•May 22, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Some breath into the moon, and 

tying a knot, he hands me luna on a 

thread of light. 

Oh you’re wonderful! How do I 

digest this light? (I am light, I am 

light..)

You may say so but I’m not the only 

one. I’m your mirror (and you’re 

mine)

So, what does it say? 

The stars blind us into stumbling 

and any large body of water has us

crum

bl

i

n

g

but whoosh, and I’m one and I’m all

and I’m one and I’m all and..

so it goes, every night I sit and sink 

into what used to be a deep abyss. I 

am now staring at a stunning 

picture, I have no urge to define it.

– come exist with me. 

The most beautiful mess 

•May 21, 2017 • Leave a Comment

People who don’t know any better wonder how I smile, how I can hold a friend’s hand at the altar and believe in love, believe in it birthing stars and spirals. Apparently, my life – ‘What would you even call this mess?’ 

I’m asked how I still believe, how I get myself to put flowers in my hair, make it out the door, see myself as desirable, see myself as worthy of being loved, when, ‘let’s face it’, my own life – ‘What would you even call this mess?’

And yes I feel a little crippled without my usual ammunition, my usual shield. I am without word or paper or ink or fire. You ask me what I would call this mess and I literally just say, a beautiful life. But I know you see the hint of glint in my eyes when I say that. I know that stone-hard-flint-of-a-human-moment sits triumphant in your human eyes, and sends me five steps backwards into my inner spiral. But guess what? I always find debris left behind that I should have cleaned up a long time ago, so I should thank you. Because it’s a beautiful life, however I think about it. 

But the point is, yes, if you ask me to draw my dreams, there will be a silhouette I outline in blue glitter, but that doesn’t mean I won’t color my own eyes or outline my big big open heart with love too. Why can’t I love two as one?

It’s fascinating really. If I look over my shoulder, I can barely see the outline of my childhood nest – the place I used to hang my little trinket dreams and bury my heavy, old woes. But I would be lying if I said I don’t hear them calling feebly during some moments. Sometimes to help, sometimes to remind. But even if I turn and listen, even if I turn and gaze at the nest, nothing makes me want to retrace my steps. 

Onwards and upwards, go. 

I have no space for fear at this point because it would only tip my boat over. I may not see any outlines of land, but the wind is great and the sun is gorgeous, and I have me to talk to. 

If and when I feel Fear run its nails down my back, I instinctively remind myself of the warmth and sukoon of my glitter silhouette and everything he unknowingly taught me about feeling at home. 

So, to sum this mess up, it’s a beautiful life. And I wouldn’t want to learn any other way. Who are you trying to scare with vague, recycled, projected ideas of suffering? Why? Come, now. Give this up. And before you ask me how I still have ‘silly’ hopes and dreams, I would say, ask Love how it can be so unconditional and crazy and ecstatic. Hehe. Mujhe merey haal pe chor do ⭐️

•May 19, 2017 • Leave a Comment

You can’t stop a lover from lovin’ ⭐️

•May 19, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Hi, love ☀️

•May 18, 2017 • Leave a Comment

..no one sings like you (anymore)

•May 16, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I used to wish my words would obscure rather than reveal. 

I used to foolishly believe that weaving words into pretty veils for my soul would always be my ultimate deliverance, the best kind of catharsis. 

It took me this long to finally know for sure: we communicate in a language which is far older than words. 

•May 16, 2017 • Leave a Comment

She talks in lightcodes and numbers, stars and synchronicity. She may not remember what you wore last week, but no one can make her forget the little stories you’ve told her.