Rebuilt With Fire

Why is it that I can’t move,
Nor can I stay in one place.
It’s like life has forgiven me,
And yet has strangled me.

The ambitions, dreams, motivations,
They matter little to me.
Unlike before;
They no longer drive me

Poetry feels like penance
For crimes never committed.
Unless unfulfilled dreams,
Were crimes for me to see.

It’s as if light has averted me;
Dwelling in darkness is all I see.
For little has perhaps changed,
Discounting the hope that has forgone me.

Like a broken glass vase,
Rebuilt with the ire of fire.
What has life become for me.
What has life become of me.

Erratic Scribbles

Empty Salvation

Perhaps, maybe his salvation lay in the chaos of many things and possibilities, instead of just one. Every day he woke to search the answers that might rest his soul, with a weight on his back that had no form and was invisible to all but him. Or so he liked to think.

Life was never the same after that one day when he decided to kill the monster he deemed was holding him back. As the growls grew silent, his apathy showed through his pale face. His restless eyes became dim with darkness and a blank stare looked right through what was in-front of him. The least of what was killed that night was the monster, and in the bloodbath, another monster grew in it’s place.

One for the other, he imagined. It was better than nothing cause at least the new one he could train, perhaps even subdue. Even he knew he was lying, even though he wanted to believe it he knew. Life was cruel to give him a voice that told him right from wrong at an early age. But he would rarely comprehend why something was like it was, why something was right even if fit may appear wrong, or why, even in the chaos of all things, it all fit.


He knew life was temporary. Once, he welcomed that thought hesitantly, keeping it out the door and asking to knock before it’s time. Today, that was no longer the case.

Perhaps, maybe, his thoughts would etch themselves on stone and amber, to deliver what he wanted to say. Perhaps he would be understood thousands of years later or in a time when it’s irrelevant, but he wanted to try. Of all things he was scared of, it was his brief time in the world that let him know that he was alone. His ability to see how big everything was and the ambition to drive things even further, it lead him to a life where he thought he could do more but achieves little. In the pursuit of understanding the world, he forgot to build himself up in a way where he would be understood.

Maybe none of it mattered. Maybe it’s all just ramblings on paper. Paper that don’t even exist.

There was however, always a chance for things to be miraculous. And that he knew, so he strewn the world with his ramblings in places where one day, with a thousand generations gone, perhaps he would know whether he was right to chase after his life, after what he thought was his soul.

Erratic Scribbles


He was a fundamentally broken person. Nothing seemed to faze him. Not the darkness the world had or the passing beauty it seemed to posses.

He seemed like a tree, still and flowing with the wind. But yet, unlike a tree, he seemed to not embrace what was around him. He didn’t even reject it. He just stood still, right there, within all the chaos that surrounded him, unfazed and undeterred, continuing his existence like a symbol of an empty canvas.

As his shell stood there, his soul un-captivated, drifted asunder around him with the wind. With songs, wild emotions, darkness and light, it mixed in the air around him, creating an aura of awe that never really quite fell on the perspective of those around him. A silent scream lit up the world that he lived in, the void around him engulf with black fire, killing everything his vision laid eyes upon. Yet, in the real world, no one noticed him.

He stopped leaning towards the wall and lifted himself up. “Proper posture” he said as he put the cigarette within his lips, a habit more than an addiction. Unconcerned with the consequences of what lay ahead, he moved on, a mountain dragging behind him. Amidst the crowd he walked, with flames rife around him, burning, eating whatever the world had to offer. Chains clanked as he put on his headphones, oblivious to him, he dragged his feet with the mountain that followed him. “Dig down”, he repeated to himself, as the music started and the lyrics were spoken.



His goal, seemed alien. Not the will to survive, not greed, not ambition, not greatness. He sought change. The void in his eyes seemed to give him life, the same life it seemed to take away. The eerie semblance to the darkness he had inside of him gave way to a vision of the future. Not that of prediction, but that of the ability to change what he saw.

And so he dragged on forward, amidst the crowd, willingly within the chaos of the world, unmoved, unfaltered, and uninterested.

