CROOKED


Room full of sharp mirrors
Thoughts bounce around in
Perpendicular slopes of contrast
One day you’re a hero, blasting misery
The next  a pathetic, strange avatar

Fuming, simmering in a broth
Yellow, black, bruising blue
I’ve sung my song with people
Twisted crazy in their webs of shame
Months on end of pulled strings
You’re everything we want to change”

When the mountain air was clean
I was hung up like washing out to dry
Worlds of words like flaming garlands
A conflagration of flashing memories
“You’re cheaper than a cheap, cheap perfume
Worn on darkly turning corner streets”

Curled, burnt, left bone dry
When the noises grew loud, I was held
By a dusty, ignored ceramic floor
Alone, while all the floors below creaked
With the sounds of bare or padded feet
“Turn over like a roasted chicken leg”

Swings, skyline, twinkling stars
Distant music. Strangers dreams hatched out of eggs
And took flights of fame. My claim
Limped to the finish line some how
Cowardly shrunk inside your hidey-hole, you.”

Poured soaring highs and burning lows
Into the laps of people  barely known
Comments caught like pearls in oyster
“Now I minutely see every one of your flaws”
In this culture of back-breaking, jerking calls
I’ve been growing my own gossamer wings.

I write because I have to let things out, but it’s not just for myself. There’s darkness everywhere. It descends slowly or grips you forever. You can’t always fight it but you can learn to live with it. We all do. Some toss word-paintings out into the universe.

1989- Review


One word- Polaroids! I’m loving the 80’s vibe that this album brings.

Gone is the twangy guitar and the Southern melodies though her voice still resonates with the remnants of that Nashville girl.

I’ve been a fan of Taylor Swift’s music since she broke on the map of sixteen-year olds with classics such as Love Story and White Horse. At the edges of my adolescence, there was Fearless, Teardrops on My Guitar, Dear John, Enchanted, Back to December. And then, at twenty (her twenty-two), she brought out Red which was full of crooning ballads and bitter confessionals- All to Well, Everything has Changed, Red, Come Back…Be Here, Treacherous, I Knew You Were Trouble, 22, The Last Time (And Never Ever Ever Ever Ever Ever, much to my horror).

Associating yourself to Taylor has seemed to mean being a die-hard romantic and giving your soul up to the devil because she’s thought to be too girly, too childish, too immature.

But they beat the princess-y fairy tales out of you, replace it with the kind of philosophy where you put up walls and turn guarded, sober, broken. And then they tell you you have grown up.

After shrieking Shake it Off from the rooftops- a license to BE yourself, Out of the Woods was a darkly upbeat song about a relationship falling apart even though “the monsters turned out to be just trees”. The sound is different but the voice is the same.

I was setting myself up for disappointment by this point. Songs like Welcome to New York and new Romantics just look like well-poised publicity stunts but like always, there is some beautiful music in the folds of 1989.

Why I am talking about this album though is because it has a sort of welcome-to-your-mid-twenties and to the grown-ups version of everything on the planet feels for me. This is really about growing up in a pop culture, with all its superficiality intact inside you and yet being in a conflict with yourself every minute along the way.

Granted that I heard Wildest Dreams (“Say you’ll remember me/Standing in a nice dress, staring at the sun set babe/ Red lips and rosy cheeks/Say you’ll see me again even if it’s just in your wildest dreams”) and for a moment wasn’t sure whether I was listening to Taylor Swift or Lana del Ray. And that Bad Blood is just a song about two girls whose friendship runs into a rut (the only song I cannot bear on this album). And that I Know Places seems to remind people of a Hunger Games- Lorde mash. But there are hidden gems here and the lyrics are haunting too.

In ‘Clean’, Taylor croons some of her most mature lines yet:

10 months sober, I must admit Just because you’re clean don’t mean you don’t miss it 10 months older I won’t give in Now that I’m clean I’m never gonna risk it The drought was the very worst When the flowers that we’d grown together died of thirst

This song is purgative and cleansing, much like Kelly Clarkson’s Sober or Hilary Duff’s ‘Come Clean’ which has a similar undercurrent, but it has a tone of regret at growing out of dreams and into the real world. ‘Blank Space’ is like a mockery at the world of flashing cameras and gossip columns.

Got a long list of ex-lovers They’ll tell you I’m insane ‘Cause you know I love the players And you love the game

You can’t be sure how much she alternates between sarcasm and truthful declarations in this song but when she sings, ‘So it’s gonna be forever or its gonna go down in flames’, you catch another glimpse of being a grown-up.

