Flames

When I was a kid I had lit up a countless flames inside.
And every day I dreamed with my heart burning with aspirations.
And every night I screamed with my sounds deafening my own ears.
Those were so close. So true. Right in my womb.
I could feel those kicks inside my body.
And every day I walked on those grounds of fantasy,
of my utopian world. It was thrilling. Exciting. Exhilarating.
Each pulse lived the dream. Each inch craved for it.
Every second of every minute of every hour of every day, I lived a dream,
thinking one day it would be a reality.
But some of the flames died out over the time. I couldn't judge the direction of wind.
Now I am out of my house. I see those broken windows. I see those creaking doors. I stroll around my neighbourhood. Guess what? The landscape has changed.
But the epicentre was my own.
I'm striving hard. I cannot behold these dilapidated structures. I have to rebuild from the debris. 
While some of the lamps are still alive, I'm refuelling them with fierce energies.
I want to feel. I want to cry my heart out. I want to exhaust myself to those inaudible beats.
I want to be alive. Again. With hope. With lots of it. I'm struggling. Struggling my heart out.

I bleed every night.
And in the morning I find myself
among the brown stains.
I am supposed to be shameful,
but I am not.

"Why aboli?"
"Because you are not the screen.
You are the projector."

It was a huge mental effort, to strip down, bare my heart and stand with shame and vulnerability as my only armours.

When she returned at the twilight, she found him engrossed in his work and then she loved him even more.

There are just as many wrongs as there are the rights.
A turn is both a left and right. Depends on which direction you are coming from.

Four letters

There has to be a feel. An emotion. A drama. Love.
There has to be a story. Characters. And a hero.
There has to be a reason. Decisions. May be a tragedy too.
Only then the four letters will come alive.
l.i.f.e.

Intimacy

When you do something, you belong somewhere, to some clan. When you change, you change your clan. The sense of belonging keeps moulding. There is perhaps no intimacy. No privacy. Nothing of your own shades. No true reflections. Yet you keep matching. Greys with greys. It becomes exhausting. And when you are exhausted with the world, you crave for intimacy. Then you take respite in womb of literature. And the more you read, the more beautiful you feel. The more beautiful you feel, the more peaceful you are. The more peaceful you are, the more intimate you become. With peace. With beauty. With a thought. And with that thought you try again the next day to do something. To belong somewhere. What a fool! You don't realise you'll lose it again. 

Foolish

It was a foolish talk.
A foolish expectation.
A foolish fakeness.
A game of fools.
And guess what....I won.