Clouds are home to raindrops, before they descend onto the earth. Our past is the nest we fly from, as young birds, and the future is a stream that cascades down the hinges of now.

When the rain-soaked roads look towards the sky hooded by strands of cloud, the air picks up and moves noiselessly. The hills are drenched, partly under a screen of floating fog. Leaves on slim branches of young trees, rustle in the gentle wind that doesn’t seem to exhaust its slight motion. Patches in the mud collect the water that had befallen unto its hard surface, which is now mushy, underneath the weight of a dripping sky, that doesn’t stop leaking.

The mud has crevices, which are pitchers of freshwater, now mingled with its soil grains. Hills are hidden behind a thin film of gaseous white, looking farther than they actually are. The nearer clouds are to land, the more distant and spacious appears the world around me. Who did this? The trail of cloud hanging low over the hilltop? Or the impression of a sky laying claim to the land I am on, as its own territory?

When the sky stretches down, it opens us by a crack, to the infinitude of heights that we deny our immediate surroundings, wherever we are. The height of the universe is immeasurable. So is its width. Our need for stability compels us to estimate all that falls under the view of our eyes, and all that passes through our minds.

But how could a part judge its whole? Is there a way? If so, I’d love to know. If not, I’d love to embrace the cosmos in its unbounded magnitude. Either way, isn’t the cosmos wholesome in what it is? Leaving the size of the entirety we’re part of, to the realms of the unknown, I feel contented and excited.

Irrespective of our perceptions, the spirit that graces every nook and cranny, flows through us too. And this is the connection we so long for. It’s the roots to our trees. We need to nourish ourselves and grow on our own, centering ourselves in this spirit. A lot of things contribute to our lives. Life itself is a marvel, and it is embellished by marvels. We are only required to make the necessary journey, in order to stack on experiences, which, otherwise, wouldn’t have been ours.

This makes it paramount for us to truly revel in the gifts that are strewn on our respective paths. We ought to use them properly and carry forward the message we choose for ourselves. We should learn to unravel ourselves and resonate with what we are, in each phase of our experiences. Growing as we change, we progress in life. This propels our life to progress. Eventually, this progress percolates, and awakens our spirit.

Like dew on grass that soaks into our bare feet when we walk through, toward the fresh horizon.


The smoke suspended over the water, is a manifestation of the wisdom its quietude echoes. Its gentle stillness is an ode to permanence; within the transience contained in the very spring of life.

Isn’t there so much uncertainty in our worlds? We never seem to be sure of one thing or another. This lingering doubt transmits from one train of thought to another. It’s like the ripples created when a pebble hits the surface of a pond, but in this case, the ripples don’t subside. They remain, renewed by the pebbles of doubt that splash in our unguarded pond of a mind, which is gripped unawares, by the bony fingers of doubt and fear.

This uncertainty that has seeds in insecurity, isn’t healthy. For the mere reason that its ripples are unsettling instead of exciting. Our blood doesn’t rush with rejuvenated energy coursing along our veins, but rather freezes in panic. Then what is the kind of uncertainty we need to replace the existing one with? It’s something that causes us to stir instead of collapsing down in a burrow.

The uncertainty we need to look for should allow us to venture into avenues that are forbidden by the fears in our bosoms. It must be the root of excitement, which would wash our lives in fresh colors. It is the sort of doubt that tempts and beckons us to dab at the myriad possibilities, which life holds out to one who seeks.

The unknown must be a frontier. We ought to cross over with infinite charm and agility, that doesn’t fade as we go farther into its realms, since after all, it’s bounded by nothing but the limits of our desire and faculties. Daring the cloak of insecurity to tightly wrap itself around us, we should resist its clasp tenaciously. Our vehement opposition to be slaved by those filthy fibers, will only arm us more and more against those devilish voices that try to bring us down into their deep burrows.

Shunning negative ripples by inducing counter-ripples of positive affirmations can still the pond and gift it back its silence. That silence speaks more than the holes of doubt could supply us with. If it’s speech that we’re looking for, then silence has all of that and more than we could expect. All that is required is we trust the gravel we skip onto the pond, and wait for its reply.

It’s doubt that requires annihilation, not uncertainty. There’s a chasm of incongruity between the two. Insecurities are holes in the clouds of our dreams. Piercing those holes with the mist that curls upon our ponds, we could remold our dream-clouds.


Long may stretch the distance; but not the route. Blurred is the world we float in, within and without; glazed by nature is the robe cloaking the earth, enriched by the uneven knots that shift unflappable.

