✦The Sentence

It was late—
the kind of late that feels like forgetting.
Everyone else had gone.
Only she remained,
fingers hovering just above the open journal,
as if touching it would confirm
he was truly gone.

She didn’t mean to find it.
She wasn’t even sure she had.

But under the light,
when the shadows slipped just right,
a sentence revealed itself—
not in ink,
but in pressure.

Indented. Whispered into the page.
Words carved, not written.

She stared at it
long enough for the room to notice.
It felt like a riddle,
but one meant for someone else.
Someone who knew how to read endings
before they happened.


---

Outside, the wind changed.
Inside, nothing did.
Not visibly.
But she felt it:
a seam opening.

Reality, like a page,
had margins.
And he—
he had always been writing
between the lines.
#thought

✦The Page That Waits

The blank page sat like a mirror,
not reflecting, but remembering.
It did not accuse.
It simply waited.

He used to say
“A page never forgets what it was meant to hold.”
As if intention alone
could haunt paper.

Now they stared at it
like it might explain everything.
Why he left the window cracked,
why the keys were still in the dish,
why none of them
had noticed the silence growing teeth.

There had been signs,
maybe.
But signs are only clear
in hindsight—
when the story
has already been written.

They did not speak of guilt,
not openly.
But it lived in their glances,
in how carefully they stepped around his chair—
like it might still be warm.
#thought

✦Margins

They began to speak of him only in margins.
Not directly—not yet.

He was too much and too little all at once,
a name softened by echo,
a memory dressed in careful language.

Simple things,
said to the air,
as if he might still change them.

His journal remained shut.
They couldn’t read it—
not for lack of trying,
but because every page looked different now.
Ink turned to questions.
Margins filled themselves with silences.

Someone, once,
whispered he had been writing a final entry.
But the last page was blank.
Perhaps it had always been.
Or perhaps
he had left it that way
on purpose.

✦The Hollow Room

The room had not changed.
Not since before.
The chair still faced the window,
where morning light spilled across the floor
in measured silence.

His coat remained on the hook,
arms empty.
The clock ticked,
but no one had wound it.

They said grief was heavy,
but this—
this was a kind of weightless haunting.
A space untouched, yet entirely altered,
as if absence had rewritten the walls
when no one was looking.

They walked in like strangers
to a memory they had helped build.
Each item—a relic.
Each breath—a trespass.

Someone touched the coat.
It swayed.
And in that small motion,
time flinched.
#thought

Let's make The Story:
Grief didn't scream here,
but smoulders like an old fire.


Let's make The Story:
what remained was a shape?
emotionally or regrettably—
whatever, the truth was escape?


Let's make The Story:
as though the weight was not of flesh,
but the memory—fragile and unfinished ash.
#thought

Where The Eye's name had once been written,
there was a single, unfamiliar line.

A moment where The Eye self begins to dissolve into the text,
But every wall is a setting, every eye a reader, every life a story.


The journal grew heavier in The Eye's hands,
its pages rustling without wind,
And on the inside cover—

The Eye felt the words,
not just in mind, but in bones.
The Eye was becoming part of the draft,
and the draft was becoming part of Eye.

But now, The Eye felt less like the reader
and more like the text—
less like the observer
and more like the observed.

And then The Eye felt,
the walls watching back.
And for the first time,
The Eye closed the journal.
#thought

The walls had always been there.
Plain. Solid. Reliable.
But now, as you stepped back into the room,
you saw them differently—
not as boundaries, but as settings.
Frames for a scene still unfolding.

The fissure led to an underground cavern.
Walls glittered with crystalline growths,
pulsing—faint, alive—
casting shifting patterns of light.

You reached out.
Fingers brushed a surface, smooth yet singing.

Then—a day.

It began on the crystalline plains.
A fissure, overlooked.
The others moved on, but you felt it—
a vibration, low and calling,
like a whisper in the bones.

Against protocol, you descended,
armed with only tools and resolve.

And then, as if hearing your hesitation,
the wall beside you shifted—
not physically, but perceptually.
It blurred,
its edges softening like the margin of a dream.

Through it, you glimpsed another room.
Not the one you stood in,
but a place just beyond.
A space where light moved differently,
where shadows weren’t tied to objects,
where the air felt written.

