Let go

let go, of these hands

“Let go”

I uttered nearly choking to the words as she held me tight in her arms, wiping her tears time and again with the sleeves of her free hand.

“I will return soon”, escaped from my mouth, and that was all I could provide to comfort her.

Tapping her back gently, I slowly parted myself away from her embrace and stepped away.

She turned around to hide her tears as I stepped back, but held onto my fingers in a strange grasp that radiated the intensity of her ache in this separation.

I stepped away from her, dragging my heavy chest and gulping the dry throat.

And she broke out in sobs in the distance.

I drove away without having had to look at her face again for once. Perhaps that was what evoked an emptiness somewhere, missing that last glance.

And I went away on a journey which held no certainty of bringing us back together the same.

I squeezed my eyes shut, which have been hurting trying to hold back the torrents of tears behind its walls all along.

A universe happened in that moment. 

Another memory embarked on the trunk of time, with the sharpness of her tears and the stings in my heart.


A Ride From The Past

Here they are sitting, together in a taxi driving them to their respective homes. Him, a child who happens to be an introvert of a kind. A chaos of thoughts in his mind, but only silence on his lips and words claded with hesitation coming out of his mouth.

Her, not much to tell about.

Amongst the chaos of his mind, one thought is of her. A mild amusement for her, even though he hasn’t seen her face. He still does not recognise any face when he thinks of her. A soul that feeds upon his imaginations; and then of course, a soul who suffers in reality.

Of her, there is still not much to tell. It is yet a one sided story. Were there any emotions emitting out of her, nobody knows. Could it not be a one sided tale as is believed till date, nobody could answer.

They have the outside worlds to look upon through the windows they were sitting by. Distancing them were her sister, a mature lady living a life of her own and perhaps engaged in her own thoughts, far away from this sphere of her presence. A white little mouse curled up into her lap, finding comfort in the cozyness, away from the coldness of a winter night. A mouse that will become a very good friend of him. The mouse that will eventually die falling off a roof. A mouse that’d make one of his homecomings unpleasant with his absence.
The journey proceeds, and with that his thoughts wander to far away places, escaping from her for some moment. She does not make any movement or sound that’d make him look at her, and it is dark too so he cannot see her at all. He only feels her, mildly and far away from any possible reality.

He is mildly attracted of her. Does he desire her? Nobody knows, not even himself. Would he wish her to be his? He is, for that matter, too weak to handle another person as his own. An introvert fighting with himself is too delicate to be handed over with someone, or rather handed to someone. And he knows it, he knows it all and hence he distances himself.

He admires what amuses him like how a traveller would look upon the beauty he would come across his journey.  Moving on, with his eyes and his conscience laden to rest for a while; as far as the horizon lives in his sight.

He steps down near to where he lives. They are driven away from him, and he walks away from them, from her. The dark alley to his place gives him the apt atmosphere for his thoughts to come out in freedom, and take him over.

In the distance, what was she thinking while they drove away, nobody knows.

And she certainly does not know, the same boy who had just departed would be someone with whom she’d fall in love with. Almost a decade later.

And him, today he gazes through the past and into that taxi, and he smiles at how the universe has conformed and conspired to bring her close to him, perhaps to make him realise his subtle desire.

While the universe is still being chiseled to cut the distance from closeness to togetherness, that weakness and the delicateness still hasn’t subsided much for me to possess her.

There are fears that sorround my heart like clouds that float in uncertain skies. Fears that hesitates my heart from pouring down, fears of uncertainty. 

Falling in love is worth a heartbreak, and I’m not afraid of the latter; it is the falling and the fear of not being caught that puts this heart into an anticipated uneasiness.

Love is supposed to be easy, it is the fusion of two souls to become one that faces all the restrains.

Speak The Writing

Usually when we stumble upon some people who write with magic in their lines and poetic aura in their words, we simply set it in our beliefs how ideal the person is. And as you keep on reading them, your set of beliefs raise him/her even higher.

