Skip to main content
Saving You
My thoughts will never meet yours, for my level of tranquility never matched with anyone's. I find peace in ways you can't.  Your depths and skies are not of my universe. Yet, we all are unique. And therefore I am just like you, because even I, am not like anybody else.
It's like we've crossed paths often. Like we're in a maze, and the only direction we go is forward. And there, from the corner of my eye I can see you making your way out from your own direction. We've crossed paths, number of times, but never have we stopped and looked at each other more closely.
Are we scared?
Because in my mind you're all the things I want in me. You're the last picture of which I am the pieces. I almost want to run back, grab you and say stop. I know you. You don't know me but I know you.
And I can fix everything you want me to. Because in some or the other ways, you have fixed me.
What will you do then?
Some reasons aren't worth saying, are they? Curiosities, they're not killed, they're hushed.
How do I say I can save you? How do I say that I can see your way out of this maze?
.
.
But I can't. You don't even know I exist.

And you're so close to all the answers, while I'm stuck in a loophole. 


- अनुश्रुति अधिकारी (Anushruti Adhikari)

Labels:

Comments

  1. Bhaskar DhakalMay 14, 2018 at 11:48 PM

    This is why I love how and what you write. This is exactly what I need and cannot weave for myself. And when I read you, my thirst is quenched. Thank you for such beautiful pieces.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

When Charlie decided

When Charlie decided to die, his bagpack lost its painful weight of monotony and helplessness. A man standing behind him shoved his way to the front, nearly pushing him out of balance. Strong stench of tired armpits spread across the bus, mixing with the smell of diesel and something rotten. But Charlie had decided to die. So it was okay.   So how should he die?   When he reached his room, he undressed himself to nothing and looked around. His clothes were either dirty or unfolded. Ramita didi who would have to clean them tomorrow. Surely, she’d be the first to know about dead Charlie, but why would she clean the clothes of a dead man now?   He washed his dirty clothes and hung them to dry. The rest were ironed and folded neatly.   The day they find Charlie’s body in the room, Paale dai might look around and see these untouched pairs of shirts and pants, then decide to take it for his son.   He opened his fridge. The old broken mach...
1 comment
Read more

Squiggles and Scribbles of Sashi

Sashi woke up today, annoyed and at 4 a.m. Her thinning blanket somehow turned over and her oiled-up feet were exposed to the ruthless chills of Magh. She angrily switched on the light, as if to scold the walls and windows of her room for the restless night.  Her belongings in the one-person rental flat are quite minimal, although symmetrically pleasing, like something straight out of a Wes Anderson movie, only, without the colours. Her clothes, from her mother's sarees to her work uniform had to put up a fight with her undiagnosed O.C.D; even the softest of the fabric was disciplined into a neat pile.  Her bathroom had nothing more than a single soap, dry on one side and slimy on the other. Her toothbrush, however, looked more worried, for the woman brushed ferociously, disappointed at her slightly yellow teeth which were now accompanied by often bleeding gums.  Her kitchen was completely empty, as she had decided not to eat in her room. The ventilation in the tiny flat ...
2 comments
Read more

The Moment, The Lifetime

Imagine an age, an era, cramped into a single moment. We're bridges and buildings, burning, falling, rising, touching skies then falling again. Nothing remains forever. But the remains are forever to stay. It's an age cramped into a single moment. It's in one moment, which you pick up your pen. Inside you, you dust off the corners of your brain, search for the right words, the right depth, the right freefall. For that spot on the paper, which will be the beginning of your story. Blink, blink again, or close your eyes altogether and feel your soul searching, picking, and scratching in your flesh to find the right idea, the right treasure. Drink. Drink while you still can, drink everything you see. Drink the emptiness of the glass, the whiskey bottle, there is still some inspiration wandering. Drink the smell of your ink; drink the feel of the paper against your palms. Drink the passion of the love you just made. Search for more. You're still thirsty. Yo...
Post a Comment
Read more