as I peer into

a distance,

not yet microscopic or

drifting at a speed

too swift; the

spaces between

loosely woven bundles,

are gathering.

as they churn and

roll into each other, their

gaps at once, faint

lines; seamless.

moon tales

it was a little before 11.38 pm, on a saturday night i should have been tucked beneath my covers in preparation for an early rising. i stood before the wooden arched window frame, lining the concrete walls around our kitchen sink. gently tapping my supplements from the bottle and into my palm, i moved across tiles in search for a glass of water.

behind the peeling frames, was a faint glimmer of something bright. this caught my eye upon looking up and around whilst gulping down swallows of fluid. mistaking it at first, for a street lamp, awkwardly and placed at random; it took me a little longer than it should have, to discover that this was indeed our moon.

certainly, a remarkable beauty. it’s glow radiating in soft circles across our night sky. i felt warm and encouraged, at the sight and experience of having seen a tiny bright, shimmer amidst such dark, indigo planes. it was nothing like a sparkle, nor did the sky appear to be set on fire; it was a simple, ever so common sighting. there was nothing extravagant, nor peculiar about it.

perhaps it’s unexpected appearance had propelled the essence of what had occurred before me. the value of a light no matter how microscopic, amidst vast darkness; dense and heavy was something to be thankful for. the purpose of this light, was simply to offer light unto the earth; first beginning with it’s home up in our night sky.

the moon continued to sit in stillness, despite knowing of it’s setting in a mere few hours. it was there to just be, for these few moments, and for this present one – now.



shambled paths

concern yourself not,

with the achievements;

of others

mind not their,


their belongings, their

materials –

for we, all

thread paths, once ruined

in some unformed, shamble

forked – but

with less direction, than

the other




spiral of self care

An unresolved desire, resides deep within the soul of humanity. We all possess an incessant yearning, to not go unnoticed – a space carved in our silhouettes, beneath a streak of light – for us to occupy. We hunger, to be heard. In hope that our struggles with not be overlooked, our achievements be celebrated, and the raw honesty of our characters; cherished. Our true nature, to be coddled like sweet treasure.

Some bask in the comfort and beauty of the solitude self. These of which, are often simply split seconds, lost in time, or we are never truly alone. Although there may not be a physical companion in sight, or surrounding – we fall readily, into the open arms of books, knitting yarns, billowy pillows for afternoon naps. Companionship is often disguised as hobbies we enjoy, our favourite foreign film, a brisk walk amongst withering plants; and a small, quietly running stream. Listen.

Silent beauty, surrounds us. And this is how, we trample carelessly, into love for all around us; and in that, reentering the spiral of caring for oneself…

mind’s eye

A deep slumber, is not necessarily a restful one. Eyelids, warm and soft; slip into silence. There is the cricketing of night insects; mild but wild. drips of moisture, hitting the tin roof at unsettling intervals.

The night body, stores beyond a day’s worth of weight. Both mind and body alike, are known for their abilities to store and hoard. Latching it’s grip unto any memory the mind subconsciously hurls towards it. In a similar manner, our physical bodies, store energy and fluids – these of which, are advantageous to ourselves. Furthermore, this process is a necessary biological compulsion.

I am intrigued with how the human mind processes thought and memory. The connection between how a singular thought is translated and stored in our memory box, has baffled me for the longest time. Despite reading up on the medical scientific explanations behind this, I am certain there are more empathetic views on these theories.

Our minds, are such powerful tools for transformation.

In future writings, I hope to reflect more upon these issues. While referencing incidents from daily living. Perhaps, reawakening myself to the fragility of memory, in time and space.

lessons from the sky

the night before last, the skies embraced evening in a peculiar manner. there was not a gradual gradient to be seen, of light slipping under the covers of musky clouds. the disappearance was sudden; like a flash of lightning before our eyes. it was here, and then it was gone. perhaps it did not take place when we were looking. maybe in between the blink of an eye, the setting found a swift pace. hence it’s mode of vanishing was all the more made, unexpected.

the sea of sky above me, veiled with deep tones of navy. shifting into darker hues tinted indigo, clouds brushed against one another; with a certain wonder and gentleness i wished to attain. reflecting upon their passing. rolling by ever so slowly but nonetheless; moving.

