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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Inspired by Sylvia Plath’s ‘You’re’

The Chasm

For the times the world lit up like a
Magic lantern, when the sun glowed like a
Blanket of fireflies and embers, covering the
Past, present, and future in a sheet of light.
For the times the water stayed still like a
Seven-year old’s unassuming conscience.
For the times the air whispered words of
Magic and misadventure, luring people into
Its arms, until they swayed with the sound of the
Breeze, sideways, upwards, and into the earth,
Into the deep chasms of the dry land.

Etymology

“Where do your words come from?”, she asked, as we
Discussed the evolution and devolution of language.
“Where do your words come from?”, she asked, as I
Opened the dictionary at the local library.

“My words come from the soft nuances of
Childhood”, I told her, “From the sizzle of the
Pan as my mother cooked breakfast, from the
Loud footsteps of my father, as he stumbled down the
Stairs. From the way my grandmother told me about
Her childhood friends who now hesitate to
Communicate with her.”

“My words come from my travels through
Time and space”, I told her, “From the coloured houses of
Uruguay to the crowded roads of Bombay. From the
Harsh symphonies of traffic to the eerie silence on
Empty train rides on window seats.”

And as I went home, that day, I could feel the
Snap-crushes of spices that reverberated through my house.
I could feel the crowds as I tried to navigate through
Abandoned buildings and new coffee-shops. And for the
First time, I could trace my words back to a map of
Human experience.

Living With Yourself

If your soul is a white rabbit,
Let it travel through the stars and
The skies and let it reach the
Gilded gates of Wonderland.
If your soul is a wolf, let your
Hair loose, let your mind
Escape itself, and let it
Howl until the moon disappears beneath
Honeyed clouds and silver linings.
If your soul is a faraway planet,
Do not try and restrict it to
Your orbit, but instead, let it
Revolve in its own right, beyond your
Modest ideas of revolution.