A Breath in Kashmir

Inhale.

I can taste the memories in the

air today, young boys pestering their fathers to

build tree houses on

old pine trees, trees that

tower far, far above the

white velveteen clouds that stretch through the

horizon, shielding my eyes from

what must be shielded.

Exhale.

I can smell the blood interlaced in the

cold fog that leaves my chest, leaving me

panting, restless, uneasy

my fingertips glide across

the ice as I collapse in a

forgotten breath, my body shrivels up in

a curl of excruciating pain, pain that

soon freezes over, leaving nothing but

snow angels looking over the pine trees,

pristine lakes, and heavenly skies.

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Teaching Yourself How To Fall Asleep

Have you ever felt that your life
all your life
every single minute that you spend waking sleeping
talking being

living is just a

race, trying to catch up with
itself, trying to make sense of the
secrets buried in the heavy air you

inhale, trying to decipher meanings in

ambiguous shapes of uncertainty and
sometimes when
you find it hard to teach yourself to

go back to sleep or your eyes

stare out of windows for what seems like
much to long, it is simply those
times where your life is struggling to

grab hold of itself and slow down for a

second before you watch it unravel and
disintegrate into fractions of
memories and starlight.

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Seismic Activity

You’re sitting in your room and staring at the wall when
suddenly your
spine shudders in a shrill scream of ice-cold vigour and
slowly, all at once
the numbness spreads to your arms and legs and hands and
shoulders and
you can feel the static current shaking your veins and
viscera, quivering and trembling with
frosted whispers of disquiet and the
convulsions soon take
over your body and soul, leaving you in the epicentre of your
own
natural disaster.

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The Economy of the Printed Page

Fiction is almost always as fictional as we
wish for it to be, because the
sounds of prose
exist to blot out the
ink stains in our
minds, to fill in the
voids left by thoughts waiting to
happen, to mend
the ripped corners of our
souls.

Fiction is almost never entirely
fictional, because it encompasses the
illusions and
delusions of our lives in a
singular breath, spanning centuries and
revolutions and moments soaked in
hues of intensity and
underwhelming sadness, in finite
sentences governed by the economy of the
printed page.

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Instances

Imagine if time wasn’t a concept we
imagined in our minds and tried to
understand as it drifted away.

Imagine if time was tangible- if we
could walk through hours and days and
centuries; if we could fold our lives up and
store tiny squares of instances in our pockets.

Imagine if the distance between then and now
didn’t exist, and the future was just another
thought in the labyrinths of our lives.

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Notes From A Dream Journal- Part 2

  1. I swallowed the night in a single breath. I could taste the darkness on my tongue.
  2. The streetlights suddenly shone bright. The artificial light made me uncomfortable.
  3. I saw houses on my street that I had never seen before. Maybe it was because the light made things look different.

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Notes From A Dream Journal

  1. It looks almost exactly the same as the world I live in, really. Only two things are different. First, the waves in the sea move backward. Second, time doesn’t move linearly.
  2. I’m trying to run away. I’m trying to not take pride in knowing exactly how to upset myself.
  3. I can see you. You’re holding a glass of water, spilling it on the grass. Drop by drop. By the time I reach you, the glass is empty.

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The Meadows Under The Sea

I mistook the sea for green meadows yesterday, while
Walking down the pier and asking myself why I only
Ask the questions I already know the answers to. I looked at
The sky, smeared with blood-orange, madness, and
Mystery, and kept on walking, walking until I reached the
End of the pier and entered the green meadows, filled with
Tulips, god-like wonder, moons, and starfish.

I mistook the sea for green meadows yesterday, and wondered
Why it was so tough to breathe while I was surrounded by
Aspen trees that trembled in the nervous breeze.

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Empty Constellations

I cannot see the stars from my roof today.

I cannot see the stars from my roof today and
That makes me uncomfortable; almost as if
Someone painted the sky with cheap black acrylic paint and
Covered it in varnish.

I cannot see the stars from my roof today and
That makes me want to pick up a bucket of light and
Smear it across the horizon, creating wormholes of
Illumination in dank darkness.

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You’re

A placard on the whitewashed walls of a
Subway station that nobody reads but
Everybody remembers.

A dash of lightning that sends shivers down my
Spine and shocks of static through my skin.

A mirror that refuses to reflect but somehow always
Shows people their true self.

A word that always feels wrong on my tongue,
Even though you’re always spelt right.

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Inspired by Sylvia Plath’s ‘You’re’