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.

Image Infatuation


We walk with our eyes open and hearts closed. The soul never stops yearning. Cramped apartments with empty tea cups. Sliding down the bath tub and breathing in numb oxygen. Passing down the streets at lonely hours and seeing old men drinking out of brown paper bags. Dull colors and bright colors. Frequencies of ships lost in torrential storms. A sound, a cry; heard but ignored. The hurt in these eyes. The façade of futile smiles. The temperature soars, so does the anger within. The cat with devil eyes. Glistening in the dark of the night. Choked prayers in small town hospitals. The propulsion of an airplane flying from Bangkok to Bulgaria. This world, with immense everything. Black jackets and old records. Neon lights of an Asian pub. An old library somewhere in England. Rubble. Rust. Romance. Iced tea in dry summer heat. Fleeting joys. Broken toys. Aliens and the supernatural. Guitar strings and John Keats. Elegies and ecclesia. Community at its best. Society at its worst. All is same. Different is everything. These images never leave my mind, and in this dark world, this becomes my only light.





Bite into me as we dissolve into broken pieces of nothingness. Hurt me, so I can hurt you back, so I can carve these contusions into your body, so I can put the waves of the oceans in your eyes. Deceive me and then cry. You’re the wind. I’m the tornado. We don’t have to do this endless dance and then die. But you make me do it. You. You. You. Jesus Christ. So oblivious of my pain and still so intricately woven into it. Into me. We’re one. We’re one like the sky is with the sea. The hokum of a horizon. The falseness of your friendship. The madness of my mind. You’ll be the end of me and yet everything begins with you. That smile is etched in the sunrise. The glimmer of your eyes make the stars feel unworthy. You’re the sin, you’re the light. When you leave, I taste the darkness. And it devours me. You stand and stare. You let it in. You make me hate you. And yet, here I am, battered and bruised in a love so deep that it can never be known or seen or felt. It transcends me, just like it transcends you. It’s written somewhere in the stardust of the souls, gilded with the light that only you can radiate.

Riddle me this



I pity the classicists of the 18th century. Blind devotions. Lust for sanity. Pestilence and empty wit. I recently read about how they were deceived by the dulling film of familiarity which they never tried to see through. The romanticists knew better. They scraped off this film and draped the world in the light of their imagination and well, everything struck them with iridescent, prismatic effects. I could’ve been a Byron but never a Wordsworth. I have never known the surface, I’ve always been friends with profundity. And meaning. I don’t see Nature as a spiritual being, capable of making me serene. I have come to terms with how I can never know calm, not because it’s beyond me but because I cannot, I just cannot live with it. Chaos makes you descend into madness. But, it is the only way to evolve. Sometimes, I tend to ask questions to myself that have no definite answers. Sometimes, there are no answers at all. My thoughts are too abstract and I hide behind my metaphors and images. I’m not too proud of it but that’s how it is. The bare truth. Passengers in their fluid sleep, dream of landscapes they’ve never seen. The torrential winds that unknowingly attempt to wound the wings of birds are the same winds that push them towards the edge of the eternal horizon. I despise change yet I thrive in it. I hate it when I drown in my emotions but I know that without them, I’m nothing. I seek solitude but I’m afraid to be alone. What is this life? Philosophers, poets, scientists, humble farmers and I’d dare say, even the wild beasts have tried to find answers to this unanswerable question. Is it a quest or is it a journey? Do you seek the truth or do you stay receptive and wait for it to come to you? I’m just a speck of sand in this deserted desert waiting for the same torrential winds that will bring me the rain. The rain may give me a few answers and even if it doesn’t, it will bring a smile to my face. And a countless number of thoughts, of course. Writers like us, we take the weather too seriously anyways.

Same Old Love


Eyes deceive softly, people swiftly. Sounds become mute movements from parched mouths. I used to be afraid of snakes but now snakes are people and people, snakes. Glistening in crimson heat, waiting to swallow you. Aching bones and silver shadows. Pretense rises like dewy mist in the air and as everyone around me inhales these fatal vapors, I simply stand and watch for there’s nothing I can do about it. Maybe I can, but I know too well of its beastly futility. Our lives are enigmatic miseries and yet we ramble on about how beautiful we are. We are organic dirt, a splattered hue of scarlet blood veined creatures so fragile, so ephemeral that we splinter into thousand fragments thinking we’re on the verge of an immortalized epiphany. The truth is, you and I are as messed up as our ruffled hair and our skulls are secretly cracked with sinful entities. As much as they glorify something that doesn’t exist, we’ll always be surrounded by painful lies and people who hurt. You may think someone is perfect out there for you but there isn’t. Imperfections come masked in graceful figures reeking of a beauty that isn’t even there. Deception crawls slowly as time dwindles away in the lonely hour. People make you feel when you don’t want to. Crystals of tears succumb to the gravity of emotion and there’s so much to say sometimes that it kills you on the inside. Feelings would’ve never meant so much had it not been for the people you desire from the deepest corners of your heart. But when everything merges in an endless sphere of fear, morphed by flaws you find and people you pursue, all you’re left with is yourself- battered and bruised in a love that was never meant to be.

A rush of blood to the head

I’m going to see Coldplay live in concert in 3 days and I’m dying of the excitement. 





