love, philosophy, soul

HOMECOMiNG

And as I walk, crushing the dead fragile leaves, under my feet, I stop after a few brisk steps. It was and is never easy to jump out of a small window and track the faded footsteps on dry grass, but that exactly is how I will find my way back home. I have travelled… Continue reading HOMECOMiNG

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FICTION, identity, poetry

THE SOMNAMBULiST iCE-CREAM SELLER WALKS BESiDES A STEAM ENGiNE POWERED TRAiN

And as he walks he puts a hand on his cap covered head, out of sheer habit, lest the smoke from the steam engine throw the cap off from its ground. The cap is striped like that of a school boy’s. It is indeed out of sheer habit that the ice-cream seller puts his hand… Continue reading THE SOMNAMBULiST iCE-CREAM SELLER WALKS BESiDES A STEAM ENGiNE POWERED TRAiN

diary, life, soul

ON THE OTHER SiDE OF SMOKE

And master Mehmut, the well-digger, in Orhan Pamuk’s The Red Haired Woman, was inside the well because of an accident that made him stay there inside for a few hours until someone rescued him; Mr. Okada in Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-up Bird Chronicle went inside the dry well to think, to think in peace and… Continue reading ON THE OTHER SiDE OF SMOKE

life, poetry, soul

THE CONVERSATiONS

And as we sat there looking at each other but never quite seeing, I asked what had been in my mind for centuries. I have always believed, and I have believed what I read, that questions are always more important than answers; so in this tête-a-tête I had an upper hand, I was stronger. It… Continue reading THE CONVERSATiONS

death, love, POEM, poetry

THE CONFESSiONS iNSiDE THE BOX

  And the page lay on the grave, the dead seemed to read and absorb each word written on it. Nothing could destroy the ink, not even the overnight rain. There are things that remain, and have always been, always present even after catastrophes and nature’s furies, just like the letters on that page. The… Continue reading THE CONFESSiONS iNSiDE THE BOX

MEMORIES, poetry

WiSH YOU WERE HERE*

  And walking through the fog, the blurring and cold fog, Kashiv felt a sudden lump growing in his throat. He was drenched in memories, fond and piercing. He couldn’t speak. He had no one to talk to, never. He had and has been alone, always. Only the brief episodes that formed those memories were… Continue reading WiSH YOU WERE HERE*