The Boy with the yellow diary

It happens once in every year, twice or thrice sometimes, depends on the intensity of hatred, flowing in the brook of a political agenda, that wants to unite the world, from the blood of soldiers. Look at the ashes on the ground, can you find the bones, that carried hidden responsibilities of a father, a son or a brother, all wrapped in a tricolour? Today, when the world was busy celebrating love, it slowly died in the arms of a soldier, bleeding its last salute as smoke already burning on the pyre, that ignited tears and soaked sorrows. A wife is widowed, a child is orphaned, parents find shelter in old age homes, where is love, I will ask today? where is humanity? What kind of patriotism we all celebrate, if we still remain helpless, and let the soldiers suffer, the terrorized hatred? Today, you and me, we will sip coffee, and have dinner peacefully, sending condolences to the family, discussing headlines like debates, and sleep. Tomor...

You should not date a writer if dates are important to you. But ask them about the day of your first kiss And hear him describe how it was raining and both of you were drenched and when he kissed you, you tasted of mint. If going out on adventures, chasing storms or loving the things that will destroy you in the end, is on your wish-list… date a writer. You see, I’ve never dated a writer, but I know so much about them. They give you a beginning, a middle and an end. He is going to spell your name when you two are texting. He will say your name, repeatedly, when he’s talking to you. He will promise to take your name if he knows you are the one. He will wear a t-shirt that says “I Flirt with Words”, But he can never start a conversation. He’s a madman who causes trouble on the paper with his ink, But he will always be gentle with your stories. He’ll notice how you’ve kept your hair open, Although it brings you a lot of trouble. He’ll ask about scars, ...

The minute hand of the clock finally hit the 12, the hour hand rest at 2 steadily, it’s 2 AM now, and I am pulling the blanket over my head, there’s no winter in my city, despite the cold winds that blow, it’s always warm, there’s winter inside me, raging a snow storm, and I clutch pillow harder, I hear footsteps of a familiar lady, slowly reaching for my head, and before she can pull the blanket down, I whisper faintly, ‘I am good. Let me sleep please.’ I hear her heart aching but I can’t see her sorrow, for I am too drowned in my misery, to understand her own. the minute hand ran to 10, and it’s 10 minutes over 2. I see moon beaming in my window, casting nets of light on dream catcher, the wind chime is singing melancholy, with the lyrics of tick tock, and I am here holding puzzled pieces of past, trying to figure out wisdom in pain, I see ghosts howling in the backyard of my dreams numb I am today, there’s not even a whispered scream, my fai...

And if I were dead tonight, where would be your first cry? Would it be on the phone? Or while scrambling a piece of note? Would it be on your way to home? Or after I am buried? Would it be in your dreams? Or would you drink all those pain, and not cry a tear? And if I made through tonight, where would you want to kiss me one more time? Would it on my eyes? Or would you just blink your eyes? Would you peck my cheeks? Or pull them softly? Would you kiss my lips? Or mouth a ‘Thank you, God’ on my behalf? And if I faded away, would you come to take me away? Would you make through the limbo? Or would you just bid me a final goodbye? What will I leave behind? I ask. And I look back in the past, and I see nothing good, but pain and suffering.

Earth Like the ground beneath her feet she holds everything to her and has a certain pull. She is sturdy, unafraid, and solid in her resolves. When she walks her feet fall with purpose and her eyes reflect the brown of the earth encompassing everything else around her. Fire She is fierce and she immolates herself with the love that burns bright and deep inside her. But don’t you dare cross her the wrong way because she’s a volcano waiting to erupt and no being has the power to escape the embers of her fire. Water She flows soundless but dedicated towards her purpose. She accommodates everything and everyone and always gives, gives, and gives. The tears that flow from her eyes tell the stories of scars left not on her skin but much deeper on the riverbed of her soul. Wind She flies with the reckless abandon of a howling breeze like a red autumn leaf having no sense of destination. She is free...

You tell me my laugh sounds cute, but no one has ever said that before. Did I tell you that when you laugh on the other side of the phone I imagine a strand of your hair, your disheveled hair and I can almost see it falling over your eyes and I fall even harder every time. Forgive me I was too busy listening to the sound that your fingertips made, running around the edge of the bed-sheet. So I could not listen what you were telling me about EDM. I swear even the time zones would collapse down on their knees, if they could hear the way you sound when you say, 'please'. And I know even all these miles that separate us shy away whenever you blow me kisses. The moon knows all about us it saw me crying over us every night, last year. And yesterday when we hung up after you told me how much you loved me and how much you always will I swear I saw it wink at me and I couldn't resist blushing.