In my life,
Words got silent,
But some word level,
Will be able,
To define the globe,
That's the only reason,
Alive in this hope...
#thought #reason #life

These silent breeze,
Give the spring to freeze...
Whatever the cost,
But once again,
Take me in childhood, who lost...
"Man"
#significance #childhood #spring

Reasons to make a shout,
Exactly, I'm thinking about.
But, don't have a morn,
Without a deep sleep...
So, I take pills,
And sleep deeply...
#thought #reason #sleep

These winds of memories,
Having lived, through some fairies ...
My world belongs to "you"
But the world has comes * out…
"Man"
#Thought #world #life #you&me

The night still waits for,
****** moon, A drunk car
Coming soon, Uncertain star
Take away— So far, So far...
#thought

A soul of "happiness" never been more than "appearance" it's just about anything to be "disappointed" with a "consumer_orders" from your days,
maybe...,
It is just make about to get the start to "resources" for "distribute" the unknown ways....
#thought #appearance #happiness

A love that never got true,
A fear that never goes false.
I just extend in his existence,
Raised simply calms with aftercalls.
#thought #extend #existence #aftercalls

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

When I through
The Words on the people
People gonna be confused.

If, I those Words
Inaugurate on me
Words are getting abused.
#thought

"...🌻..."
Please...,
Don't look for me like that way.
being a sunflower...,
You spoiled me with these passing days.
#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

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

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

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

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

✦The Revision Begins

The house didn’t creak anymore.
It listened.

Every floorboard,
every doorknob,
every window pane—
they held their breath
as she read the sentence again.

She whispered it aloud.
And somewhere,
something changed.

The mirror in the hallway blurred.
Not fogged—blurred.
Like someone had smudged the image
with an eraser meant for dreams.

She stared into it.
Not at herself—
but at the edges.

Behind her,
the hallway stretched longer
than the house should allow.
Three more doors
than she remembered.

One of them
was open.

She took the journal with her.
Not for comfort.
But because it pulsed now—
as if the pages
were breathing.

Each step toward the door
felt like a footnote
she was only beginning to understand

On the other side:
a study that had never existed.
Books she’d never read
but somehow recognized.
A cup of tea, still steaming.

And on the desk—
The Story script.

Its title:
Elsewhere Draft: For Her.

She opened to the first page.

The words were hers.
But she had never written them.
#thought

✦Between the Lines

The next morning,
she returned before the others.
The journal was where she left it—
but something felt different.

No wind had blown it open.
No hands had turned the page.
But another indentation was there—fainter,
as if pressed in a dream.

She ran her fingers gently across it,
letting the words rise in her mind
like breath on glass.

She whispered the line aloud
as if it might summon him—
not as a ghost,
but as a revision.
An edit not yet finalized.

That night she dreamed of him.
But he was not how she remembered—
he spoke in footnotes,
walked through places that didn’t exist
in the world she knew.

She woke with ink on her palm.
No pen near.
No one else in the house.

The journal remained closed.
But now, she didn’t dare open it.
Not yet.

Because part of her believed
he was still writing—
not from the grave,
but from the margins of whatever reality
had failed to contain him.
#thought

✦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 Elsewhere Draft: For Her.

The first word was hers.
The second was his.
And with the third,
she was no longer sure
who was writing whom.

She read it out loud,
letting the unfamiliarity twist her tongue
like it belonged to a time before.
Before she even knew his story.
Before she knew hers.

It didn’t stop.
The page turned,
but the ink never dried.
Each sentence dissolved
into the next,
erasing what came before.

It was both hers and not hers—
a story that had been written for her
but wasn’t yet hers to claim.

She turned the page again.
And with it,
she felt the room shift.
Not in space—
but in time.

The walls seemed to recede,
and yet—
they weren’t gone.
They were simply rearranged.

And there he was.
Not in the room—
not in the way she remembered—
but in The Story script,
his voice faint but undeniable.

She shut the book.
No longer afraid.
But no longer certain.
The story had already moved
beyond where she had expected it to go.

