Inked Thoughts and Midnight Monologues

A fluid state of being with a memorable trail, through a river full of thoughts I sail. Leaving the labyrinths of a chaotic world behind, it’s a journey through the jungles of my subconscious mind.



Phantom Phrases


The tryst between comfort and chaos. The cowardice at choosing the former. Wanting to embrace the symptoms of your own delirium but being so disconnected from the self that you observe your own madness as an outsider. Finding shelter. In words. In humans. In dreams. The seemingly same sequences and how the brain refuses to be fooled into accepting them everyday. Singularities that you once breathed. Now you watch them perish. Not because they have ceased to exist. But because you have. Discourses with the body and the soul and how the world reduces it all to mere dysphoria. Disillusionment doesn’t happen when the world fails to replicate your ideals, it happens when your own reality crumbles into fragments of futility. I am no sun but pessimism doesn’t run through my veins either. All I am is a collection of my multiple lives- all lived through during the course of one single day. In life, I suffer but in my own death, I’m reborn.



The dichotomy of distance. To have but not hold, To want but to be helpless. Bones that ache for they aren’t being held. Longings at blue midnight hours that slowly melt into lonely sunrises. They all want me when I want myself the least. To desert one’s own shadows and to search for someone else’s. Someone who can bring back smiles on soft bruises, someone who can light matches to dispel the darkness within, someone who can take my sorrows far away or maybe sit by the riverside and watch me weep so that we could go home with no tears left to cry. Memory is hazy, time is money, heaven is a heart and two arms and nostalgia is an old friend that fancies long visits at strange hours. What’s one to do? Old cities, old lovers, old stories- I’ve left them all but they just can’t let go of me and so I hold onto fragments of ashes of an era so ancient; so ancient that remembrance serves as a questionable cocktail that leaves nothing but a bitter aftertaste and a smile etched by the hands of sadness herself.



I feel like my days of rabid journaling have become a thing of the past. Constant re-invention. They gulp down drinks while I swallow the skies in their entirety. How come everyone’s words feel so crass and bitter lately, like rattling trains and construction sounds. Ever so jarring. Sometimes, I think of myself as an eternal passenger which is ironical because all that surrounds me is four walls. Plush prisons masquerading as warm homes. No home for me though, none. I feel, almost behave like a vagabond now. Pink Floyd and an evening breeze. Noir movies and bitter coffee. Fighting. And sulking. And dissolving into thin air. Smokescreens everywhere. Comfort costs a little too much, misery piles on free of charge. This world, this life, it goes from fireworks to extinguished fires. All I want is to swim in blue estuaries and drown in love. Wishful thinking. Or maybe it’s just a shadow of a glorified existence that I wish I had. Shadows. Plato’s allegory. Thoughts and how they never die- just like life and how it goes on no matter how tedious it gets. To slip into intimacies, to descend into anarchy, to befriend one’s own angst- there are rewards to be savoured and battles to be won. For now, I’ll just mumble my daydreams out loud hoping for the birds to hear them and take them away to their picnic spots of migration. Correction: to their alternate “homes” that help them survive.

Dog Days


A sweet mouth reeking of bitter coffee. Probing questions about life. Am I killing time or is Time killing me? My bones seem to be recovering from wounds I know nothing of, for my slumbers are long drawn and deep now. The sultry sky changes colours without even wanting to. Yet, there’s neither heat on my skin nor warmth in my body. Metaphorical meanderings, sigh. I crack open a Lager in the dead of the night and watch the city lights come alive. My brain is a brazen organ, it loves to flash erotic images and poignant memories simultaneously, a little too earnestly. To be alone from your own self, can that really happen? Thoughts continue to chase me without me asking for them. Where does one desert them? I keep scraping my skin, my face, my lips- an act of defiance, I mutter. Strange acts we do to lend meaning to our ever-growing insanity, I suppose. I go back between wanting and not wanting. It’s already difficult to operate in dualities but to be a highly functioning human at the same time? Well, I’ve pretty much deserted my old productive self now and there are guilt pangs from my actions. Or the lack thereof. Days melt into nights and it all seems like a never-ending ordeal. Too bad I’m a routine lover and a change hater? Or is it my blatant disregard for almost everything in life now? It feels like I’ve lost the sight of who I am. Or who I’m supposed to be. And so I’ve decided to cling onto anything or anyone that makes me feel remotely alive. Some would call it my road to self-destruction. Like I give a shit. All I care about right now is the granola bar I’m going to devour at 1 am before surrendering to the seductive serenades of sweet ol’ sleep.