Long empty corridors reeking of old lost souls. Sipping on cold water, I imagine a land without organic dirt. Where would the dying leaves find a home then? Maybe I could carry some of them in my bag pack. It’s better to lie still and do nothing than to wait for calls from ghosts. People they’re called. Not to me though. One day, not far from today, there will be a reunion of those who breathed yet never lived. I don’t wish to be a part of it. I am made of smoke and dust and all things fragile and transient. They want to hold me but like the desert sand, away I slip from their soft fingers. Someday, I want to dance the night away in a dark room. Alone and smiling. The wine glass would swirl on my fingertips as I’d recall forgotten names under heavy breaths. That’s what I want. A String of friends turned strangers fly away in mist when I look at the morning sky and just when I blink, the day drowns into the stars of the night and I find myself talking animatedly to the wind. I shiver and the wind picks up its speed. Nature becomes hostile and I am reminded of betrayals and jazz music. I walk with a crowd that seldom thinks, that never feels. My bones ache but it’s not the pain, it’s the anger, perhaps fused with melancholy. They’ll never know. Such a pity, really. Such base desires. I’d rather mock them and sulk alone than be a part of something so utterly meaningless. The sounds of the sea are calling my name. I’m afraid I’ll drown if I go near them. They’ll find their faults with the sea too. It’s saltwater, they’ll say. It tastes sweet, if you ask me. Reading an old classic till my eyes hurt, I play some music for myself. It doesn’t help. It’s doesn’t help at all. These birds scream too, I’ve realized. Nobody who treads the earth as a mortal can truly know ‘meaning’. Maybe my veins do not carry optimistic blood, but I still believe in a truth that my mind tells me. Thoughts are my bedtime stories and chaos is a lover in disguise. The more I see, the less I know. It hurts but I shouldn’t let it. There are too many things left to be seen and too many things seem to be left. I can try to find the missing pieces if not solve the puzzle itself.

Mystic love



Bleeding hearts ache the most. We travel in imaginary subways in the dead of the night when the rest of the world lies down amidst heavy breathing and strange longings. Our hands are designed for deep wounds and tattoos gone wrong. But they’re also made for catching heavenly droplets from the tip of our butter fingers under grey smoke and dark clouds. Hope is a sweet poison and passion, a lustful hunger. To roam aimlessly through narrow streets is a game we play every night for it’s then that I see your smile under the soft streetlights. In a world devoid of beauty, I find reasons to wander past sleeping souls and broken windows for when we walk together inhaling bursts of midnight fog, that’s when we are truly alive. For us, others cease to exist but we couldn’t care less, for all that remains of us, at that moment, is nothing and everything. Our bodies get swallowed by galaxies unknown to the rest of the world. But, They are our empires in the making, they are my entire universe, for if nothing, they’ll still have your smile. And that to me, is hope.

Blue song delirium


 There’s another galaxy somewhere very far from us, singing our love story. I hear it in the suffering you talked of. I see it in your broken verses and in my broken dreams. There’s pain and longing buried inside us but somehow, we make do with midnight coffee shots and moisture on our pillows. You had your muse in front of your eyes who couldn’t even smell this strange love. It could’ve been something and yet it never was. You waited with hope and I stole it from you. The agony must have teared you apart. And now it seems to be my turn as I ache with remnants of regret. It could’ve been something and yet it chose not to. Wasted tender gazes and woeful lonely passions. You were meant to be a supernova; but aimlessly I spun away from your iridescence, drinking in my ignorance, forlorn and cold. I wish I had undressed my old wounds and let you in to heal them. I wish you had seen the warmness instead of the cold I made you see. I wish you would’ve known of the intense passions I smolder like you do. But most of all, I wish our atoms had collided and merged, just for once.

And tonight, the splattered ink is my muse



Sometimes, I wonder if the artists from the Renaissance era painted from the palettes dipped in their tears or if writers carved words imbued in the innermost turmoil of their bleeding hearts. Redundancy. Of course.

Maybe I try too hard to lend substance to my existence or maybe I don’t try enough. Either way, it leads to a compromise between what I know and what I feel. I feel so small sometimes; like I am a nobody. Like an inkblot hidden inside a crumpled paper nestled in the corner of a study in an old, dilapidated English cottage basking in the aftermath of its decadence. I’m the inkblot and the cottage is the universe. There are unexplored avenues in the labyrinths of my mind, waiting to be discovered and yet they remain concealed in misty darkness. Perhaps, it is ignorance mingled with denial. Oh, what a fatal concoction these two make. It’s too difficult to remind myself, time and again, that the inkblot my very being seems to despise and condemn was born from an attempt at defining an aesthetic. The aesthetic being the elusive gold tinted thought that I must have had in the span of a fleeting moment.

I have to remember, that every time something like this beckons at the doorstep of my mind, I have to let it in. It is the only way. That one thought out of the several other ones is the light that will show me the way to the untrodden alleys in my mind. Every little thought deserves respect. And I shall give it that. Yes, I’ll be a thousand more inkblots and I’ll be the ink stains themselves on my organic fingertips and I’ll be the chiseled ink pens waiting to spill- words and emotions alike. And maybe someday, when I’ll gather these inkblots, they’ll come together and dance like the rustling autumn leaves do to the poetic winds.


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