Moments are like soft desert sands, always slipping away.

It was right in the middle of Savana and it was dusky. The sky was orange and yellow, sometimes red at the far horizon and the birds was flying to the south. The breeze was howling as if it was singing and the grasses was waltzing along with it. I was gazing at the sun which was about to collapse in the far horizon and there she was beside me looking at me like if it was the last time she’d ever see me. She was in her blue sleeveless top, and I could clearly see the tattoo on her shoulder, it was of flowers, a particular soft pink flowers which looks vibrant on your skin. I asked her about the tattoo, she said “ Sakura, flowers from cherry blossom tree “, she told me blooming season is powerful, glorious and intoxicating, but tragically short lived – a visual reminder that our lives, too, are fleeting. It was enduring expression of life, death and renewal and timeless metaphor of human existence.

And a thought came by, and I said to her, “ You know, sometimes I wonder, if all the time that was for me was like…. like five seconds… and I had no past memory… I had nothing carved into my mind before those five seconds … and the only thing… that was left imprinted in my mind… are these images and the smells and these feelings of those five seconds…. Tell me, how would I take those moments of five seconds? “

She remained silent…. and after a moment later she replied, “ I think, those moments of five seconds would feel exactly as long as someone who lived for thousands years. “

Sakura the flower from cherry blossom symbolizes the timeless metaphor of human life. A brief life.


The truth is I scribble when I’m sad

The gloomy morning was right there waiting before me, All I need is to embrace it without no hesitation, all I need is to grab a coffee and a cigarette and I did so. And as I proceed to scribble, I was toggling in the verge of memories and moments as if I was overwhelmed by the whim of self and the rest.

For a moment, I was acknowledged by the fact that not even the ambitious one can get through himself, All we are doing is nothing but just leaving prints and trying to give a message that we too lived, once.

Still something yet is to be gone and more is to come. So, I move on in the same old process, through the masses, leaving ashes, residing trashes, and giving message behind.

Inside me, something blooms, In this morning full of glooms.


Freedom. How naive could human be ? Freedom is mirage, for an instant you feel so unconcealed, in a next while that state suffocates you. This reminds me of an old man once saying, Even birds are chained to the sky. You get certain freedom that will not quench the thirst of eternity, well that is not real freedom as far as we are concerned.

Well you might think that refraining possessions and cutting attachments to this materialism will give you freedom. But that way is just too absurd.

Though you can get rid of everything that surrounds you, Still you cannot get rid of the pile of flesh which you call yourself, your own body.

Real Freedom, it will cost yourself.

The Thread

You cling onto this thread of a warm sweater,
Pulling each line with all your care, restlessly you’re after,

You rejoice this feeling, you know you’ll try,
Your memories with the warmness, you can’t deny,

In a meantime you’ll look up and realize, there is no more line to cling on,
As the sweater seems slowly gone,
Into entangled remaining of threads to which you can’t mourn.

Make sure you are not clinging onto any threads.

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