in this journey of continuous learning and growing; there are ways in which these lessons find us, and too, how we seek them out. it is often very difficult, to remain aware and present; realizing that each passing moment does in fact, want to share their stories with us. what makes us difficult to relate, is perhaps our stance in all of this. it isn’t at all logical to compare a human being with the natural force of nature, is it? Sensibly speaking, it isn’t at all. but here’s just a fraction of what i think, tonight…

I think, there is an intention for the things placed before us. what we observe, why we bear witness to these incidence;  why they find the right to ingrain themselves within our thoughts – there is a purpose, and i don’t suppose these are whisked into existence upon mere coincidence.

perhaps at times, it is because we find a missing bit of ourselves, within these occurrences.

ps: more shall be explored on this in coming writings…

embracing sharp edges

How, does one commit entirely to an attempt at holding true to oneself?

Is one required to possess certain traits, or maintain a character made of steel – an empathetic heart, and giving ear, compassionate all year round, no matter the season. call me a cynic, but – who am i kidding here?

Our concept of perfection is simply an idealistic one. Perfection is an illusion, we’re fixated on achieving. It’s a path, we feel we’re damned to tread. Building barriers while pressing of specific characteristics an ideal person must encompass.

We are difficult and hard on ourselves; and others. Constructing often unreasonable pedestals; building hope and misunderstood expectations upon situations and circumstance. We believe, in order to be joy giving, hope bearing, one must be free from any gut-wrenching negativity. We deceive ourselves into believing, we need to be completely pure. void of misery, in fear it will breed like wildfire; one we have no way of putting out.

While we yearn to be surrounded by good will and fairy dust – yet none of us truly are; not all the time at least. Not beyond closed doors, nor under our doonas where be hide, afraid of judgment and criticism. We can’t possibly be, all rounders, with our edges filed down from causing any hurt. and that is what humanity is. Perhaps, even what being human is essentially about.

The dark and gritty corners, no fingers wish to graze. The rough, uneven patches of wet gravel. These wounds, brimming with yellow-green pus, and itching with dried scabs flaking upon any physical contact.

It is vulnerability, and openness.

No matter how crooked, awkward or unconventionally flawed.


While catching a glance at the reflection of my neighbor’s window panes; discovering the shape of clouds are curling their corners and have found the riptide of the wind. They catch on, from the underside and there; they begin their ride through this urbanized city scape.

It is not not an uncommon sight. there is nothing particularly poetic about the appearance of these clouds. Neither was their moving on, something more magical than the ones that rolled by, minutes or hours before.

Where i found magic, was in simply observing it. This mundane activity, that takes place every waking moment; is so often left unrealized.

For those few, short moments, i was aware and awake. watching the trembling of their frail edges, throb at the slightest waft. They caught light, at different angles. Staining these grey blue skies, with soft droplets of organic shapes.

These clouds, carried with their moving, more than what met my eye;

a bird, a dove,

condensed water,

light –


grace of swans

choose to exist in the eye of a storm. close shut your eyes, as all that surrounds you spirals upwards, and speckles towards the ground. violently and then rapidly. it startles parts of you, now outside your skin.

you will learn to know them again.

although they will fit a little loosely when you next try to piece them into you.

tint your mind in reminder with the grace of black swans, elegant in a wintering lake; hold close to that image of them swirling around darkening depths. rings of water form around their feet, as they paddle while immersed.

this is how they will keep themselves afloat,

and so you too

must/ should



downward / inward

this is a moment outside of yourself.

your gasp for air is shallow, and only tiny bubbles of living pass through into your lungs. seconds are split into fragments that race past faster than the sound of light. find your breath; return to your center. if not, then; what?

there is no rhyme to this reason. it was never needed, but we did it anyway. our superiority swelled our heads larger-

as it welled with arrogance and despise.

a desire to understand the other, remains unguarded. a far cry from now. distorted perceptions are strewn all around, carelessly. they have been neglected under the immense pressure of our actions.

this is what suppression induces; hammering inward, forcing into –

all this, pushing

through, sliding beneath,

sweeping under;

pretense; the clock carries it’s heavy hand over

and we are still at it;

picking at this skeleton

that had long, left

the soul