What does it mean to be mindful? To live in each moment? I guess so. But what is the focus of our mindfulness? Is it the cliff beyond the cliff staring right in our faces? Or is it to soak in the vast expanse of the whole scene? It is definitely both. That’s what mindfulness implies. It is to minutely absorb every little detail without feeling any pressure or rushing by being all over the place. It means to enjoy, in the truest sense.

And how do we employ this technique in our lives, in order to find the fulfillment that we wish for? How to harness this device to reap our hopes in life? I know it requires patience with oneself and persistence to get nearer to one’s goals inch by inch. It is necessary that one hones their focus for these processes to be set in course. By the way, how do we get to decide what to focus on? I know mindfulness is the answer to this, and also the purpose. While being what it is and where it is, it often works its magic upon us, by easing the load we carry. That’s how it is!

Getting into the very zone of feeling light is in itself filled with distress. It’s not as much because the procedure to attain that state is difficult, as the doubts that ooze out and try to drag us back to carry the heavy bundles of mess we’re so trying to minimize. The ghosts of our difficulties are hard to shake off due to the fact that we’re used to bearing them. However, the key to silencing those lies in disengaging with the very things that hold us back from peace.

We can remove the distressing factors from our bodies and lives, if we reconfigure ourselves to only let the spring of contentment gush onto us. This presses that we entertain only such thoughts and activities, which cause us happiness. Besides, we need to stand firm against reverting to our past condition, in which we used to juggle with drudgery. We needn’t labor hard to finish a task productively. We may as well sail through the work with a cool breeze. We can make all things work for us, if we know which things are tailor-made for us. We can customize our lives as per our wills, and that’s the solution to all our afflictions.

We just need to adjust our sight. At first, things may seem scary, but it could very much be that our lenses have been covered with dust particles. Wiping them gently and relooking could provide us with opportunities not spotted previously. It’s just that we should learn to watch carefully and act upon what our gut tells us.

Zooming in, zooming out, turning the telescope in all directions, we could gauge the positions of various marks, and set on our journeys. Besides, there’s no benefit without risk. There’s risk of pain anyway. But fear of loss mustn’t discourage one from losing sight of what one truly yearns for.

One ought to drift as clouds in the void of sky, not caring for trifles. Birds fly past them, trees reach into the sky, yet all of it only adds to the wholesomeness of life.


An empty chorus, felt but unheard; that’s what daylights are to me.

What is this silence that reverberates in the early hours of morning? It’s so gripping, that my ears crave it. Its loudness is never too much and you only thirst more. It’s like a vacuum filled with emptiness that isn’t, to say, empty but pretty much like a sponge which absorbs all of me. And the only way to experience this, is to be there. At the time when it makes itself manifest, for I don’t know how long. And then I feel set for the day ahead.

Does it ever occur to us, that it’s very likely it pervades us throughout the day? Or, are we content with thinking that it couldn’t be anything but our own mind playing up what’s not present. Then, in that case, why is it a constant, pre-eminent sound in the morning? I call it sound because it appears to penetrate my ears in ways a piece of composition could not, at least so far.

I don’t know what to call this experience. My senses are freed once I am out of this zone, which happens when I’m done with healthily basking in the warm sun, for the rest of the day. Until perhaps evening or night when there are feels, but unlike the ones in the opening of daytime.

Those later feels are somehow different. That’s for another day to say, I guess, since I’m overtly fixated right at this moment, with the jazz that plays at dawn, which none can hear but all can sense, though not so consciously. It would be almost impossible to discuss about in a conversation, because often we don’t remember such things once they’re past. But the effect lingers on longer than we care to memorize.

The sound is deafening. But it clears my ears. It’s so there, like an invisible nebula, that no chirping or cooing could disturb. They’d only be there, sometimes incongruous with the whole tranquility, if that’s what it could be called.

The brightness of the sun coming up is only an added effect to the already settled silence, which is as quiet as the untouched strings on a lyre. The light of the sun dispels all of the unwanted movement and bathes me in the glory of this piercing feeling and other presences that are imperceptible. This glow may well be what sustains the dance of life. Its soft shine that hovers unseen, could very well be the embers of the ethereal, which I seek unconsciously.

This leads me to a thought. The world is, essentially, mutable. Wonder how I got to this, though. Anyhow, the chords of dawn are soundless.


As a symbol of life this mound lies, to remind one to live, as one would over it trek.

The world is an abstract place. We give it meanings of our own, and form ideas of it in our heads, trying to plod on with the guidelines we so firmly put in place. Some of these guidelines are common, while others we make up individually. Even the concept of common guidelines is on slippery grounds. Diversity is the mark of evolution, hence, only out of conflicting and diverging thoughts does come progress.

