about this kind of communication. If one does not, one does not deserve or care enough to know it. But one who does, that’s all that matters. Nothing else does. One has to be vexed and curious to know or find something that one wants.
Then there are accidents and someone reads it without intention or wish. But to find it and understand it is beyond this. Beyond any accidents, even though it looks so. Always, always understand that nothing is understood without a reason. There will be, if not an existing one, a reason that is a result of the understanding There’s no excuse to wisdom. There’s nothing that one rambles. It is always, always a byproduct of what you’re made of.

We shall

That crisp water
That rasp let out for no matter
That song down the aisle
That keeper of stories on the train
That sky coiling, uncoiling
The wind entwining
With the river
Shh. A loud. A grenade-like laughter
Sack them who think it doesn’t matter
The rustle. The brushy stroke on the wall
Give a damn good thought we shall
Then will it be painted
Then will it be showered
Trees are watching
Will is not coward
Hope is not
And this is all that matters