Sometimes I am scared of what I might become. What if I forget my modus operandi. Can an artist forget his trait? I started off to be a writer, now an array of vocations caper about on my dashboard. The inclination towards direction affects my
Power is control –A shard of mythThat you think you own,But you are a marionetteDangling at fate’s behest.You think you moved?You are pushed.You think you are quiet?You have been silenced.Think you have spoken?You have been forced to scream –A painful bellow,You have been marked yellowFor
I have often pondered over this existential question one too many times – Should we be completely honest with people? Should we really tell them what we think about them? Can we really call a potato a potato? A spade a spade? Then I am
Unrest brews in my cup today. Life scares me to death. I am constantly harrowed by all the set of events that gradually arrays with bugles and trumpets winking at an announcement. A hereafter that I can’t see, awaits. The very idea of a hazed
I wish my life could be as erratic as Charles Bukowski changed jobs in Factotum. To be able to quit apathy as it gnaws upon my soul. How magnificent life would be then! To be able to do anything, absolutely anything just for the heck