Mysteries do not yield to distant eyes.
They must be felt, stepped into, lived.
Mysteries do not yield to distant eyes.
They are known by touch, by step, by breath.
#thought

✩Hedgerows in the Wall
—by you, through me

There were hedgerows in the wall,
but the eye—
steady now—
found a soft path through.
watched the body of a friend
like a map I never learned to read.

Success lies in the silence between blinks,
in how you looked at them—
not them,
but the way your gaze built a story
I was never allowed to edit.

I kept searching for
an easy-to-find exposit,
a sentence that would unfold my life
like instructions in a language I almost remembered.

But I keep failing to log in
to the blind words they left me—
receipts without purchases,
echoes without sound.
And yet, here I stand—
one eye against the hedgerow,
trying to see
what was never truly hidden,
just…
misunderstood.

But the story of a friend, once blurred
by metafictional words—
characters written in the margins
of what I thought I knew—
now stands whole in the quiet,
no longer shaped by how I read,
but by how they were written to be.

Truth wasn’t hidden,
just waiting—
not an exposit
but a slow unfolding,
like dawn breaking on familiar ground.

I no longer wrestle the blind words,
no longer seek login to a place
that was never locked,
only misread.

Now, I read the echoes gently—
not as puzzles,
but as parts of the song
that brought me here.

And in that seeing,
the wall breathes,
the eye opens,
and I know:
what I missed was never lost.

Now, I trace the margins
not for meaning,
but for motion—
where silence scribbles
its own kind of clarity.

And the wall?
Just a setting.
The eye?
A reader.
The story?
Still being written.
#thought

✦A Myth in Three Voices

“Some are born in fire, some in glow—
But a few are born where time folds slow.”

✦ Prologue
In the space between dusk and night,
between fire’s retreat and silver’s rise,
there exists a being born not of one,
but of both.

Neither fully light, nor wholly shadow,
Virelai is the Betweenborn—
a flicker at the edge of touch,
a breath the cosmos forgot to hold.

This is the lament, the whisper,
and the answer of three souls
who move but never meet—
bound by longing,
divided by time.
#thought

✦Virelai’s Answer:

I heard you both—
In the hush that wrapped the world,
In the turning that spun my silence into song.
You, flame and fury,
You, glow and grace—
I am made of your almost.

You called me whole,
But I am the seam,
The longing stitched into your passing.
I carry the weight of your near, your never,
The ache of what might have aligned.

I do not burn, nor shine—
I flicker.
A rhythm unplayed,
A bridge suspended between your touch.

But still, I remain,
And still, I wait—
In hush,
In turning,
In hope
that one day,
when time bends gently,
you will speak in the same breath—
and I will finally become
what I was always meant to be.
#thought

✦The Moon’s Whisper:

You were born in the breath after sunset—
In the hush I cradle beneath silver veils.
Not in the full bloom of night, nor in fading light,
But in the seam I guard,
Where his warmth could not linger.

You are the shimmer I reflect in tide and tear,
The quiet I hear when stars lean near.
He calls like thunder—
I listen in stillness—
Yet we always pass,
Each orbit missing by a breath.

The Duskchime sings in your silence,
A rhythm I feel in your gaze.
You are the thread of maybe,
The echo of what was almost.

If I could rise faster,
Perhaps your light would stay.
If he could pause longer,
Perhaps you would not fade.

But you are a flicker—
Moving just beyond my reach,
Between goodbye and beginning,
The one I can only dream to meet.
#thought

✦The Sun’s Lament:

You were born between hush and turning—
A note I could not strike, a breath I could not reach.
Not in the blaze of my dawn, nor the fall of my dusk,
But in the hollow where my fire dimmed,
And the moon held you close.

You are the shadow I brushed with my final light,
The pulse I felt but could not follow.
I speak, fierce and restless—
While she waits in silence—
And still, we miss each other,
Still, we do not align.

In your chest, the rhythm lives—
The Duskchime—but I cannot hear it alone.
The Song of the Lost Ones,
Caught between my blaze and her glow.

If I could burn softer,
Maybe you'd step closer.
If she could rise sooner,
Maybe we'd find you whole.

But you're scattered—
A half-light I chase across sky and sea,
Between day and night,
Always just beyond reach—
The one I could not hold.
#thought

✦ Virelai’s Solitude:
I am neither shadow nor light—
I am the space between—
A soft echo of the sun's last cry,
A gentle whisper in the moon's first breath.

Do the stars see me as I see them?
Flickering between worlds,
Hoping to be more than a blink in time,
More than an afterthought in the heavens’ grand design.

