I am not a traveller
I am the journey itself.
A character in a story
that hasn’t been written yet.
I am the silence
before a word is born,
the pause that holds
a universe inside it.
No book carries my page,
yet I live
in the corners of every heart
a meaning waiting
to be felt.
I am not a voice,
I am the vibration
you only hear
when your soul grows quiet.
I am emptiness
yet overflowing.
Unseen
yet unmistakably real.
To you
the one who always dreamed big, maybe bigger than me……
What else did I have back then?
I kept asking myself,
What more could I have given?
I only had love
But love… wasn’t enough
to buy the dream you were chasing.
What else did I have back then?
Money?
Money was like a distant relative
never called, never visited.
So I offered trust instead.
But trust…
trust wasn’t enough
to buy your dream either.
What else did I have back then?
I could cook you egg curry
the kind that feels like home.
I could pour all my love into it.
But again,
love wasn’t the currency
your dream accepted.
What else did I have back then?
Honestly?
Only the things that stayed with me
even when people didn’t
my warmth,
my prayers,
my good vibes.
If you wanted more than that,
I hope you reached it.
Cheers
from someone who had only love and somehow that wasn’t enough.
Is everything alright with you?”
Yes, why?
“You seem sad.”
Is it? Oh no
I’m always like this.
I may look sad
because of my sunken eyes;
they like to tell stories
I never wrote.
It might indicate something,
but no
I’m not stressed.
Didn’t have a sleepless night.
When I woke up this morning,
my body wasn’t tired
I was fresh,
alive,
like someone who remembers
how to breathe again.
It’s just my face
gave up today.
That happens, doesn’t it?
I mean, I’m not an actor.
But sometimes
it’s good to wear sunglasses
if your eyes are teary,
or pretend you’re going to the bathroom
just to wash your face,
let the water
negotiate with your emotions.
Oh no, it’s normal.
Many people cry
under blankets at night
oh, not me,
of course not me.
I can cry,
I can fry my mind
oh wait, it’s Friday, isn’t it?
I don’t eat boiled food;
everything should be fried.
Tried.
Dried.
I’m not sad
it’s just my face,
my stubborn face,
that refuses to accept
that it is happy.
Otherwise, you know,
I’ve got masks.
I can make my face
a happy face,
a festival face,
a face that fools even me.
“Oh, is it looking naturally sad?”
Oh
thank you so much.
I rang the director and said,
It’s the perfect timing.
Shall we shoot today?
Call me cartoon.
(it’s cool…)
’cause I’m not the only one.
People walk around acting serious,
faces like stone…
but deep down?
Every single one of us is a cartoon.
Some stretch far enough to live in history,
some fade fast
just a story,
some stay hidden
like a mystery.
And us?
We talk like cartoons,
we act like cartoons,
we are cartoons.
No transitions.
No script.
No warning.
Life just jumps
cut to scene,
cut to scene,
moment after moment
with no pause button.
Ideas drifting…
here,
there,
everywhere
like loose papers in the wind.
Before all this?
We weren’t anyone.
Just outlines.
Just sketches.
But now…
now we’ve coloured in.
Now we’re cartoons.
And sometimes I wish the world
worked like that too
that war was cartoon,
that murder was cartoon,
that pain came with a reset button
and a soft sound effect
instead of silence.
’Cause when reality gets heavy,
when it presses on the ribs,
we do what we do best
we escape.
We slip into the versions of us
that feel lighter,
stranger,
truer.
Yeah…
call me cartoon.
Call all of us cartoon.
’Cause whether we admit it or not,
we’re all living these lives
in bright colours and broken lines
real stories,
real hearts,
real moments
real cartoons.
They asked me
can you rise above yourself?
I said, I can stand on the top of the mountain.
They asked again,
“Do you still think you’ve risen above yourself once you reach there?”
I said, I think I can.
How?
It’s like bravery, you know
to rise among yourself and climb that mountain.
One must rise above doubt and negativity,
one must rise above shyness.
We’re all rising,
but we must also uplift others
give them arms when they can’t find their own.
Just imagine
you’ve reached the top of a cliff.
There’s abundant food, water, and peace.
If the one above you pulls you up,
then together, you create a happy, helpful community.