This entails that we learn a lot from our surroundings and fellow humans. We can’t always stumble onto something of importance by ourselves. Sometimes, we need to learn to ask and seek help and advice from others. This is especially so, since in our lives, our paths aren’t necessarily straight and easy to skate on. Our paths are coarse, damp, rocky, jagged and dry. They wind uncharted. With no map provided to none.

The journey of life has deep troughs yet narrow valleys, which are frightening. Coursing through this river called life, we go through varied motions, which, sometimes, lie outside our ability to fathom or express. We often make choices from a place of fear rather than courage. We often call off acting on our dreams, even before starting on the project.

I often think that as a human being, I’m prone to think just way too much than healthy regarding the accomplishment of a task at hand. I obsess over it too much. And frankly, I know I’m overreacting to the situation that has clasped me. This is a byproduct of the general human condition that has been tamed to apprehend failure instead of seeking success tenaciously. I don’t know why I dip low at times and what triggers it. But it happens and I’d like to change myself over this affliction.

Some corners we turn in life are pleasantly surprising or just as we’d imagined. But some may bowl us over. Instead of seeing it as a setback, I must cultivate the habit of drowning myself in that experience and learn to chase thrills in it. Not everything happens as we will it to. And I confess I’ve more often than not tried this line of thinking, that what I would want at a particular moment in time, may not be all there is to get out of life.

The ebbs and flows of life needn’t be conflated with the measure of happiness or success, but more as a roller coaster ride. Life is only a lesson, and not a test. I need to accept that lessons are the reason behind the tests I am to face in the course of a lifetime, just so I’ll take something productive from it. Like now. I know that an object, whether living or otherwise, should be judged not for what use it could very well have for me, but for its intrinsic worth, whatever that may be. If it’s useful to me in any way, that’s because of the kindness of the object. Peculiar to think so, but it helps in making me more grateful and helpful in any circumstance if I could help it.

My mind forest doesn’t leave behind a single opportunity to correct my position. It tilts in ways I couldn’t handle, however, I need to traverse the woods as I would a high mountain.


Illuminating the world, even into its final moments, the sun won’t forgo the promise of light that comes each dawn.

The depths of our soul are hard to fathom. Art is one language that can penetrate it. Nature is the source of this representation. Our internal processes are difficult to understand. What some may perceive about us, we may not be able to. It’s a jigsaw puzzle that requires various hands to neatly finish the picture. And life is one such game. Not just one’s but everyone’s.

The painting of our life is given touches by different painters. It could be a stranger, an acquaintance or a close person like a friend or a member of our family. Everyone plays a part in painting our life fully. It could be any sort of art or color employed to bring out a certain shade or quality that we harbor, so that the painting comes out to be so raw and fresh that it isn’t just some mundane piece of art, i.e., life, but our own.

Everyone’s respective paintings are unique irrespective of shared experiences or otherwise. Our lived experiences may mirror others’ but a looking glass ain’t precise, for the factor of lateral inversion. Yes, hence, each individual’s life art is unique. It can’t be matched by anybody else’s, but could be complemented.

Complementary paintings are difficult to probe. However, their seamless integration doesn’t miss the chance of making a silent statement that grasps any onlooker. “Whose painting could possibly complement mine?” is a question that dawns on me, but it is not for me to say, because if I’d had answers to such profound questions by now, then I wouldn’t be musing over the whole idea around surreality.

The journey of life itself is surreal. We are shocked and awed at different strokes of the paint brush that the painting assumes an unpredictable figure. Denoting life to be a painting, perhaps, is fatalistic, since we won’t be able to take a look at the finished piece. Or as we gaze at the painting precipitating before our very own eyes, intelligent suppositions may pop into our heads, creep out from the hidden recesses in our bosoms, and gently nudge us to see the whole of our surroundings in a fresh light, which could assume an unwonted shade and stroke of color on our masterpiece in works.

The faraway sun glistening in the evening, before dusk begins to mingle in, throws so much brightness and beauty toward us. It is a reminder that the ebbs of life aren’t permanent, the flows shall come round too. That very distant sun greets us the next morning without any hesitation or fear of its setting. Here, taking a page out of the sun’s book, we could learn to focus on the present, instead of choosing to worry about the future that is separated from us by the pitch darkness of night. Rather, we should live as if there were no such thing as a burden to be dropped onto our laps unexpectedly. Life is surreal, after all.

The period of time separating the evening hour from the ascending night, the sun sparkles with such serious intent. If we only took a moment to observe this, maybe our troubles won’t hurt us as much as they could, and we might keep a clear head and deal with stuff head on. I stand fixated, staring at this spectacle. I still remember the first time this thought sprouted in me. Twilight is a precious moment. It’s melancholic, nostalgic yet exciting. It’s a kaleidoscope of hope.


