Fix me

We live in a hole and spend most of our life trying to climb out of it. To rise above it, to be able to see the ground above, blossoming with promises of a better tomorrow and a forgotten past. We trudge ahead, among the dirt and mud to get to the ocean.


Some, however prefer to live in that hole. Making it larger, expanding it, day by day and that takes dedication too. They don’t see the light much, maybe they don’t want to.  There’s nothing wrong with them. Nothing at all.


Lights will guide you home. 

Maybe not the end of the road after all.

The End Of The Road

I’m struggling through an If-Then scenario currently. If I fail, then I…..

Two years without even a semblance of a suicidal thought balanced on a precarious ‘If’. Unbalanced more like.


And why shouldn’t I? I see no choice but a choice. I hear no evil but only the truth and that is the evilest.

Yes, it is my error and no, I absolutely refuse to carry the burden.

After all, existence is an arbitrary notion.


“On me dit que le destin se moque bien de nous
Qu’il ne nous donne rien et qu’il nous promet tout
Paraît que le bonheur est à portée de main
Alors on tend la main et on se retrouve fou”
Carla Bruni – Quelquun m’a dit

Down The Literal Drain

Is it sheer desperation when you start replying to your friend’s “What’s up’s” with “the fan? /the ceiling?/ god?” (for the pious ones).

Is that the end of the road for your weary sense of humor? Or does it still have a few miles, a few tricks up his sleeve?

It does say a lot about me when I personify my (barely there) sense of humor as a male. I tried to evaluate him.

Me: So, Mr. Sense Of Humor, what’s up?

Mr. S.O.H.: The ever churning blades of a fan, soon they will disappear.

Me: Yes, I can see that. You sound a bit morose, are you?

Mr. S.O.H.: Oh, no. I’m just dark. Been left out in the sun too long, you see.

Me: Ah, yes. So, Sense, erm, May I call you Sense?

Mr. S.O.H: Oh, go ahead. I’m here to please, aren’t I?

Me: Why so literal, Sense?

Mr. S.O.H: Do you have a better plan?

Me: I see. Mr. Humor, Why don’t cannibals eat clowns?

Mr. S.O.H.: Because it’s illegal.

Me: Oh. They taste funny.

Mr. S.O.H: What tastes funny?

Me: The clowns.

Mr. S.O.H: What clowns?

Me: From the joke.

Mr. S.O.H: What joke?

Here lies my Sense of Humor, rest  in peace.


Well, this is what I’ve been feeling for the last couple of days. Not sad, not morose and not depressed just devoid of my sense of humor.  I hope that it comes back to haunt me.

Dear Departed Soul

Nobody bothers anymore. Use and throw and then use again. Continuous cycle for infinity and beyond.

Friendship is just a word. Irony spews from F to P and hatred fills the potholes. Ignorance is unavoidable and narcissism is its soul. Selflessness demands an audience but is denied and ridiculed. “There is no place for you here”, they say.

Love gained but love lost. Indifference rules like a booze addled king.

So dear departed soul of mine, it is good that you left. Cruelty would not have been your forte. My Ego will replace you, a much better queen. She is blind to the sunshine, the rain, the stars and all other wondrous things in life. She thirsts for a pond, a lake, a mirror; only a reflection will appease her.

Background Noise

She tries to fly with the flock but a sword hangs above her,

of misgivings, distrust and compulsion

darkness she brings into the fray, they say

and abandon her, they do

onward she goes, a path unknown

in lesser worlds and amongst glorified seasons

contentious, capricious and notorious, she conquers,

So if you cannot be with them, be against them, little birdie.


Whenever we do something , we always have different possible scenarios at the back of our head so that even if we fail, it won’t come as a huge shock when it actually happens. Sometimes, we see success too, a vision of what we could be. These illusions are always at the back of our head, taunting us.



Surrounded by a cage of steel,

clipped wings sits on a perch,

adores the little luxuries of her existence,

chirps sweetly when they beckon,

little do they know

It’s all an act.


She flew! She flew! they scream,

an uneven sky beyond

an uneven landscape below, she’s trapped.

And she remains.


You’re engulfed in the flames, my love. You’re too blinded by the smoke to see the fire around you. Open your eyes a little, it won’t sting, I promise.
Look around you, my love. See how the world blossoms into a caricature of emotions. Open your heart a little, it won’t scar, I promise.

Write me a lullaby, my love. Not because I need one but because you can.