Another song about rushing romance under the eyes of the whole world is I Know Places. ‘Something happens when everybody finds out..Love’s a fragile little flame it can burn out.’ and ‘They are the hunters, we are the foxes’.

I love ‘All You Had to do was Stay’ (“People like you always want back the love they gave away/And people like me wanna believe you when you say you’ve changed”) and ‘This Love’ (“When you’re young, you just to run But you come back to what you need”), ‘Style’ falls a little behind with the ‘James Dean day-dream look in your eyes’.

There’s inventiveness here. Some room for wishful thinking and growth is always left of course. But between all the PR managing and careful product placement that ensures commercial success, I somehow always find a part of my voice with Taylor Swift and her girl-next-door-this-could-totally-be-happening-to-you music, my one and only self-admitted, mainstream country-turned-pop obsession.

The Carrier- A Dedication


To Reyhaneh Jabbari and every other woman treated thus.

Red, crimson, heated fingernails
Witness to a terrible monstrosity
Besotted by the hideous reality faced

Strange, vacant, dying eyes
Bought silence like a gravedigger’s wife
Unquestioning, unwomanly, incomplete

Charged beauty to a unreal court
Delicate woman parts, held in reverence
But beaten beneath the veil of a holy spirit

She stoically fell apart underneath layers
Stitched by nineteen years of love and faith
Now mingled with those piteous and hardened glances

Fallen women! Only they shall reap the sorrows
Men die in fame and glory; beckoned to the gilded halls
Of orgasmic, spastic, ripping kisses and tangled limbs

And she, like a creature barefoot made to crawl
Locks of silken smooth hair; a nakedness uncovered
Blinded by paternal, maternal meaningless, protective love

Shook adolescence out of her in a violent storm
Dead corpses linger for six years long, whispering
To a God who breathes through her rotting body

She wants to donate even that to the soulless, helpless world
For forgotten men and women crying decrepitude
On the fringes of poverty, injustice, filth

And for herself instead of choosing to welcome the devils
Hopes instead to meet them headlong in a duel somewhere else
Unfair, faithless; justice is not reaped. Not here. Nor there.

She waits- the carrier of beautiful thoughts and prayers.

Iran executed a woman in what has to have been an unfair trial. Six years of deathrow, a life snatched away. All for attempting to protect herself from rape. The contents of a letter she bequeathed to her mother are below. And I dedicate my poem above to her.

Dear Sholeh, today I learned that it is now my turn to face Qisas (the Iranian regime’s law of retribution). I am hurt as to why you did not let me know yourself that I have reached the last page of the book of my life. Don’t you think that I should know? You know how ashamed I am that you are sad. Why did you not take the chance for me to kiss your hand and that of dad?

The world allowed me to live for 19 years. That ominous night it was I that should have been killed. My body would have been thrown in some corner of the city, and after a few days, the police would have taken you to the coroner’s office to identify my body and there you would also learn that I had been raped as well. The murderer would have never been found since we don’t have their wealth and their power. Then you would have continued your life suffering and ashamed, and a few years later you would have died of this suffering and that would have been that.

However, with that cursed blow the story changed. My body was not thrown aside, but into the grave of Evin Prison and its solitary wards, and now the grave-like prison of Shahr-e Ray. But give in to the fate and don’t complain. You know better that death is not the end of life.

You taught me that one comes to this world to gain an experience and learn a lesson and with each birth a responsibility is put on one’s shoulder. I learned that sometimes one has to fight. I do remember when you told me that the carriage man protested the man who was flogging me, but the flogger hit the lash on his head and face that ultimately led to his death. You told me that for creating a value one should persevere even if one dies.

You taught us that as we go to school one should be a lady in face of the quarrels and complaints. Do you remember how much you underlined the way we behave? Your experience was incorrect. When this incident happened, my teachings did not help me. Being presented in court made me appear as a cold-blooded murderer and a ruthless criminal. I shed no tears. I did not beg. I did not cry my head off since I trusted the law.

But I was charged with being indifferent in face of a crime. You see, I didn’t even kill the mosquitoes and I threw away the cockroaches by taking them by their antennas. Now I have become a premeditated murderer. My treatment of the animals was interpreted as being inclined to be a boy and the judge didn’t even trouble himself to look at the fact that at the time of the incident I had long and polished nails.

