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The postman is just doing his duty

I carry a postcard with love in my satchel. It is like Schrodinger’s cat- you don’t know if the love is in the postcard or the satchel unless the letters flutter out like butterflies. Three letters left. The sun rages on. Emotions seem a drag now like a puff of cigarette when you inhale too much sadness that it comes coughing out as tears. I want to go home. The postman is just doing his duty.

The first letter is related to someone’s bank account. We don’t always deliver love letters or letters announcing death. I can recognize it by…


I am lying in my own insignificance, liberated, unbounded, watching a bird sail across the horizon, traversing from one extreme to another. In these moments, I do not think of my own existence. I project myself onto the universe, where I am every character in the story except me. It is often tiring to remain tethered to one identity. To wake up every day and go to sleep, stuck in the same monotony. To know that every moment is opening a door into the future, and closing millions of possibilities of the present. Every attempt to transcend reality is constrained…


This story should begin with a warning. But it doesn’t. It starts with us lying under the stars. You are talking about your father, and how your mother died. On the funeral, there is this woman and your father tells this sad story of how much he loved your mother. Five days later, the new woman lies in your mother’s bed.

You say, “Men look miserable and women want to fuck their sadness.”

There is a certain truth in the statement. It reminds me of a drunk bar, on a Wednesday night. It has a few similarities with a funeral…


Everything is dying. Decaying into oblivion. The clouds burst. Seasons end. Every novel- death of a story. Television progress with slow death of characters. The iron fences rust. The roads breaking down under our weight. God, stars, plants, flowers, cities, men, women, children, all of history- dead. The universe, in itself, heading into chaos. The external material human dying, and being replaced. Yet, the human consciousness defying the linear time. Ignoring the constant dread.
I do not believe in nothingness. We pass from one form to another, not in our consciousness, but in our material being. Reduced to ashes, or eaten…


The first time, I greeted anxiety or maybe it was the other way round, you stood next to me on stage mumbling, “It’s going to be fine.” I looked at you like the caesura in a song when the music stops and for a moment everything seemed still. Caesura, often termed as a false stop in classical music, was like an escape from my anxiety dissolving into three simple words. For a tiny second, the lights had stopped moving. My tapping feet had stopped. The woodwork waited in silence.
The moment I exhaled my breath, the world came rushing back like…


Through the kitchen window grills, I look at a little girl staring at a flower in full bloom. She stands there for a while, watching it intently, and then moves ahead as if it never existed. Standing there behind the grilled window, perception turns into a prison. I pour my tea into the cup, and return to the book I was reading. For a long time I have not existed outside books. I am thinking how not to think much. I’m not sure what I am reading. I’m not certain about a lot of things in life. The more I…


Kurt Cobain’s story is the story of a generation. It is the story of a renegade generation, having no home, constantly wandering from one place to the other finding solace in art and drugs to the point that all is lost but years of anguish reduced to art. This story is more than just drugs and music. It is an insight into the hollow blindness of this world that refuses to see Van Gogh that refuses to see Kurt Cobain, which loves Plath more only after she kills herself in a spectacular fashion.
Kurt Donald Cobain was born in a…


The first time I heard about Plath, it was when I had started reading The Bell Jar unknowing of how someone as complex as her, had written a story of her own life hiding behind Esther Greenwood, hiding behind Victoria Lucas, and hiding behind the fiction. As someone who has always hidden parts of himself in poetry, trying to write a story that one is not accounted for- there is a strange resonance one feels when they read The Bell Jar. But once I completed the Bell Jar, there was this clawing feeling that kept scratching- what happened to Sylvia…


From the Moment You Begin Living, You Begin Dying.

To be alive, is to know that life is a paradox. From the moment you begin living, you begin dying. On hearing podcasts, I listen someone shouting; “You sacrifice your health in order to make money. Then you sacrifice money to recuperate your health. Then you become so anxious about the future that you stop enjoying the present; the result being that you do not live in the present nor the future. You live as you’re never going to die, and then die having never really lived.”

Art in its essence is a lie, whose purpose is to seem real…


Franz Kafka’s life runs like a truly great comedy. The mythology of Kafka goes to the point where I heard the word Kafkaesque before Kafka. When we think about Kafka’s life for long enough, it is not necessary that each person walks out with the same convictions. If there is one thing that I can say about Kafka with utmost conviction is that his life was dwarfed by literature. In his adulthood, Kafka himself went on to claim that- “I am literature and nothing else.” …

Asif

As long as things go well, you'll just run away from yourself.

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