Redhya

by sunsets on saturdays, lying in her bed, she'd consume a novella and three sesame honey toasts. her back hurt. were a rumbling stomach and a frail body what she overlooked? she preferred not to have romeos, still her clumsy desk had got brews and love letters addressed to fictitious characters and war heroes. she sought literary endings, conclusions, and closures to die for i, lost amongst a pile of books, am devoid of epilogues. the literature - professors had told her strictly to stay away from. her obsession - slow kisses near windows - peeking through cracked walls, the descending sun remained unnoticed while she’d imagine some moments of love. and dry roses lain between unfathomable verses. a word - she often came across but didn’t know the meaning of she totally forgot about her tinder account and wine glasses. the former was for smuts; the other for dying hope around her ankle, a black thread and an unread chapter on a dead kindle she’d bought ages ago. a lo-fi playlist sh

Whene’er I dwell on freedom in my leisure time (mostly when I am left alone for time enough to jump off a cliff and into my mind), a ripple of electric shock excites some brain cells which right away create several vivid pictures one after another. I thereby let my eyes’ lids droop to reduce distortion (i.e., reality) and see a clear meadow on the foothill of a rather snow-covered mountain on a sunny day during spring. By the meadow, a fierce, noisy waterfall nourishes the flora and fauna residing in the neck of the woods. I, with my passionate lover amidst colourful flowers, frolic naked, running towards the waterfall. Under the waterfall, we look deep into each other’s eyes and get closer and closer until the two serpents are perceived as one. A rational thought thus occurs - what if it ends rather painfully? What if she doesn’t want this in the future? Or more importantly, what if I don’t want this? Do we really want to be free? When humans reach the phase of life wherein they perce

When I was twenty-one years old, I put myself up in a dormitory named “Vanvas” for some time. Providing shelter to students and employees getting mediocre salaries, that dormitory had people from different states of the country. We shared bathrooms and a filthy dining table lain in a hall next to the only kitchen. The occupants at the dormitory always looked flustered if not annoyed. They were generally found grumbling about communal facilities to each other at every nook and cranny of the building that had five floors. It was natural for me to hate that place too. I’d gnash my teeth in anger, on seeing unflushed toilets. The sight of faeces clinging to a closet would make me scream my head off. Every day, I’d encounter a disastrous event somewhere on one of the floors. For instance, sometimes, I woke up to unusual gurgling noises, the stench of bidis being smoked, and the sound of my alarm clock. Tring, tring… Tring, tring... However, amidst all that mess, a bizarre man, protecting hi

The Journey Two wheels, revolving rather fast on a congested road and manoeuvring between any space they can fit in, let me cut through the dead traffic. Vexed beings inside cars around me, moving forward at a snail’s pace and honking sporadically, have an urge to skip the depressing now and enter the hopeful future at once. If the traffic were observed from the top of a precipice, it’d look like an organised bookshelf. Surprisingly the very, unruly crowd have got perfectly arranged, first, hedonic events, second, experiences, and, third, expectations to be at peace and practise confusing self-love in their heads. On the other hand, far from the status quo, I – who is ignorant of his psychopathic tendency – am inanely drawn to chaos.  To my mind, chaos is an escape from the distressing reality that favours herd mentality. Besides that, it strictly denies the existence of any meaningful realities since chaos is an unpredictable and patternless system wherein absolute non-deterministic

Memories and experiences, sequentially-arranged, complex  patterns, have been broken infinitesimally into fundamental particles. The process dissolves the nihilistic chaos looking for the meaning and the purpose,  washing out everything between a point and infinite. A human, vibrating between asceticism and hedonism,  has been strangled and tossed into an empty ocean. superego  asceticism  pain  white  depression ego  human  I grey  normal id  hedonism  pleasure  black  mania Perception is the only gateway  for the universe to enter conscious beings  to imprint patterns in their minds and to study their behaviour. The cosmos’ very first vibration. The cosmos’ very first cause. Everything first dissociates and then dissolves. I disowned identities and patterns having being ingrained since I'd first started mimicking sanity. To nothing,  it seems - nothingness within  and nothingness without. When energy dissipates and entangles with cosmic dots, The consciousness gets dissociated fr

i’m sorry - i’m too afraid to open up either sufferings die inside me or turn me into an unfathomable disaster *exhaling intensely with a racing heart* hush! and hear me out i felt nothing in october. so i prescribed myself some sedatives and three hangovers. i’ve got this fear i might abuse substances ‘til someone labels it as a disorder the intoxicated blood carries the packets of euphoria and the bag of bones animates when the packets burst inside the brain i feel - life is a boring consciousness when it’s sober. i should’ve opened up and just been vulnerable like an open wound infested by flies and maggots i hid a victim inside me ages ago you might see it donning a charming cloak and smiling every now and then pain travels from one to another and i was too afraid to hand it over because when pain is restrained for ever-so long it reaches the brim and overflows i’d have rather said, “don’t make another barrier – just let it flow.” because pain flows from one to another damaging the

Some mornings, I sit motionless with a fixed gaze at a blank page. My restless mind wanders, and the page senses deceit in my attention. Whether this white, unwrinkled page wants to remain blank or to be filled, who knows? I’ve never asked a page before. I selfishly scribble on innocent pages, believing someone will relate to it. Some evenings, I sit nervously and stare at pages filled with sugar-coated words. Whether these soiled pages wanted to be written on or become paper boats that could have swum miles in a drain, who knows? I didn’t ask the pages. I just wanted to write some complex verses for escapists. Some nights, I lie on my bed and read the letter I received from an admirer. I’ve never reciprocated her feelings. Whether the colourful page (letter) wanted to soak tears of a one-sided lover or become a wedding card, who knows? She didn’t ask the beautiful page. She just wanted a little love for herself. Her feelings were snug on the damp, warm page. *** buy my books on amazon