How optimistic was he who expected justice from the judges! He never questioned the fact that my hands are not coarse like those of a sportswoman, especially a boxer. And this country that you planted its love in me never wanted me and no one supported me when under the blows of the interrogator I was crying out and I was hearing the most vulgar terms. When I shed the last sign of beauty from myself by shaving my hair I was rewarded: 11 days in solitary.

Dear Sholeh, don’t cry for what you are hearing. On the first day that in the police office an old unmarried agent hurt me for my nails I understood that beauty is not looked for in this era. The beauty of looks, beauty of thoughts and wishes, a beautiful handwriting, beauty of the eyes and vision, and even beauty of a nice voice.

My dear mother, my ideology has changed and you are not responsible for it. My words are unending and I gave it all to someone so that when I am executed without your presence and knowledge, it would be given to you. I left you much handwritten material as my heritage.

However, before my death I want something from you, that you have to provide for me with all your might and in any way that you can. In fact this is the only thing I want from this world, this country and you. I know you need time for this. Therefore, I am telling you part of my will sooner. Please don’t cry and listen. I want you to go to the court and tell them my request. I cannot write such a letter from inside the prison that would be approved by the head of prison; so once again you have to suffer because of me. It is the only thing that if even you beg for it I would not become upset although I have told you many times not to beg to save me from being executed.

My kind mother, dear Sholeh, the one more dear to me than my life, I don’t want to rot under the soil. I don’t want my eye or my young heart to turn into dust. Beg so that it is arranged that as soon as I am hanged my heart, kidney, eye, bones and anything that can be transplanted be taken away from my body and given to someone who needs them as a gift. I don’t want the recipient know my name, buy me a bouquet, or even pray for me. I am telling you from the bottom of my heart that I don’t want to have a grave for you to come and mourn there and suffer. I don’t want you to wear black clothing for me. Do your best to forget my difficult days. Give me to the wind to take away.

The world did not love us. It did not want my fate. And now I am giving in to it and embrace the death. Because in the court of God I will charge the inspectors, I will charge inspector Shamlou, I will charge judge, and the judges of country’s Supreme Court that beat me up when I was awake and did not refrain from harassing me. In the court of the creator I will charge Dr. Farvandi, I will charge Qassem Shabani and all those that out of ignorance or with their lies wronged me and trampled on my rights and didn’t pay heed to the fact that sometimes what appears as reality is different from it.

Dear soft-hearted Sholeh, in the other world it is you and me who are the accusers and others who are the accused. Let’s see what God wants. I wanted to embrace you until I die. I love you.

The Air from the Mountains


Long winding mountain road
Colours of summer and snow
Cooled besides the lazy fire
You teach me of my willowy desire

Snapping twigs and dry browning leaves
Crackling on an autumn of numbed memories
I sat in a flat, sunken bowl
watch blue-gray smoke twirl an upward dance

Thinking ‘Oh sickly sweet valley! You are impregnated
With a cancerous growth upon your smooth skin’
I dream of travels in the fresh-clear-cool-trickling stream
Carrying glacial whispers through rocks and pebbles

No longer does the valley with it’s strange stories
-It’s heart full of terrifyingly impersonal family ties
It’s sappy, soppy awkward midday awakenings-
Declare itself my home on a dark, stormy night

And the mountains scorn me, mocking from afar
‘You are tumultuous’, they tell me, ‘Riding on a swing
You sold your soul to the unknown, alternately wet and dry
Sticking with the sweet salt of our air-borne tears’

I cannot call them home again- perhaps I never could
My gypsy heart is tangled in a long-term relationship
With fast-flying, heart-thumping, magical transformations
The blurb of my short, hazy life would read thus

But on days of consuming this slow, sunny routine
(I swallow it in one gulp- knives and crinkled paper down my throat)
I wonder about the indigo-bruised cloud flitting on a canvas
Blocked with white-grey-brown rising mountains

And cars too slow on deep, stretching, sloping rains
Heart-in-mouth as we rise to the top of the mountain fist
And a shocking retreat through mazes of brown, mischievous monkeys
Marveling forever at the locals with their hardened sticks

And the heat is beaten out of me- wooden floors, woolen socks
Sitting on large, cold, unfriendly seats
Water trickling down pressed-together thighs
Warmth spirited away through a peeping wind (just stopping for hello!)

