Only Silence Can Hold Her

I want to write about her,
but words fail to grasp the tension, the tenderness,
the quiet transparency with which I adore her existence.
Her kindness is too vast to fit in verses,
her grace—beyond what even heaven could define.
Gratitude lives in her like an endless sky,
and everything about her feels like a
dream too real to touch.

How do you capture someone like her in a poem?
How can a poem ever be enough for a
soul that outshines meaning itself?

So when I am asked to speak of her,
I stay silent.
For only silence has the space
to hold her entirety—
the way the universe holds its mysteries,
without needing to explain them.

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🕊️ World Mental Health Day Special 💚

In honor of World Mental Health Day, I’ll be available all day for free chats — to listen, guide, or simply hold space for whatever you’re feeling. 🌿
No judgment, just warmth and understanding.
You’re not alone — reach out anytime. 💬✨

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God Bless the Stubborn Ones

Above all, I survived my own mind — the questions, the comparisons, the rush, and the despair. Like needles, they pricked the center of my being again and again; and like a child, I believed them to be doses that would protect me from critical diseases in the future. Chronically cursed by existence, invincibly stubborn by nature — what can the fleetingness of it all even do to me?

I have lived for the timeless, to be timeless — to slip free from the tyranny of clocks and calendars.

I no longer race toward destinations; I dance at every halt.
Each moment is a celebration of arrival.
I am free.

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October, the Festival of Freedom

Going away — not far from where I am,
never to return.
I have found a new home in the soil.
The earth has finally cracked open
to hide me in the coolness of its embrace.
I have been burning for way too long.

October — the festival of freedom.
October — I am leaving behind
the weight of existence,
and putting on the abaya of nothingness.

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Just This Once
— A final whisper of a soul choosing
peace over endurance, silence over explanation.

Storms hovering above the head,
Roof-less home no longer a shelter,
A purgatory to wait for the last call.

Calls of familiar voices in the distant,
Death singing lullaby in the ear — soothing,
The longing to close the eyes strengthens.

A life in war, amidst bullets and swords of betrayals,
A story never truly heard,
Never completely written,
On the way to meet an unfortunate end.

No note to leave behind to anyone,
No apologies for leaving,
No regret for choosing freedom
Over the chains of existence
Just this once.

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There aren’t many people in the world with whom you have to try to be happy. You just are — because your soul recognises them from another time. Nothing ever comes between you and them, not your ego, not your expectations, not even your assumptions. You learn to humble yourself before them, to accept them as they are. Their flaws amuse you, and forgiving them comes easy. Hold on to them tight, for in the end, you’ll realise it’s them who made your otherwise ordinary story so beautifully extraordinary.

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The Weight of Being the Sun

Remember how Fyodor Dostoevsky said, “Become a sun and everyone will see you.” Do you see what it means? Do you see what it takes to be a star?

You must burn consistently, day after day, without pause, without faltering. No one should be able to see your scars—only your light. Your brilliance must feel effortless to the world, even when it comes at the cost of quiet, unseen pain.

You must convince yourself to be lonely to be desirable by all. You have to be unreachable to be someone worth wanting to reach. The warmth you give will touch everyone, but the fire itself is yours alone to bear.

Being the sun is not for those who cannot endure the abandonment that goes unseen, the solitude that comes with standing above. It is a weight as much as it is a gift—a burning that few understand, a sacrifice made in silence.

And yet, for those who can bear it, for those who learn to hold the loneliness without flinching, the light they give is unmatched, unforgotten.

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Beyond the first glance

Love? Everyone's a little disappointing when you get to know them. The image you form of them falls apart and the real face shows with all the freckles and the flaws.

Every great love story happens twice. The first time, it is a force of attraction. The second time, it is a choice: to continue accepting someone as they are, to love them with the same sincerity. The equation matures, and understanding deepens. Arguments become differences in opinion, not fights. There is no accusation—only a vast room to communicate and find a middle ground.

The spark? It never dies. It transforms, taking on new forms with time. Each phase of togetherness brings a different kind of adventure.

The key is not just to open your heart, but to open your mind as well.

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Yes, you can try to control everything, wish everything fell on your favour and be hellbent on life following the path you set. But, you will receive nothing good in return except disappointment, frustration and fears, because fate has its own way and time of unfolding.
The beauty of surrender, believing nothing truly is in your control, and nothing absolutely belongs to you is that you know you are walking a path set forth by God, a God who promised to love and forgive you every time.
Being nothing sets you free, even from yourself, and somehow it makes you everything life actually is about.

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Lily

I think I know what it means
when she bows down to her admirers—
submitted to humility,
overwhelmed by gratitude.

The child in her that was without a family,
the one who never knew the love of a mother,
the one who saw her father die young,
the child that was deprived of love
for the longest time,

cannot fathom where to keep
all the love the world puts on her palm
for nurturing the child
into a beautiful lily.

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