That particular one place that you feel the safest, also keeps terrorizing the most. 


Will you ?

(Image Courtesy : My sister) back then when I had really long hair.

Do me a favour sweet little hon,  

That bridge ?

That disconnected your world,

and deceived your happiness 

That put you in the water,

and pushed you till the swamp

That did nothing ,

but only several harms 

Go,  Go. 

Burn it.

To those unfinished dreams.

To dream is a feel,  

But some Unfinished,  Unhappened

Dreams put us down

Pats us low ,

Breaks our crown 

In the course of time we still never

Stop dreaming,  

We just stop believing in them. 

(Have you felt like it too?  )


(Image Courtesy : My beautiful friend,  Manisha.)

I intimidate people with my silence, 

Infuriate them with my insecurities 

Swear them off my care, 

Nauseate them with my fears .

I fold and crush like a tissue ,

But yearn to be refined without any excuse. 

I grow under layers of grimace ,

But hold on to memories for days

I crib,  I cry .

I hurt,  I try .

I  approve some punches to make things right. 

I fail , I’m extreme .

I choke, I scream.

I hate sitting on a floor so dry,

But I swear,  I’d be worth a try. 

To hold my mess together ,

Cause it’s better late than never. 

Thank you for reading  🙂 @quiescentlistener 

Can’t wait. 

A seventy year old me , would pain in not putting in effort for the things I want 
Would try to peep in their hearts than their social media accounts 

Would love to sleep in a dark night wrapped along a blanket of stars 

Would still wait for a love letter

Would not be as fragile to worthless situations

Would not be scared to be lonely. 

A seventy year old me would be the outcome of managing persistent worse situations, on bearing utter patience and moderation. If that it’s going to be. 

Believe me,  I can’t wait to grow old.


A while in a not so far away place was the struggle of a human ( as per how you relate ) living up among the absurdities of situations, winding in repulsive grimace, hiding under the layers of how many times he has been given up by every inch of everyone who could possibly would have been everything to offer, striving between those mediocre mornings to serene nights and with feelings so ineffable questioning how possibly  everything turned upside down. You know what’s their biggest loss?  

Thinking that it was all their fault

If you are making the same mistake, 


Simple as that.

It’s always as simple as spreading the jam over your bread 

As passing down a joke to your mate 

As cursing your fate 

As running behind a kite

And losing it’s sight. 

As simple as trembling with immense fear and insecurities and writing or well maybe,  reading this cause it’s never too late. 

Simple ? 

Maybe,  Not. 

Writer or Type(Writer) ?

We are all in this because we love to write and we love to throw emotions verbally. Very cautiously we are also aware about the rapidness of evolving technology.

I can’t explain if it was a random thought that striked my mind or a reality taking time to digest. 

How many of us are Writing or Just ‘Type’ Writing. 

I think I’m doing bit of both. 

Do share your views.  🙂

What ?

I’ve mastered darkness like a cozy evening,

While the night and dawn conflate.

Of what keeps on deceiving , 

Weaving blossoms and storms of the world’s weight. 

I’ve mastered darkness like a cozy evening my friend,  

What do you think I’m afraid of ? 

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