And the quilts are too thin-too darn fine
In this strange, crazy, rough visit of a town
A little part of me does swim in the calls of cold
The dreams of winter, the dust of a short-ended romance

I still long for a sister-outcrop to call me
Be sorrowfully silent in your retorts- I’ll find
Another dreary summer retreat someday in the future
Or return to the air from the mountains up above.

Of Lost Meanings


Walking down
The caustic line
of humans and beasts
I paused
At the inception of a project
May I call you that?
Or perhaps it has just been a game
Of telephone with cups and a string

Summer buds bloom
And darken by the autumn winds
So it feels we will be too-
Fallen on a roadside alley
I’m homeless now
I search through things we keep throwing away
Bits of glass and paper
And a kaleidoscope of interesting conversations

Somehow, as we have danced
Between comebacks and honest-to-God declarations
I understood a secret-
I was always an orphan
I never knew it, running
Between people
With my stomach turning

I feel kind of liberated and scared
Monsters recede for now and I
Try to tell you all about them
Through little snippets of careless words
You will be gone with next year’s rain
This time I won’t trip on my umbrella
On my way out the door
I’ll carry it into the downpour instead-
I know I’ll be part of things again
But I’ll never be a part of you.

Queen’s Step-Well (Rani ni Vav)


Pale blue October sky

Dancing figurines
Yellow-brown
Turning sun
Lithe bodies coil
Unabashed twists
Like dusky serpents
Awakening to lost music
Yellow-on-yellow
With the sun’s slant

A woman’s cry
From the throws of
History’s sleepy hollow
Step-by-step
A subtle dream grew
Into a quiet memento
With the lilting tune of
Familiar places. Unfamiliar settings
Leading to the murky depths
Of silver-water forms
Rising softly under the folds
Of a thirsty land

A thousand years
Of grit and grain
And today the ruins arise
Under palpable titles-
Past memories reborn
Evoking passionate glances
At carved images
Breasts and vulva
On sallow skin
Men crushed underfoot
Powerful kings
And I watch, amazed at
The defamation that
Shifting eras can bring
While all alone
A mystical story
Rose and fell
Into a deep dark well.

A woman built a structure in memory of her king a thousand years ago. Half-forgotten for centuries and newly added as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, this step-well is a majestic, impressive structure. Read what Wikipedia has to say here.

Reasons to Keep a Journal. And Why I Stopped


Sometimes I am highly tempted, unreasonably tempted to pick up a pen and a diary. The kind of diaries I used to use. Pretty, inspiring, thick with a lot of space to play with words. Space where you can be whoever you want to be and have nobody question you at all.

There is an old timer’s charm about journaling. It is intensely romantic and personal. It is an experience of being you without anyone trying to dictate their thoughts or opinions on you.

If done right, journaling is an art; a process of self-discovery that can reveal your deepest secrets to yourself.

I truly believe in the power of good journaling. There’s only one way of looking at the world and it is through our own eyes. And since we feel and experience different things at different times, we are prone to partiality and deception. Our senses are untrustworthy, our mind can easily mislead us. And while journaling is not a response to that, it is a means of examining events of our own life from a perspective which may be coloured in a different hue from the one we were caught in when we were actually experiencing that event.

What I mean is simply this: you could go out today and have an ice-cream with an old friend, chat for an hour and come back. You will have impressions, memories and thoughts buried within you. If you try to reconstruct a part of that experience on paper, you might discover reasons why things felt the way they did. They might make sense in a different way this time around. Who is to say whether what you see the second time is right or wrong? The only truth is your own. Your journaling will offer you an alternative.

This wouldn’t work for everyone all the time. I once told someone to note down their feelings about an experience they valued and it seemed as if the task was not beneficial for them at all. But stay at it long enough, it will have the desired effect. Long term personal evaluation is a necessary part of understanding your own journaling requirements.

You can be your own eyes and ears because you have the power to control  your own narration. If you truly are writing for yourself, you are freeing yourself from the control of other people. For once, you can be honest.

It isn’t easy for most of us to let go of the skeptic manner in which we choose to view everything and everyone around us. This is a mechanism to protect ourselves from self-harm, of course. If you can learn to be free from the fear and choose your journal to be a sort of sanctuary for your thoughts, it can be a divine experience where you’re writing for yourself, understanding yourself.

Letting go of negativity can be an important part of journaling. Your anger, hurt, fear, mistrust…all of it can find an outlet on paper. Why this is important is because there are so few opportunities for us to accept ourselves just the way we are, with all of our imperfections. We have been taught to be perfect or to strive to be perfect or to worship a Being who is perfect and hence superior to us.

