lost here, found there! this is the story of my moments. that is why I am always trying to bring this and that together. that is why I need the key. here is my letter: take it word for word. don’t forget the intonation, don’t forget the breathing pattern. I must tell you this, we must know. I know the way, but my map is torn. turns might face away, forlorn. then again, it is a matter of the mood of the mind, the striking of our compasses. only you and I, magnetic repulsion, attraction, conception, perfection. try this, friend! sweet nectar made by lord of the protons. the result of a thousand failed experiments that play games between sense and nonsense. have I lost you! look, its the sea shore we have reached. who knew that the waves could come this far? what brings them here? perhaps they know this spirit. oh, water droplet, daughter of the mountain god! accept my prayer, I seek but do not find! my sinews are at the ends of worlds, a day more and they will break! will you run through me? look inside, the thirst is home to a desert! how else should I put it? words I cannot find to describe this pleasure, this pain!

but where were we, I forgot for a moment. playing hide and seek with my shadow. and thus is revealed the existence of light. bird feather, tea cup, door knob. here we go again.


thoughts of the beginning while thinking of the end

I will write about emptiness. because it is what I am writing about. it is a feeling that deceives words because words elude it. emptiness fills the space between one and the other: it is the space within and without.

but it does exist! as a forethought, or an afterthought, because in its presence it is not known, until it is gone. in the absence of emptiness is an incomplete fullness: when this fullness is known as the light within, there is perfection manifest, and thus is revealed the fullness of that which is empty: tat savitur varenyam.

it is not lacking of anything, because it is nothing: because it not this, it can be that: it is the moment, elusive and free: the point in spacetime where the opposites have collided: it is where we meet, you and I, when we become one, and then we are not: it is a wordless inexplicable emptiness.

when I decided that I want to write about emptiness, I only had one thing on my mind: what will I write about? when I forgot this question, I remembered that I had these thoughts: in my wake I realised that the memory is mere reflection and that now is gone because now is here: effort is wasted and action is futile: these are the elements for the creation of worlds: in their negation, emptiness is known.

it is known as the muse, because it can be a woman, and in her absence her presence is felt: it can be known as a man because only man knows woman, just as the light does not know itself, but as the darkness that it hides in its deepest recesses.

in the deepest recesses,, the direst of voids and the driest of waters this emptiness resides: it hides when called for but shows up in my slumber: it is an endless game that wins when there is loss and dies when it is born: it lives for itself and all that it is not: it is paradox personified, the thread to my story, the air to my breath.


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The city is the place to find sadness. Like a large invisible blanket that floats beneath the clouds. It creeps out late at night. 3am. An awkward silence. Why does it not talk? A reply: a stranger speaking in the dead of the night, a motorcycle murderously cutting through the silent streets. I shift beds like girls change clothes. But it is still, the same city. A fake darkness in the sky. Lights from somewhere. The dawn brings more gloom. No hint of light yet. But a solitary bird has sang, and two more still. And there are others who sing. The mosquitoes. Songs everywhere! But not the conventional kind. These are songs with lots of spaces, lots of space. The instruments are dying, but they make such a play of time. And here comes the dawn. A dull crescendo, painted with drippy black paint. A moody torchlight, shooting sleepy flames into the sky. Well the dawn makes no difference. All is the same. Except for the one hundred changes that keep changing at the same time everyday. The sounds of the rickety auto rickshaws running to fetch schoolchildren keeps increasing. Pigeons of grey and endless eyes start flocking at balconies. Footsteps and shuffles in the still-dark corridors, forgotten by the sun. Fake alarms, real alarms, screams and shouts, reminders, pressure cooker whistles, car keys and sounds, rumbling engines and rolling gates. And of course, the crows. Remainders of the night, painted sans light, bodies of black, scavengers of the city floor. Spaceless spaces, suffocated earth, interlocking bricks, boring jigsaws. And also in the morning – hungry stomachs and pails of coffee. And the night is here too, in the coffee cups. Black, brown, some fight with milk, and take it further. Arriving Sun! Creeping in through holes in the walls, setting curtains on fire, floors on fire, faces on fire. Out into the day, the people go. Some resolved, some not. Some go to bring it to life. Wars are fought. On a daily basis. City by day. City by night.

In search of you

part 1

when will I write, what will I write, and who will I write for. in this quest for words I have lost the tip of my pen. in these vast swathes of white I try to paint the picture of you. you, my frameless tomorrow, my nameless destination. you, the one who holds the key to secrets kept in store for a time that has grown wings. when I look for you, you disappear. when I know you near me, I am lost for words and my knees buckle. I sit down, and I watch this spectacle, maya, you bewilder me and put me in a trance. I am not satisfied by your coming and going anymore. I do not want to watch your shadow flit and run away every time I reach out for you. I want to know that which lies behind this curtain of play, this reverie of senses that is creation.


part 2

a great fire is growing within me. with every passing day its flames roar and crackle like a hungry animal. with every passing day I come to accept the reality that nothing but the mother of oceans can quench this thirst that burns the skin of my soul. with glimpses of your infinity I get only temporary reprieve. but the more I see, the more I want.

at your touch I feel a surge running through my being: how do I express the joy I feel in knowing you! words there are none, for the world of forms fails to capture even the tip of your hair. then tell me, my sun of suns, what must I do with my time in waiting?

mother! do not leave me, or I will be lost. my compass flutters in the vastness of your heart. I want only to stay by your side, through life and death. In absolute union with you, time will shatter, and I will lose myself into this ocean of bliss that is you, satchidananda.


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What is the ideal burial like? With one hand putting a hole in the earth surface, fingers reaching out to the skies, so that the abyss above can know that hope still breathes within the man. The rest of the body surrounded by soil that is alive / Can I choose between love and death? If we love, we will die. If we don’t, we won’t. Because in the absence of love, death does not matter / What is the meaning of this moment? It is the same as eternity, infinity, perpetual motion and such words that fail to contain meaning / However, what is contained in this moment? Everything. All of you and all that you have been. From the collision of stardust to the thought-waves that your parents sent to each other to result in your creation. Everything, from the spray of the seas within your mother’s womb to your first sight of light / What am I to do now? You must be silent. Wherever you are. Because we are approaching nothing. And nothing is contained in this globular entity we call home / Why is it called nothing? Because the expansive blackness that we perceive fails to cover everything, like a short blanket that exposes your feet. But in emptiness our hearts can collide and we can create togetherness and warmth. That is why / What is signified by the greatest borders? They are metaphors for endings, and metaphors for the divide between opposites, metaphors for comparison of the meek with the grand, such as the thump of your heart to the pulse of the cosmos.

in this darkness lies my dream

my night ship is arriving. her voice is made of knives that cut through skin and bone alike.

her sirens sound the songs of death and her footsteps betray her path. her body floats above my waters, her icy hull tears through my consciousness.

her weaponry has touched me whole, from tongue to toe i have been split. in opposites now she recalls her voyages. two ends of me reach out to the other in pain and joy alike.

my night ship steers her way through my bloodstream. she navigates by my stars. she strings them one by one within her palm.

at the sound of my closed eyes she drops an anchor in my heart. there we meet and at the point where dreams depart, we wait.