She wasn’t just reading anymore.
She wasn’t just revising.
She was rewriting the space between them.

"I wrote you in because you were never meant to be an observer."
#thought

✦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

✦The Quiet Pull

She stood at the edge of the room
like someone visiting a memory
they weren’t sure they were allowed to keep.

The journal sat where it always had.
Nothing had changed—
and yet,
everything had.

Since the dream,
she’d felt a pressure.
Not grief exactly—
grief was loud.
This was quiet, constant,
like the hush before a line is spoken
on a stage not yet lit.

She reached for it once.
Stopped.

There was a fear in her—not of death,
but of being read.
As if the moment she touched the journal,
he might see her
too clearly.

What would he find?
A woman still frozen at the door.
A heart not broken,
but suspended—
midbeat, midgrief, midline.

She finally opened it.
Not quickly,
not dramatically.
Like one opens an envelope
they never expected to arrive.

And there—beneath the faint ghost
of the sentence she’d seen before—
was another.
New. Still indenting.
Still warm.

She closed the journal
as the wind moved through the house.
But the air didn’t feel cold.
It felt… unfinished.

And she wasn’t afraid anymore.
#thought

✦The Elsewhere Draft

It isn’t death.
Not in the way they told stories of it.
There are no tunnels, no lights,
no ledger of sins.

There is only this—
an unfinished page
floating between versions
of a world that never quite agreed on him.

He exists now
in the folds between edits,
in the italics no one remembers writing.

The clocks here don’t tick.
They hesitate.
The air tastes of typewriter ribbon,
dusty and old and waiting.

He’s tried to rewrite himself.
He’s left messages—
on paper, in dreams, in the weight of silence.
But stories are stubborn.
They follow the first draft
like it’s law.

And yet—
someone heard him.

A fingertip
brushed his absence
and read it like Braille.

She.

She is not like the others.
She feels the narrative bending,
even as the others stay inside the safe plotlines.

He watches.
Or rather—he is watched
by the idea of her.
Somewhere in her world,
his journal still waits to be opened.

He doesn’t know what happens
if she turns the next page.

But if she doesn’t,
he may remain here forever:
a sentence misplaced,
a man lost
between revisions.
#thought

✦The Rewriting

She had expected the story to stop at some point.
But it didn’t.
It only multiplied.

With every turn of the page,
she saw the world reshape itself.
The walls that once surrounded her—
the ones she knew by heart—
shifted in her peripheral vision,
as though they were not walls at all,
but thoughts held in place by gravity.

She read on.
And she realized—
she was no longer in the room
she thought she was in.
The book was now the room.
The words were walls,
furniture,
the air between them.

“The choices you make write the door.
You are no longer entering.
You are creating it.”

It was almost like breathing,
this new act of creation.
Each sentence she read
dissolved into the next,
and with it, she felt herself
becoming something else—
someone else.

The edges of her own name
blurred,
became vague
as if it had been written
with water.

“This is not the end,”
he whispered from the pages,
his voice a ripple in the air.
“You have always been here,
but you’ve never seen this place until now.”

She closed her eyes
and felt the world continue to write itself.
The journal was no longer just ink.
It was a map—
and every choice she made
shifted the coordinates.
When she opened her eyes again,
the room had become a mirror.
A thousand versions of herself
watched from behind the glass.

She was both the writer
and the story.
She was both the beginning and the end.
And the only question left:
Was she writing this world—or living in it?
#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.

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

Earlier the scriptures were weak, but the humans were strong,
Now the weapon is so strong, and the person is so weak.

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

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

I try, but didn't cry,
Tell a truth, to a lie.
Not again wanna fly,
Why not try to the die?

Peace of my mind,
Blinking on same side.
Through the high jump,
Time to make a suicide.
#thought #mind #peace #time

To save me, is me, as me
And I was the reason,
I'm lost in the first place.
Which happens, to be like this,
And the bottle filled with pills...
#thought

I'm the happiest person in this world,  "Cause; I sound sad"...!
#thought #person #sound #sad

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