We are not perfect beings. We were never meant to be perfect beings. We cannot be ideal and we cannot live in an ideal world. We can only learn to love ourselves. I don’t mean to say that we shouldn’t try to improve upon what we have. The first step towards becoming more than we are is to accept what we are, in this moment. That acceptance can lead to change.

But this too, does not always seem true to me. Sometimes acceptance leads to complacency. I am this way. I am flawed. Why should I not be happy with what I do have? Why would I want to change it? Why should I want to make the standards of the world my own? I can easily be a rebel. I can be okay with being different without caring about what does or doesn’t matter to others.

There is wisdom in these words too because there can be no universal standard of judgement. We can only hope to find our own.

We can only be our own judges at the end of the day and journaling can help with that.

And we add to ourselves through our creativity. Creative processes are mostly solitary pursuits. We may engage in them as a group but when we are really beseeching the universe to storm us with ideas, we are alone in our own thought bubbles. Whether you want to write or draw or doodle or just brainstorm, a journal is a great place to start.

But I am afraid of the rawness that journaling brings. When my grandmother died, everything she had ever had and valued as possessions was left behind in a room. Among other things were a collection of her diaries. I don’t know where those diaries are now but I don’t think anyone got a chance to read them.

This is it, though, I thought to myself. You’ll die one day and you’ll leave behind a truckload of journals which will be open to the whole wide world. Anna Nalick’s prophesying words ring in my ears,

‘And it feels like I’m naked in front of the crowd, coz these words are my diary screaming out loud and I know that you’ll use them however you want to.’

I cannot let that happen.

But that wasn’t the whole story. It took me almost another year after that to give up what was to be nearly eight years of intensive journaling. I cannot do it. I would rather be here, talking on a blog, using it as a personal vent, being fully aware that it is visible to anyone who wants to read it. This is akin to climbing on top of a stage in a crowded room and yelling on a microphone. Half the people won’t listen because it’s boring to listen to speeches. But there will be someone paying attention. Just knowing that these words are visible gives me the strength to write things in a particular way. So now I am sort of controlling what goes out into the world. I could pretend to do the same on paper but that would feel like hypocrisy. Here, I am talking about things which matter to me and yet in a way I feel invincible. I don’t know how long this will work.

I know I can’t stop writing. I have to write somewhere. Shouting out into the vacuum scares me. This is the perfect alternative.

Impressions of an Optimist


I couldn’t see the scars
Across your chest
Or the wrinkled skin
Under your eyes

I couldn’t see the countless times
Your heaving breath became a sigh
Or when the froth lined your mouth
And cramps belied the times you almost died

I couldn’t see that drop of tear
Pooling on the vision of your eye
And the times you pulled strands of your hair
As means to escape your horrific surmise

I could only see your hand tremble as
You tried to pick up something new
A long-lost passion flicker through the depths
And for a while you were renewed again
An era passed before your mind
You turned it inside out again
I couldn’t see the ugly things
I just saw your beautiful, smiling face

Like an Intruder


These boxes
Open for my inspection
(I asked myself why)
You are another one of us
Now I can follow the lines of your ruin
Through colours splashed on paper

And so you smiled up at me.
So triumphantly.
These stories- they are you
But people change
But you are still you
But you changed too
I feel the surge of pity
You’re not alone but you’re lonely and
You don’t even know it

I have seen your hair disheveled.
Puffy eyes. Behind the sunrise
You are singing, laughing, playing, happy.
You’re mellow, moody, placid, murky.
I don’t know where you’ve been.
I don’t know what you’ve seen.
All I have are these strange, half-torn pages
I can take them anywhere, add flavours
You see. You’re not there anymore.
You are as much of a stranger to your memories
As they are to me.

I can ask you why you let them.
You will say, I was in a new place.
I was with people who mattered.
I wanted to remember.
But do you?
Where is the woman with the large bag
Hurrying past you, thinking about her emotionless marriage?
Where is the child who reached out for your hand
Wondering how wonderfully motive those large fingers were
I bet you don’t know. I bet you wouldn’t care.
Those stories are long gone. And so are YOU.