Erratic Scribbles

The Daily Social Intercourse

Don’t we all wish to be the dark mysterious stranger and to perhaps one day, be awed at rather than the one doing the act. It is, perhaps these selfish desires, simple things in life, of wanting to be wearing another’s shoes, that help us mistake a human for a mythical being.

There’s little effort for some people when it comes to communication, but for others it can be a nightmare. The life of a mysterious stranger might as well be hell for the simple reason that he doesn’t know how to talk, to conduct basic communication, which is perhaps why he’s so mysterious.

The daily work a person puts into connecting with another person verbally or otherwise, is generally unaccounted for. For some, it can be hard to even comprehend, while for others, it comes as naturally as leaves to a tree. But poets who can’t rhyme, deserve no qualms in this world. And that is perhaps where, the ones who do know the truth of the world, go wrong.

Source: pinterest.com/pin/288230444875929894

People, more than anything else, are what shape us to be who we are. And later, to become who we have to be. Depending on the situation, a person’s tone is enough to send a shiver down someone’s spine. Depending on where your thoughts wander, that is either good or bad, from your perspective. Words shape us to be who we are, some take it unto themselves to be a reflection of who they are on someone else’s mirror; while others reel in their desires to be invisible in the world. The few that run after balance, lose their path and fall in the chasm of disappointment, for there is no middle. Only mistakes and more mistakes.

And yet, even with it’s significant importance in our lives, so little is said about the daily social intercourse we have with each other through words, poetry, literature, music and other things of wonder.

It is perhaps, because of it’s negligence, that we go on to admire people who live life unfiltered, arrogant and overconfident. Growing up, the simple act of talking was painful to bear for the mysterious stranger. Not because he didn’t want to but because of the thought that no one understood him haunted his ever living self. From his perspective, the daily social intercourse between people, was no less than mesmerizing. From his observation, life was but beautifully weaving lives together in ways that he couldn’t comprehend. By his observation, he was but a pawn in the game of life. By others’ observations, he was but the main figure; idolized and transcended, and misunderstood.

Erratic Scribbles

A rambling of storms. 

The rain drops kept coming and going and yet the storm never stopped. It was strange to see a storm of dust soon get replaced with one of water and then of cool breeze. A blink of an eye is all you needed to miss the transitions that came in waves. Life seemed to be a similar metaphor, a relentless storm ever changing its shape. Uncaring and unfair.

Some days seem all too familiar. A gentle touch of the cold breeze is all you need to reminiscent. The days when long walks didn’t seem as dreadful or when life still seemed like a child’s sandbox, with its intricate ability to create dreams and foster them.

Source: pinterest.com/pin/556476097688645951/

It’s been a while since those days. But it still feels as if life started this morning when I woke up. As the clock tick tocks, life moves ahead slowly despite our unwillingness. The different faces crowd the streets in the morning only for them to fade away at night. From our perspective, it’s unnatural. And yet, we play along. Like a theater drama where everyone knows that they’re in it and yet, blissfully unaware infront of the audience, the people they care about. –  In theater,  blissful ignorance is a skill; in life however, the same can be called out to be a terrible flaw.

What’s the point of all this I wonder, if there even is one to begin with. Maybe if life was as clear about itself as it is with everything it presents us with, maybe it wouldn’t be as novel to be alive. Maybe the curiosity of the answer along with the inability to achieve it is what keeps us going. Maybe it’s a different reason each time. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe sometimes life, just like the rain storm with little water, is just meant to be enjoyed at leisure.

Source: pinterest.com/pin/160440805445732769

Even if expectations never seem to get met, maybe it’s good to appreciate the breeze than it not being there in the first place. If storms should teach us anything in life, it’s that maybe in life, not everything is meant to be controlled. And every opportunity can be that of good or bad depending on what we decide to do with it, and how we see it.

Erratic Scribbles


Changing. Adapting. Unlearning old things.

In a world where survival of the fittest is a very real thing, ‘fittest’ for the average human being in the modern day world, only till a certain extent, meant the shell that embraced his being.

Survival for us, it seems, was based a lot more on the ability to adapt to situations, change when the need requires you to and erasing certain parts of your past, in order to move ahead. It’s like cleaning wounds, it’ll always hurt but sometimes, the pain we feel now is necessary so that we won’t grow up broken with a disease that just grows with us and breaks us even further.