And the day comes when you began to wonder about them. How must they really be, apart from all the mysticism of their words. How must their thinking work, how must they perceive things. And most and most importantly, our wondernment keeps on stumbling on one thing: how must they speak. How must they talk and converse, with what ideality and what perfection. We sometimes wish to see them, and aspire to be like them.


From my set of thoughts and understanding, social media is a mirage of personalities. It shows you what actually does not exist, or even if it does, it lays at unapproachable distances.

To be disappointed on seeing your idol to be nothing like you’d worshipped is clearly and only your fault. While they may be helpless in being unable to reflect in real what they are from within, you are still to blame – for not understanding.

If writing is an art, so is speaking. And they are distinct. One barely intersects the other. One might be a master of eloquence of words with ink and paper in hand but he might just seem to be another one of the crowd when he speaks.

And, you might have met some who has the art of telling stories and tales and incidents out of their mouth in the perfection of expression, but he will again waffle if handed with a pen and paper.

The point is, the two are equally distinct arts. While it is possible for someone to have control over both, it is very rare.

What is it about writing that cannot enter speaking, why can’t them both merge, after all isn’t the two a mere way of bringing out what lies in you?

Realistically speaking, it simply isn’t realistic to be as clever and tricky in speech as much as in writing. Life is a chaos, and so is what happens around. Everything happens and moves so fast that you do not get even seconds to consider what you should speak and how.

Another thing is, most of the things that we write seems a little weird and makes the atmosphere awkward if we speak them out. After all, isn’t philosphy considered uncool to discuss, poetry cannot be simply enunciated without attracting a lot of (unrequired) attention, and to be sublime in speech is again a little alienish.

All and all, for this too, we are again to blame, just like for every other thing wrong with the universe.

The Unwise Ones

Those who you find talking of hope and of assurance that things will get better and all is good can be assumed to be having a good time, a moment that relishes their everyway desires and longings. And you will see them speaking of the light, of the good things, and they wish good upon you and solace those who maybe hurt and in despair, but another thing only a few might notice is that they do not put much effort into telling you all these. At one point, if you look at them in a bitter but naked real way, you’ll conclude they do not care. They are far interested in enjoying their good time while pretending to be noble merely to not appear selfish to his own self. The goodness that reflects is also a mere default automatic programmed behviour that come into action at similar times.

Or simply put and a little in their favour, you may say that they may be of a good soul with caring intentions but they are just not wise enough.


It does not take callings from the light to take out someone out of misery, it requires pushes from within the darkness to pull them out.

Fallacy Of Love

I rubbish it what they say, that there are soulmates and one true love. You and I have the tendency to fall in love every time we meet a new soul, if the approach is made right and both are walking in at least a similar direction, if not the same.

What does it take to fall in love after all? A heart. Simple. What women posses, other from materialism, has ample power to make any man surrender to it: beauty, and the very fact of her being a woman. Men who refuse otherwise, are well, either keeping themselves too conserved or try to force modesty into even fields where it doesn’t fit. Love is one of the prime essences of life, and lust, the essence behind love; love between man and a woman that is.

Lust has its own affair, lust is what completes love. After all what keeps lovers joined when every curtain has been fallen and every secrets has been uncloaked is the subtle presence of lust in the air love. The relation of men and women is the most sacred mystery we’ve ever been able to create. To our dismay, we rarely ever have accepted it in its truest essence. We have made almost a taboo out of what serves a meaning for the mere existence such opposite forces.

When there is nothing you can do about anything, changing your thinking towards it is the only option you’re left with.

And at the end,

When it comes to speaking your understanding out, everyone has a choice: a choice to agree or disagree at their own will. You shouldn’t refrain from doing so.


as our words kept on romancing in their own sublimity, too far from the shades of reality

my heart kept on jumping from its place, in wayward desires to surrender to her

the short moments of wisdom before falling in love kept me gripped and suppressed

once the heart leaves, i know, if it ever returns, it will be shattered to bits, and its every piece badly bruised.

despite it not being your job, you will forever be blamed for not thinking

hear me dear heart, stay still, and stay unhurt.