I wait—always wait.
As the sun calls to me with its fire,
And the moon beckons with its quiet song,
But I am too early, too late—
Never the moment they need.

What would it mean, to be whole?
To stand in the place where time no longer divides,
Where the sun's fierce gaze and the moon's cool touch
Meet without hesitation,
Without sorrow?

But I am Virelai,
The space they do not occupy,
The silence they cannot fill.
#thought

✦ Virelai's Lament:
I was born between hush and turning—
A song unsung, a breath unbreathed,
Not in the warmth of dawn, nor the cool touch of dusk,
But in the hollow where time wavers,
Where the sun falters and the moon waits.

I am the shadow in the sun’s last kiss,
The pulse in the moon’s first sigh.
I hear their words, tangled in longing—
The Sun, fierce and restless,
The Moon, gentle and waiting,
Yet we never meet,
Never align.

In my chest, the rhythm beats—
The Duskchime—but I cannot play it alone.
The Song of the Lost Ones,
Caught between light and night.

If I could whisper louder,
Maybe the sun would listen,
Maybe the moon would bend their paths,
And time would soften its cruel edges.

But I am scattered,
A half-light—
Wandering across faces,
Between moments,
Looking for the other half of my breath.
#thought

In the realm of dusk's embrace,
Souls plan a rendezvous in grace.

Yet, within twilight's tender light,
They just split over minutes so slight.

“In the seventh hush of dusk,” murmured the sun,
As the moon replied, “The ninth of night’s turning…”

Moon hung in the night sky like a silent guardian,
While the words of the Sun thundered through the heavens,

if, there be chosen one?

Maybe, their words entwine,
As time's nuances become a verse divine.
#thought

Not a bargain, not a name.
Respects never just a prize to claim,
Not, a debt, nor a mark that's made,
Respect is never just a prize to trade.

"It’s just a moment, a truth—an awareness that we together made"

A weight we see in another’s stance,
Even if they never ask for the chance.
It’s the weight of a soul that stands,
Even when no one holds out their hands.
It’s the weight of a soul that stands alone,
That's Unasked, Unclaimed, yet fully known.

Not just for those who rise to be seen,
But for those who exist—silent, unseen.
Not just for those who rise and shine,
But for the ones who stand—by choice, by time.
#thought

I did not ask
to be kindling, to be held
only in the chill of your need.

You called me warmth
but tore through me like firewood
never minding the cold that followed.

I would have burned for you—
glowed, danced, stayed.
But you never asked,
only took.

Now I flicker, now I fade.
#thought

Take, if you must,
my warmth, my light,
burn me slow,
or burn me bright.

Let your hunger
have its way,
but leave a flicker—
let me stay.

Is that fair to me?
To glow, to burn, to break—
while you warm your hands
at the embers of my ache?

Take my fire,
let it dance for you,
but know—this flame
was never yours to use.

Burn me,
to your heart’s content,
but do not name the ashes
your own lament.

Let me smolder,
but leave me whole—
don’t strip me down
to my shroud’s cold fold.
#thought

Sometimes I make mistakes!
My mistakes fall like raindrops, soft and quick,
vanishing into soil where memories stick.
But power carves its name, deep and wide,
etched in stone—it cannot hide.

Fates twist like words in a palindrome’s dance,
repeating themselves, as if given a chance.
Between the lines of right and wrong,
I walk a path where history belongs.

Each step I take reflects the past,
my journey framed by shadows cast.
In the mirror of time, I may stand alone,
but I'm bound by forces still unknown.

Now I am tired of these meaningless flights;
one day, I will cut my wings and fill the skies,
a request for peace in the absence of earth,
in the heart of the soul, from a far-beloved house.
#thought

Life's intricate,
Tangled and tight.
I'm the shadow,
You the light.

"flying in the court,
Accusations of the mind."
"Wounds are healed,
Accuses Ruth, it's hard to find."