And me? Now I am just an intruder
I am looking at things that don’t belong to me
It’s as if I walked into a room after you were
Done making love and sheepishly
You are staring at me. Like at a mirror
At an image that wasn’t part of your experience
But now you have to answer her
And now you don’t know what to tell her.
There are no words.
I know. I can only just manage to stare back at you.
Guiltily.
I am just an intruder
I don’t have the right to see these
It is almost like I have seen you naked.
Fleeting pieces of your soul in my hand
Tender, chaotic, broken.

These boxes.
They are your heritage.
Perhaps the only thing you will leave behind when you die
Reduced to cardboard with bits of life
And me? I am just an intruder
I’ll pass on my own too
But for now, I have this inheritance
And I can glimpse into your life
And listen to some of your music. Through
Your photographs.

The World Through the Eyes of a Poet


I call myself a poet, irrespective of the quality of my poems and the number of people who read them.

This is because being a poet isn’t really a number game. It isn’t really a choice.

What makes a poet a poet?

We’re emotional people, easily swayed by our emotions. We are given to bouts of depression because the world seems grey but more importantly, the world can seem bleak. We can swirl in a medley of colours, float on the surface of a dream for hours. We aren’t really living in the moment but breathing in the moment and letting it live in us.

A full moon isn’t just a full moon. It is magic.
A beautiful song isn’t just a beautiful song. It is a reason to cry or laugh or both and not know why.
The depths of despair are a deep, dark pit full of more fears than we can put to paper.
We don’t know how to say half the things we mean to say. Only a small fraction of thoughts slip out through our poems.
We see people through a lens, non-judgmental, peaceful, accepting.
We can be bitter to the core and heated to the extreme. We can be loving, passionate, full of so many feelings at the same time that they overwhelm us and then we have to put pen to paper and pour our thoughts out.

It isn’t an option.

We may find ourselves dying, constricted, suffocated. We may feel imprisoned behind invisible walls,unable to escape and crying for help and a means to let out the pain.

The only escape is to write down what we are feeling. To give vent to our emotions.

When we are flowing with our words, nothing matters to us. Other people, food, water, the call of nature. The whole world becomes black and white and recedes behind some invisible line. We are caught alone in the waves of our emotions. We don’t care about anything else, even breathing. We are just a living, breathing instrument. Pulling words out is the goal of our life. The only thing that can ever mean anything. It doesn’t matter if there are a thousand deadlines waiting for us. The poetry is the only sacred object of our life.

We see painful details others won’t. The tiniest details out on the street pop out in excruciating detail. The devastating exquisiteness of the world cradles us in its arms and we don’t know where we are going. We feel things we don’t want to, we shouldn’t have to. And then we feel things we hope nobody else can because we passionately want to own them. We can be silent for hours but the silence holds a thousand meaningful conversations inside it.

We can be the harbingers of hopelessness and inspiration at the same time.

We don’t always know what we want to say until we’re done saying it. We aren’t always talking from our consciousness. We are broken people who become whole only through our words.

We make stories and weave fairy tales out of ordinary events. We add sparkling emotions to dryness and drabness. We make things bigger. We cry for people and things that never existed. We long for those we will never have, for those who touched our lives fleetingly and then disappeared forever. We long to be a part of stories that were never ours to begin with. We feel for those who we were never meant to feel for. We see through the illusory nature of life and make things out of vacuum. We feel like we are nothing. And then, in just another moment, we feel like we are everything. We own the world and the world owns us.

We struggle to be understood, we fail to explain why we can break down in the middle of a perfectly ordinary day, brushed aside by the cruelty of life and her hate while shopping at the supermarket. We count the hours till the end of a workday when we can be alone with our echoing thoughts. We let photographs talk to us. We fill notebooks with our darkest feelings.

We feel lost when something becomes extraordinary in our eyes but for everyone else, it is just another moment. We know our profoundness is felt by different people at different moments in their own lives but never at the same as ours. We understand that this means they will judge us and make fun of us. But we also know that there will be moments when they’ll know exactly what we’re talking about, even if they go around thinking they are too dense for poetry.

We know that poetry permeates through the layers of existence, coming out of at the end of the day as a connected thread flowing through every single incident, event and momentous visions that light our life. We let it uplift us into a transcendental platform where anything is possible.

We see too much and then we realize that what we are seeing is just a tiny fraction of everything beyond. We can capture just bits and pieces of our agony, our empathy, our joys and sorrows . We are living under the belly of utter chaos. We see a skewed world but accept that everyone else does too, they just don’t know it.

We are living in the age of technology. But we’re hovering feet above the ground.

Accompanying trance-inducing song: Out of the Woods, Taylor Swift.