Credit for above art: Pinterest.com

But sometimes, analogies don’t do some situations any justice. Sometimes, it’s up-to us to see certain things for the individual uniqueness they might be. Sometimes, the change we have to endure is more than just a simple painful process, maybe even a psychological one. Sometimes, the ability to adapt, means that you’ve to sacrifice a lot more than you gain, because situations demand so. Sometimes, unlearning things mean forgetting the past that you held so dearly till only a few months ago, and in a way, letting go of who you were till then.

We’ve all grown up with mistakes and learnt our best lessons from failure, yet we make an environment where failure is the last straw. What are so we afraid of today really, if not of the failure to be what we are?



Credit for above art + featured cover art: Picolo-kun

We live in a world of paradoxes. Like pandora’s box, we search for a truth where there exists none. We stare at reality with our perspective lenses, willing to believe that there’s a validation in the world which will tell us what the right thing to do is. We have grown up in a world where we’re afraid to make our own road if there exists none, and in a way, have lost ourselves in someone else’s path and in someone else’s search for the truth they believe in.

But why is it that we’re never given a chance to stay. Stop. And just stare.


Short Stories

The Hunger – Wolf #1

It was a time when dread has set in so deep, nothing else seemed worthwhile. It seemed like time had stopped and only brick walls all around, stalling any advance. A hunger that had died long ago, had resurfaced, just when all hope for the future he wished for had died.

It was a hunger of desperation, just to stick around and beat the world at it’s own game. The wolf had already lost what he desired most; but that didn’t mean he would give up without a fight. For the wolf, the battle raged as long as one tried, taking time was of no shame but giving up meant he would just prove his naysayers right. Fighting till the last breath, for the sake of changing fate one last time, with all his strength.


And so the cage broke, the wolf smelt blood and ran after it. The brick walls long distant in sight but not in memory, the wolf ran faster with each milestone he crossed. Freedom was at stake, from the dread that captured him and caged his senses. Memories made the wolf run, the scars ran deep and the wolf ran, knowing full well that complacency is what would eventually kill him.

The rain battered the earth like drum beats, playing along an aggressive rhythm. The lightning just made the weather feel a little more authentic. A harsh reality faced the wolf in it’s face; for he never saw the world outside the cage. He did think about the life beyond the brick walls that barred his advance and he honed his skills as much he could. A life which he needed to face and fight for. However, his dream broken quickly by what he thought was fiction. It seemed fate had different things in mind for the young predator, now out for blood.

The wolf however, didn’t dissuade. The cage was his ultimate bane; the dread upon his being keeping him down, – that terrified the wolf more than that of not being able to achieve his dreams. The weather beat him down but he didn’t kneel even once. With the force of battering rams, he went to quench his thirst for blood, drenched and with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he ran. ~


Erratic Scribbles


There are certain quirks of life that no one can really get over. For the greater part of our life, we seem to be after a sort of permanence even with the knowledge, the certainty, that nothing is around forever.

We live our life telling ourselves we’ll grow old with someone, telling ourselves that we’ll achieve our dreams, and telling ourselves, that we’ll be that one person who stands out of the crowd to change the world.

Like an empty canvas, we paint our lives with the stories we deem fit. Somewhere along our journey to achieve what we dream, we get satisfied with what life has to offer rather than to fight for what we aspire.

The distant past seems like yesterday and the most painful memories are the fond ones that remind us that we can’t go back; that in life, we can only move forward. But what do we really sacrifice when we run this race to reach the end of the cave, and for what? By the end of it all, few even remember what they dreamt of and even fewer having truly achieved what they wanted. Too many of us fall into the illusion of wanting what’s on the other side of the field rather making making the most out of what we have around us. Too many aspire to be like their role models than to be a role model.

When the night falls and the day’s changes have finally settled down, why do we still hope for permanence in a world that is ever changing? We wake up the next day and it’s the same thing. We pursue the change we want to bring, forgetting that it’ll fly past us the moment we arrive. In pursuit of it, we forget that it’s an illusion. But when we remember, we stall, because what’s the point of going any further.


