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.

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.


Chaos is me



I look into the mirror

I see myself.

I don’t see myself.

The irony of it consumes me

It tears me apart.

And yet, all I see is me

but not myself.

I ruffle my hair to see a change

Finally a reflection of my emotion

and yet the wounds don’t show.

My eyebrow quivers, my eyes a silver molten.

I’m beginning to see, the real me.

The more the teardrops succumb to gravity,

The more hazy my vision becomes.

And yet, things look clearer now.

Pristine and crystal in blurred motions.

The less I see into the mirror,

the more I see myself.

And this irony too, consumes me.

























I have left a trail of melted brownie crumbles,

for I’ll be tasting the stars tonight.

These fireflies, I see them dancing on my fairy lights

as they glitter in this silent winter night.

Marshmallows and coffee sips,

take me back to a simpler time

of playground swings and snowball fights

and as these strawberry cheeks glow in soft moonlight,

warmness I find in me just like those fireplace embers I see.

I’ll chase the stars hidden in pink clouds

and I’ll gaze into the weeping pallet of a winter sky.

The fog and the streetlight will make soundless music

and yet, I’ll hear it and travel places I never knew existed.

The twigs of the pine trees will make me smile and then cry,

for I’ll finally know of the magic I’ve been seeing

and even though hearts are broken under mistletoe

but passions they smolder so much more.

Half burnt candles and bright colored stockings

slow melting nights and crisp cold mornings.

Watching old movies inside the warm blankets and I’ll smile

and once again the tears will find their way through my eyes

and when it’s time for my mortal soul to breathe its last,

I’ll carry in my pocket a little flake of snow

Bearing a souvenir of immortality,

I guess, that is a good way to go.

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