Origin of Thoughts

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...

 You have beautiful dreams for the human kind, and yet, I dream of death. I think of the ends, I think of the spares, the forgotten and the broken. the universe belongs inside the minds and outside it. You have reached but a very small dot of what is to explore. I see the far edge. What will happen when you are done explaining everything? Will you go on for more? Or will you come to the realization that exploration is not passion, but the endless and mindless river that has its ups and downs towards a timeless nothingness? The voids are no more in spaces which you leave unattended, but in memories you keep, unforgotten. The moments, to which you hold so tightly, succumb with the power you have to preserve it. With all the time in the world, you switch off to a far off space where no one recognizes you as the human that once was. All the dead you remember, all the super humans that remain in the periphery of the world you wish to be in, are nothing but strands of unlucky clov...

Because I can't feel my legs anymore. They're dangling on the floor of a room miles away, where they wish to be. Not here. They were not meant to be here this long. Fingers try to make castles out of the humid dry air. Nothing. The dark is blinding. And I see everything. That's why it all mixes up into one single colour. The colour of the world. And you think I can't see a thing. And my mind? You ask if my mind was in the right place? Could you point me out where it is actually supposed to be? Is it supposed to be dangling on the butcher's where all of you have laid yours? Have you thrown it to the sea because you wanted to start clear? You know where my mind is? It's in the middle of a bridge. One side of it leads to your reality. Another leads to my home. Tell me where I should go.

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...

Inside Out. I'm running. I'm running, so fast that my breath is louder than my footsteps. I have no time to tumble. Behind me I see people shouting at me to run faster, telling me how proud they are of me. In front of me, I see my heroes, waiting to grab me and pull me to a place beyond this soul crushing forest. Sometimes I don't know what I am running for. It's like I'm running, looking for places where I can heal, but with every mile I keep losing bits and pieces of me. Often, I get scared that at the end, there will be nothing left of me. That one day I will reach the mountain top but when I look at myself I will see nothing. Nothing at all. Is it worth it? One day, I will not be scared of death. I will let it feast on me and happily remember all the times this body has helped me, betrayed me. But for now, I'm a coward. I don't yet want to meet my inner self. This side of me has done too many wrongs. I have though, explored myself in so m...