As we grow old, maybe it is our definition of permanence that changes overtime. When we start out, permanence is in the future, long away from us, to be achieved in a day when we can reach the top of the fridge without any difficulty. When we can see everyone eye to eye, and stand tall; at equal stature, with those around us.

Then as time breezes by, we seek permanence in our present when we can have none. When we are not in control of ourselves, pushed out the door and into the world with no one to look for help. But we grow accustomed to the rollercoaster that takes place. Within days, we live in highs and lows trying to preserve everything we can perceive and yet, only for all of it to fade as soon as it settles in on our life.

And then we seek permanence in the past, in our past. We read the books we wrote, and study the paintings we painted, irritated with the imperfections surrounding our art, the sole permanence that we seem to have acquired in life. The fond memories turn to stone, thrust into the whirlwind of memories from the past, slowly chipping away and disappearing.


Our desire for perfection in our permanence make us forget that the paintings aren’t complete and the books still mostly unwritten. Our perception of permanence changes in time, as time drags us through regardless of our intentions.

But what if the permanence that we seek were kept in our hands the entire time. Wouldn’t the story we write for ourselves, be for us to define?

Maybe, in pursuit of permanence, at the end of the day, we stop caring. And we replace it with a pursuit to chase change. Change, that will redefine the books we wrote, and the canvases we painted. And in this pursuit, we start running away from light at the end of the cave, and into the dark abyss ready to take on the horrors that we kept at bay and away from the permanence that we sought for.

Maybe, permanence is whatever we define it to be and maybe, we all run after it for the same reason. Maybe, after all of this is over, the permanence we seek will finally arrive and never leave.

But till then, believe it to be the illusion that it is because the permanence we seek doesn’t exist.


Erratic Scribbles

It’s been a while.

Time is a fickle minded thing from our perspective. As far as my memory can recall, it would race without stop and a day would seem to go past like water through my fingers. At other spans, an hour would seem never ending.

Was it just our perspective or was it time itself? Was it both? Questions that never seemed to have definite answers and heavens forbid if I try to tackle them right now; but time is wonderful. It seems so long ago that I’d sit down with my cousins and friends to discuss philosophy of space and the wonders of our world; it’s reality.

Even as we enter the second month of another year, few of us still seem to have made peace with the pace at which we walk in life. I remember myself few years ago, anxious, unable to understand my faults, my failures daunting me and people pointing at the wrong directions with disgust painted on their faces. At least that’s how I saw it; from my perspective.   It’s been long since then but it also feels like yesterday. I know quite a few of us think we’re walking too slowly but very few seem to bother looking around, which is essential if you ever want to pick up pace. I mean, who would like to run with their eyes closed?
I sort-of made peace with time a few years back. It feels like yesterday, but not quite. Unable to go on, I just gave up. Not in the sense where I wanted to just end everything, which honestly was an option, but rather in the way that I just stopped fighting with time. It felt liberating in a way to just tell myself that i’d do something regardless of however long it would take me, but i would give myself fully to what I start doing. And I started doing things that I actually wanted to. Because just like everyone else, I had the choice to take the jump, however, unlike everyone else, I was stupid enough to actually do it.


Feels surreal. Because even though it felt like chaos back then, today it just feels like a calm memory, like a painting, unable to move.

A lot of decisions were taken over time, some turned out well while others just seem like wasted effort that should’ve been put to use somewhere else. Maybe it is our perspective that guides time, or maybe it’s the reality in which we live that determines how time feels to us. At times, a moment of happiness seems like eternity, never forgotten; while at others, a pulse of melancholy slowly guts them in broad daylight.

Maybe overtime we’ll all learn to empathize better. Maybe our broken lives will seem to make sense in the future. Perhaps the life we wanted will turn out that way if only we begin to put effort in the right direction at any time. Perchance time is just a barrier we keep in front of us without even realizing it. Or chances are that it is crucial to getting anything done in the first place.

We all seem to be stuck in a perpetual state of self consciousness. Trying to understand where we are at life, trying to make sense of where we have to go. And it never feels like it’s ever getting over but suddenly, after the entire day is done, after you celebrate your birthday, after anything significant, you stop and realize; that it’s been a while.