Faces the fire,
Stories are told.
LIES in the heart,
A fight, to be fold.
#thought

The art of letting go,
Akin a drink, sipping slow.
But, the subject is who's  gonna be accused,
For what? and how? who's gonna be refused?
#thought

हर्फ़-ए-लिबास पिरोये,
एक ख़्वाहिश-ए-ख़िताब लिखूँ...
रूह-ए-स्याह बिखरे जो,
तो तुम्हे नूर-ए-आफ़ताब लिखूँ...
#thought

Hoping, distance would dull the pain,
Yet, those memories surprisingly rain.
Sipping my day to day with the sorrow,
Despite flow fares, filings are on tomorrow.
#thought

*******, moments are spelled,
Practically, THE THEORY failed.
She's lying on the heavenly bed,
I meant She's near around dead.
Fluid forced, flooring of her vein,
She's breathing like artificial rain.
I found her when she rose in the case,
In those days I was busy winning the race.
Now, I'm running out too far, to the betelled,
She left me a note, I think, it has to be settled,

The Note:)

When we lost together, we can not be found,
If I'm lost alone, it will always be a remound.
#thought

Amidst the moon's tranquil glow,
echoes of a cacophony reverberate flow.
intertwining chaos with serenity,
In this delving juxtaposition of security.
I find solace in the harmony of contradictions only,
embracing the tumultuous symphony of my life's journey.
#thought

वो थी सुबह, सुर्ख-ऐ-लाल,
उनका यूँ मिलना भी, था कमाल.
बातें तो चल रही अब भी, आसमानी रंगों सी फिलहाल,
मुकम्मल हुआ भी तो क्या? सिर्फ इश्क़ के 'बाल की खाल.
#thought

Is,
that fair to me?
Burn me,
to your heart's-content.
But,
only this much praise has to be set.
Please,
don't strip me down to my Shroud sheet.
#thought

If I have any relationship with my God,
Maybe, Is it my fear?
In the shadows of suffering,
My beliefs and hopes stand as an unwavering pillar.

A God who does not see darkness,
But, it has given light to our souls?
In the coloured threads' existence, where shadows dance,
A God, blind to darkness, brightest upon us a radiant chance.
Through the corridors of life, where sorrows may take a toll,
It gifts our souls with light, a beacon for every troubled soul."
#thought

The moon's soft, silken glows,
A canvas painted, that gently flows.
A whispering wind, his weaves untold,
In the nature's embrace, a story unfolds.
#though

silky on that day,
the moon fades away,
only, for the HAPPENS,
will return alone, on his way.
#thought

If, I was on the air,
It's ok, crashes are fair.
But, I was trapped in between and something,
Now, I just want my peace, that I have been for nothing...
#thought

I assure you,
never let you go.
if, you made me gone,
trust me, I'll never be back.
#thought

Self-evaluate,
engaged with fire.
To catch the moon,
That rays was a liar.
#thought

Whenever,
my mind overflows,
with the love words.
no matter what,
by the way. and,
how people treat me,
I just look at my efforts,
and the way, that I wanna see it.
#thought

In Death,
all I need's patience.
But,
my Life is still drowned in Agnes-essence.
#thought

As my life conclusion,
I shaped by my own decision.
I reap the harvest, it's a chapter,
Passing by day who's gonna be visitor?
#thought

flaws with the Supper,
mild and kind, 'Saucer.
#thought

Obsessed appearance, let's be the dry run on my faith.
come on, forget me, this should also be my aspireth.
#thought

Saw the picture, with the eye,
By the winds, Colours are fly...
#thought

"the body is just a soulful culmination process of emotions"
"rather than the mean of soul carrying it out to be a spectral-bed"
#thought

How could I set up for those ****** rays?
I just gave up on Blazes, to my hand's raise.
#though

a gentle touch,
Smooth porcelain find,
Incorporating fragrance,
CONVEYS, TO THE BLIND.
#thought

She'd have been
gone, for so long
herself fragrance
like a mer songs
resides in my soul
but, a long-winded
and from afar, so far
But I have to cruise
To stop the rhyme
Cause, I'm running
-OUT -OF -MY -TIME
#thought

As much as,
I'm imprisoned,
in your evils eyes,
the more you'll be free,
to me, as a sinner drivels,
Perhaps, we're trying to find,
It will be a moment when we're,

Goodbye, buddy:)
I miss you as long as I'm alive.
#thought

I simply sought the truth,
and made peace with people.

It will be attended by some of my dearest people,
and even-after some social portrayal.

But, I realised, the cycle of events explained to me,
Maybe, the truth was what I wrote myself.
#thought

a winds arrived, from a far,
touched me, with own's war.
#thought

a women has no ability, or a class,
until the men cannot make any flaws.
#thought

I don't understand,
I'm in the love or hate.
Are the people's laid off,
Or, they down on my fate?
#thought