Such worthless wonders claiming to own and rule this world. Truth is, they’re not us, they can never be. They’re magpies and street dogs and ravens cloaked in human skin. Their ambitions are reduced to dust and their lives are mediocre. Such blandness repulses the core of my being. To live like them is to live in vain and for all the thousand lifetimes I get, I’ll choose to be wise and be one with my art rather than kiss the gravel and breathe in their dirt clad gutters. God gave me wings, yet I love my roots a little too much. It’s all about redemption in the eyes of that bleary image you see of yourself in the mirror. Doubt and despair rises like a black burst of smog, it tries so hard to choke these lungs. Yet, we inhale. Some choose to rise above this empty laughter and leave the unceasing desire to be normal. The ones who do so are the ones who thrive. Simplicity is a child, a flower that blossoms in the middle of nowhere. It’s the storms that shape you. Don’t get me wrong, but beauty is in chaos, in the perfumed pertubations of our heavy hearts. They will worship whatever glitters. Yellow sunlight and a flock of birds. That’s not imagery, that’s convention. That’s the norm. We’ve been taught and told to like all these things ever since we’ve walked this planet which is why every damn kid out there tries to chase the light. What is this light, anyways? As a grown up, I know now that it’s nothing to be chased. It is within me. I am the light I radiate and that’s about it. Nothing romantic about it. Glorification of beauty makes it rust, it’s like tasting honey with sugar. Saccharine suicide. These painted lives, they’re supposed to have all the colors, even the dark ones, stolen from every spectrum, from every galaxy, from every shade that there ever was. Even the sunlight smells sleep, at last. I know not why but even the night sky seems to be so much more beautiful when it’s dark. So, take my hand and don’t look back. All I want for us is nothing more than every color in our palette. The ones who are too absorbed in mediocrity will perish soon and that’s when we’ll come out to celebrate a life meant for living the way we live it- in colors that don’t even exist yet.

Memories Of Midnight


Empty bookshelves and burnt-out bulbs hide in the corner of my study along with crumpled old newspapers stained with obscurity. A broken record lies nearby which once played lullabies of crooners helping my dreadful days melt into a tranquil night. I gaze out the window and distant streetlights cast shadows that float into different realms with every blink of my eye. The wind gushes past me in swift movements, it reeks of grey smoke and despair. All that’s left in me now is boredom and instability. I despise them both. Sleep should come easy but as soon as I find myself lying down, my ceiling becomes a haven for old ghost stories. They come one by one and I shiver and shudder with cold beads of sweat running down my face. A perpetually insomniac soul I’ve become and as much as it hurts to not being able to rid myself of this affliction, it does help in reminiscing. Retrospection has never been my friend but the warm summer breeze at night plays symphonies of solace that shield me from destroying myself. Delving deep into my complexities and turning incredibly self-critical with every passing hour, I wait for the horizon to send me its scorching new heat as I mutter swearings under my heavy breath for another day to become another night.




Curse the soul upon which I breathe

intoxicating the aura of mind’s occult tyranny.

Casting shadows from moonlights at this ruthless life

a frayed loner is what has become of me.


Condemning every vice that I indulged so frantically in

I drift further away from my virtues now forlorn.

An acrid stench of vicious vulnerability engulfs me

making me question my very existence of being born.


My withered body transfixed at my oblivion

I realize so from the burning tears of my lively eyes.

Time whirls passively, crumbling beneath my rage

as I envy delusional tales dipped in comforting lies.


Hearing echoes in my bitter monologues

the iridescence within me dies in a whirling roar.

Craving remorse for my inescapable mortal faults

an act so intense, heralded no more.


And so I enter a hell others call their ‘paradise’

of being lost in my own head.

My threadbare self is but a tiresome warrior

of a journey that I alone have to tread.







I am a fragile glass with broken finesse. Walking through the wilderness at twilight, I see the slender woods hidden behind the dark fog.

Inhaling the misty air in-letting it swim through my eyes, lungs flirting with the absolute oxygen, wanting more; I continue walking. The forest is a mysterious entity and my atoms wish to be dissolved in its enigmatic beauty.

The moon beams filter through the canopies and a gentle breeze comes along making me sway to its fluid movement. I sit on the wild grass drenched with evening dew. I let go. The breeze plays a symphony through my hair. It’s so simple really. To be away from emotions, yours and everyone else’s and feel peaceful. The smell of the woods and the earthy mud evoke a sense of equilibrium to my vulnerable soul.

This place, with these trees and twigs, grass and the greens…everything. This is my haven. A place I call mine. These enticing woods…can I lose myself in them for as long as I breathe? Maybe.

But for now, let me just be me, while I’m here. Free from my emotions. Free from complexity. Free from this world. And free from this life…

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