The diffusion of the mood of rain is even across land and sky. It is the affair of rain that turns the horizon into one panoramic snapshot.

What do you feel like, today? Do you feel good? Or are you on the borders of unhappiness? I am somewhere in between.

Today, I feel so bizarre and hollow. It’s like my head is netted with and hammered around by steel webs. I’m being very negative right now. Don’t know how it came about. Anyway, it’s become a hovering mood I can’t shake off. And I think, I should just let it in, since I ought to embrace this side of my personality as well, instead of shirking it. It could do me more good than I know to acknowledge. It might bounce me with more eagerness toward the sky I’m aiming at.

I love being alone and dwelling in the silence. There lies something impalpable about the tranquility that I drown in, in loneliness. It’s simply mesmerizing. This loneliness isn’t hurtful, but very much to the contrary, it is soothing. It is like a zone in which you have a quiet conversation with your own self.

You know, when the clouds are heavy with droplets of rain, they darken the brim of the sky, giving it an image of a pool of beautiful colored ink, which might at any moment, flow onto us as flossy water falls, the water of which, is a liquid we’ve never tasted. The idea of drinking those gray clouds is just very much thrilling, as I keep running it over in my mind.

And now the rain finally descends, its arrival announced by streaks of light followed by roaring sounds. It softens the earth, cleanses the trees, refreshes the grass and bushy shrubs, and scatters animals and birds into various shelters, unknown to us. It draws us all into its ever-widening arms.

Watching the translucent drops thud against surfaces is very relieving. My inner turmoil relents. It subsides without any effort. Its footfall is far away now.

I don’t know if this counts under the butterfly effect. But the influence an act of nature could have on my emotions is something I could never understand. It’s like it is truly respite, not just from the heat of the atmosphere, but our inner recesses too. It gives me a break. From everything that bothers me. Besides, its serenading effect remains even after the rain leaves.

The petrichor, the smell that lingers in the air, and the affable weather which invites animals back from their hidden corners, butterflies fluttering by and birds chirping, the world looking a fresh green, are all that an uproar of rain leaves behind as collateral. Enticing us to wait on it to come back and greet us again.


The streaks of gray in between the glisten of lemon add to its natural painting vibe, while the grayish blue pall above is a product of churned floss.

The afternoon has been swallowed in humid shrouds of heat. The dust grains are almost visible to the naked eye, in the burning light of the day. It filters in through the windows and open doors. This summer has been unusual. It isn’t too sweaty or over-the-top hot.

Time slows down. The glide of the sun inches lazily toward the night. The threat of respite – rain – looms right across the horizon, but never seems to oblige. Cumulonimbus clouds are ringing through the sky, waiting to thunder down onto us, at any provocation. However, they aren’t alone in the vast expanse the sun fills up all day long.

The shining sun is softly curled up in cottony clouds. Its glow spreads through the gaps amidst the milky covers. Darting till the terrain of the darker layers of sheets. The light makes seen the clear and blue skies brightened up by the sun, from its safe perch behind the white patches of puffs popping out of the transparent sky, which is as serene and luminous as an undisturbed lake. While the dark rims are closing in like a pond pouring into the lake.

As the sun continues its glide, there arises a tranquil pinkness, which blights afloat the empty atmosphere. This is in consolation for the retreating signs of a cool, gray drizzle that hurried people off the streets. The gracious moments of droplets as sweet as pearls dropping pitter-patter onto the earth, from their oyster-clouds, is in itself a prize.

The melange of complexities this weather brews on the sky, is a sight to behold. We mayn’t have had any rainbow, but the pink glow dazzling across the grayness of the twilight sky is testimonial to the surprising results that await our finishing a task and landing something else that’s not what we had expected. It may be surprising, since all our estimations didn’t work out in the end, but what we find in our hands at the end of the toil we pushed through, isn’t bad either. It just turned out to be a different prize than the standard one.

After the dash of pink is gone, the low light the unseen sun emits is revealed. It is way below wherein the sun would lie some time ago, and it’s diffused as if the source doesn’t want to be traced. We can’t see the sunset. We can only wait for the last light to flick away within the batting of our eyelids, one unexpected moment. The dark shrouds aren’t gone but stretched down till their intersection with the dim brightness. I guess this is what life actually looks like. A panorama of seasons colluding, instead of being neatly put in their times and places. They spill into one another, and create a whiplash of multi-colors. Standing as a metaphor for the journey of life one goes through.


Raindrops and mist on the windshield are brushed away by wipers. Clouds are dispelled by winds and light, while darkness by the moon and stars.

