Two cans of paint: India and United Arab Emirates 


I let my life mix with my dreams like two coloured cans of paint; the saffron 🇮🇳 mixed with the red, green and black 🇦🇪 until I didn’t know which was what and I didn’t care, I call you home 🏡Dubai is my hustle and my grind, Bangalore is my victory lap and my celebration. Dubai is my heart, Bangalore you’ll always be the blood that pumps through it. Dubai taught be about being not having, Bangalore showed me how blessed I am. Between Dubai and Bangalore, I learn everyday that my glass is always full and refillable. Dubai and Bangalore you make me grow towards the sky while the sun calls my name and the stars light up my pathway. Home is always here and a missed land ❤️

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395 grams of likes

Don’t forget to get away every once in awhile,
To lose yourself in a book.
Or in the streets behind your home,
Riding your bike into the sunset at the beach.
Sit on your front steps and count the cars passing by,
Lay on your roof and gaze up at the night sky.
Drive along backroads with the windows rolled down,
Listening to nothing but the sounds all around.
I hope you take the time to be alone,
To sort through the cluttered shelves of your heart.
I hope you take the time to be silent,
To close your eyes and just listen to your heart.
I hope you take the time to be still,
To quiet your mind and experience the beauty of simply being.
In a world that tells us we should always be connected,
on the go, and doing something worth sharing.
I hope you know it’s okay to disconnect, slow down, and keep some memories;
Between you and the moment you shared it with.
I know its the ‘gram with pictures that strike, but there more you can do than the 395 posts you’ve liked!

Rock, Paper & Scissors




Rock, Paper & Scissors:
Rocks can weigh the paper down,
Like dead weight you lug around.
Paper covers the rock by constricting,
Like excuses you cover all your failings.
Scissors bend and fall apart,
Like the words that sting and stab the heart. It’s the worst game of Rock, Paper and Scissors; And we are still playing it!

So, this time I’ll be the stone,
as your paper crumples into folds.
Over my dead body you don’t need to be strong, I was wrong to hold you, just like love I erode.
This time I’ll be the paper,
as your sharpen your blades.
Cut me into pieces until your misery fades.
I’ll come back with just enough tape,
pretend like I’m the hero without a cape.

This time I’ll be the scissors, as your rocky exterior holds back your very soul. Crushing me with gravity of you black hole heart, I surrender to you, take me out and break me apart.

Comfort at the bottom of a swimming pool

I want to take a deep breath and immerse,
Propel myself to your ocean floor
Where the darkness and the unknown
Has always existed but was never explored

I find comfort in the bottom of a swimming pool,
the streams of light overhead
quietly drinking in the water,
lapping at this microcosms feet.
The familiar weight
in my ears drowns out the noise,
The coolness against my soft skin
feels weightless and beautiful
the eventuality of breaking the surface
is almost sorrowful
No one can touch you here,
like a stone you sink slowly,
you are cut free from the ties
that have held you for so long
and just like the tiny bubbles
you’ll race towards the curving surface
and into the light
and realise you were never meant to breathe here.
Not long is left and you break through,
only wanting to escape
back to where everything
was so clear, and so simple.
But, although out of the water,
and into the hands of a new morning
the fingers still curl around your neck,
and you realise
you’ve been holding your breath for a long time
and you’re still holding it
And you wonder
if you’ll ever breath again.

Two Galaxies Mixed Together and Created Spatial Warfare

What would happen if you took two galaxies and mixed them together?

Two galaxies merging and creating a partially blended mix of stars from each galaxy in the process. How stellar is that? It takes a million years for it to happen though.

When you look up at the sky at night, don’t you wonder if love uses the same logic that we named blunder. Stellar things take a million years and he waited for her for two! He wrote an entire book about falling in love with distant constellations and about how he would start with her all his conversations. Mocking his belief for the luminous dust, his heart was blamed for being silly about falling in love with a form of rust. All his writings had one thing in common. They were sad, but not in a way that will make your heart weep; it made you think what’s wrong with this guy, what does he grieve? The greatest tragedy of his love was that it held him to a ransom, for someone who wouldn’t save him even at random. Knowing this broke his heart, one thousand thousand chips more than the bursts of the galaxies in parts. And he used every shard he had to rip open anyone who tried to love him again. That’s the trouble with the ‘Big Bang’, we never saw when one universe started by ending another. There’s always a storm of rupture creating cosmic dust so he avoided the bruises that love cast upon him and started the warfare.

In the afterglow of the ‘Big Bang’, gravitational waves and magnetic theories, she showed up to each one of the wars and wore the scars as proof like poetry. She showed up. She didn’t get thrown to the space wolves simply to forget that she was an alpha that wrote the omega. And this is why she showed up, to life with him.

Through the glass she looked


She was the innocent child thrown out to the wolves and learnt to crave his knife to lead the pack instead. Adventure was her snowflake that beckoned her to come out and play. Through the looking glass at the end of the tunnel she stood; taking her breath away was the last thing on his mind. She was never his or her own. She belonged to something far too unknown. She detested recycled stories of boy-meets-girl. Yet, she got entangled in his dream catcher and all she could do was stare. Weak men ran away from her cause they lacked the strength to fix the broken. He was a fixer and knew exactly how many and where the stitches go!

The Sorry Umbrella


He held up an umbrella,
while the winds howled her name.
Whispers at the corner of his lobes,
sinked him further into its circular shape.
Her silhouette mirages beneath the stairs,
his imagination strikes down like lightning,
breaking everything in sight.
He stood under his umbrella safe and dry,
while the rains poured,
and heavens broke down and cried on his behalf.
His love was made of mistakes,
his love was made to be a crime,
they forced him to wash his hands after he touched her,
threatened him with fear of divine.
He was a sorry umbrella cold as the wet night,
tired of being tossed around by the harsh winds.
Wind rushed, trees swayed, recklessness filled the air,
he lifted himself thirty feet off the ground,
the bridge tried to cling onto to him,
but he let go.
Alone floated the umbrella on the wild waters.