banter

When i started this blog, it was meant to be a journal, where I could crib, ramble, rant. So it was called days and a diary. It has changed in many way now. Now, I hardly write. Most of the time, I'm writing in apprehension because I don't want a certain someone to whom all my poems are dedicated, to find this blog.

My days are so long and lazy when I'm not working. So, there's not much to say.

If I'm working, the day just passes me by and there isn't even enough time to eat.  And when I'm not-- like today-- I just sit here, watching Kanchu sleep, while the chopper flies above the house, maybe in an indication of what we should expect next-- air traffic congestion.

This is only today. Tomorrow, there might be another accident and then I'm back to reporting death again, like it were routine.

Sometimes, I wonder what good is a job like a reporters's. Why am I keeping count of the dead, when I hardly know what it is to be alive?

In Gyanu's words: it's crass.

i don't want to wake up...

i'm downing mugs and mugs of dark coffee without any sugar and still, i'm tumbling into sleep.

now that you're gone,

i remember how much i loved that smile on your face as a child. you had a way of pursing your lips and then laughing a little. the spiky gold earrings suspended on your earlobes always dangled when you nodded at things. and you nodded in agreement and disagreement. but most of all, i remember you were a brave woman always. and i remember you always loved my mother.
but i never had the chance to thank you. and now that you're gone, maybe you know, even if i never said it

The God of Small Things

it's time to read it again and wonder how it's possible for a writer to pick words like they were treats or maybe special pebbles strewn over a river bank, so they form a pattern. what does a reader or writer know about stylistics when dealing with words that are only treasures to the heart? let them form patterns in your mind and touch your heart over and over again like these flowers that bloom where is seems the most impossible to...