The sun shines through the chinks in the patches of cloud determined to keep it out of sight. Eagles soar high with no cares or wants, simply gliding at the height of the early moon in the evening. As the sun slowly starts to escape fully out of sight, taking with it the light it had showered on us the whole day, night stirs to dawn. The last rays of yellow are gone, and tiny dots of sparks begin to sprout on the curtain of darkness, enlivening it, in accompaniment of the brighter moon.

The haze, which separates from lovers of astronomy, the galaxies of interesting planets and moons hidden in the blackness of the space beyond the curtain, has lessened in these times, for now. However, when the haze would make its presence felt, it’s sheer disappointment and frustration for star-gazers, who then have to set about in the hunt for cleaner skies, to catch glimpses of mesmerizing astronomical phenomena.

The haze is not just limited to star-gazers, who peek into the skies for satiating their curiosities and wonders at the marvels of the universe. There is haze in each one of our lives that keeps us from sparkling beauties. We feel chaotic while experiencing the haze. Besides, frequently, we lose hope and stop questing for whatever we had wanted as if the haze were a barricade erected to block further travelers into the very worlds they intend to make it to.

Some travelers become dejected. They leave their goals behind at the barricade. The paths they’d traversed, remain unfulfilled. However, some obstinately go on trying, to admit themselves to their desired worlds. They do not care for the troubles or meanings of the obstacles in their paths. Each one of us has the instincts of both sets of travelers. Sometimes, we go this way, and sometimes, that way. Or strike an artificial balance, dawdling along with only half a heart in the whole enterprise. We, as individuals, make varied choices in diverse circumstances with respect to different objectives of ours.

But what I think I primarily ought to be cautious about is whether I’m letting the haze decide my trajectory. And that if I am ignorant as to what lies beyond the barricade. If for a moment I forgot the infinite possibilities and opportunities that await me behind this wall, then I’m a lost cause. I’ve refused to see the worth of some priceless possession, which could’ve become mine.

I need to constantly remind myself that across the haze lie stars and planets shining and embellishing the night sky. The destination I’m out to reach out for.


Rock emits tremendous gravity, despite its mold. Chiseled or dilapidated, shan’t it sprout; but carry structures of moss and fort. The misshapen stone is rather a pebble; a microcosm of the universe.

I don’t feel that great today. I’m pining for something that’d put my heart to rest. Like comfort food! Especially, cupcakes! Alas, can’t step out of the house, for fear of life, and yet again who knows which shop is open and has cupcakes to offer? I really need a cupcake right now. And I don’t really know what could put me off this urge for sweetness, for the time being.

We all have such urges and cravings, one too many. They specially tend to turn up in tight situations too. Sometimes, it’s a job we hate, rising early, passing on ‘delicious’ but unhealthy food, so on and so forth.

Life always throws us in puddles…..albeit without proper wear and gear. Who doesn’t love splashing water in puddles? As long as they aren’t too muddy, of course! Though the mud we chip off the ground fills us up with blissful contentment. But without an umbrella or a raincoat, we might as well exclaim to have drowned in that very puddle, under thundering rain.

Our messes are beyond sorting out, due to our own sudden impulses. Yes. These sudden impulses often make their way out of our slumbering minds, only when we’re piling on a mess. They are the frequent, tempestuous, evil, little brats, which cause these messes! They stir up when they sniff a cauldron about to brim with trouble.

Look at how miraculous our minds are! They know how to get us in trouble, as well as, get us out of them. ONLY IF WE CHOOSE.

However, here a question arises in my mind. Is life very much entwined with our own minds? Is the mind forest that kills me often, but enchants me many more times than it does burden me, actually, so truly aligned with my external circumstances? I know it churns my internal sense experiences, covers them fully. But I wasn’t aware that its presence isn’t in response to the outer world. It holds, simply to say, more purpose than just that.

It sometimes mirrors the world around me. Or very likely that it should create that very world. Maybe it’s how I process things. But I guess, response and stimuli aren’t actions which are split or binary, but pretty much fused and connected. Our inner and outer, are fundamentally interlocked. Part of an organic whole. The cosmic. How else do we exist otherwise? If not webbed.

Segregation is an artificial poster on a “wall”. Perhaps we could segregate systems of knowledge-acquisition into various disciplines, for ease of comprehension. But the subject of comprehension is so organic, that the one who attempts to comprehend, in their own very unique ways, is intrinsically enmeshed with the object of one’s curiosity and study. The cosmos is incomprehensible, in that sense, if we don’t take ourselves into account for observation. It is the wall, of which, we make up gravel in a brick.

Create your website at
Get started