Yet if the person cuts the rope after reaching the top,
their society is already infected.
So remember,
you must rise above your greed.
“Oh, what else is there today to feed?”
No crowds
leave them.
They follow the noise,
chasing the glitter they’re fascinated by.
But I
I can’t be that magnet.
Or maybe I’m just a weak one.
That’s alright.
All I want to attract is love, peace, and positivism.
I want to be that aura
that lights the soul
for millions of years to come.
Oh light
just light.
Sometimes
all you have
is love.
Sometimes
all you carry
is love
love, love, love
the only thing close to reality.
Eminem mentality,
questions attacking me
Why me
in this quiet city?
But it’s not only you,
other hearts breathe here too,
in this quiet city,
breathing life
into empty streets.
“Oh no… but there’s nothing much to do here.”
“Well… what do we ever have to do anyway?”
We are restless beings,
can’t even sit in one place properly,
can’t close our eyes
for a minute
a minute feels long.
So take two seconds…
Oh
you lost my sight for two seconds?
“You love me that much, dear?”
You know what…
sometimes I sit there wondering,
am I a day person… or a night person?
And then I laugh because
man, I don’t even know what I am.
I mean… I’m happy, okay?
I could be Superman…
or Batman…
definitely not a vampire,
mosquitoes hate me and I hate them back.
Night sounds cool and all
but I haven’t even bought a mask yet
how am I supposed to save citizens like this?
And those evil clowns of society?
Bro… I can’t fight them.
I try to be compassionate, you know?
I can’t hate people who love me
and for some stupid reason
I love even the ones who hate me.
What a joke, right?
But listen
night is beautiful.
Stars… calm…
that moment when she stargazes
and ends up looking at me instead
I heard someone sing something like that
and it hit me deep,
like… yeah… that’s the kind of night I want.
On a cozy bed,
counting stars like I own the sky.
But the day?
Ah, the day is different.
Seeing the sun smile every morning—
that does something to me.
Makes me feel like,
alright, let’s go again.
And if it rains and the sun hides,
I’ll cherish the memory of it.
I mean… why not?
A good memory is enough
to put a smile on my face.
Bad ones though—
nah.
They suffocate me.
Feels like someone locked me in a room
with no windows.
Yeah, I’m claustrophobic.
I need space.
Nature.
Loving people around me.
Cloud 9 type vibe.
And honestly,
I don’t want to force myself
to be a night owl or a sunshine hero.
I just want my natural rhythm,
my own sleep, my own peace.
Maybe I’m not day.
Maybe I’m not night.
Maybe I’m the in-between
the morning that says “thank you for life”
and the evening that whispers
“you survived today, good job.”
I’m just me.
Chiseling myself
with every experience,
becoming stronger
day and night…
or whatever I decide to be.
Some people say their life is a waste.
But even waste can be recycled
into something unexpectedly beautiful
so why not you?
I would say the same thing
even to someone aged ninety-nine.
Like Martin Luther said:
“Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple trees.”
So please, I request you
don’t think of ending your life.
I resurrected myself
from countless dark thoughts,
and here I am,
still breathing,
still sharing my piece of light.
Sometimes all you really want
is a long hug,
a genuine kiss.
Like seasons,
everything is temporary.
I know, I know…
this may sound like a lecture,
the same message on repeat
maybe you’ve heard it a thousand times.
Thank God I’m not a professor
people would’ve ended their lives
listening to my annoying lectures
(Just a little joke.)
Time passes like this.
One moment sadness sits beside you,
and the next moment
joy waits at your door with a flower.
The choice is yours:
will you keep it in a vase,
or weave a garland for yourself?
I’m the kind of person who wonders
why birds poop from the sky.
Shouldn’t they wear pads?
Or at least underwear?
But no
they are free.
Very free.
And they don’t end their life
for things that break us humans.
So wakey-wakey
you’re human too.
Life is not a waste.
It is you
who can make it the best.
Give it your own unique taste.
Let a little light enter
through your broken spaces.
Stronger the wine,
stronger the taste.
Stronger the emotions,
stronger the life you create.
“How should I dress?”
I asked a mirror.
It whispered,
“Dress like you’ve just been released
from the shackles of life.”
So I wore a loose-fitting dress.
I asked for confirmation
“Do I look okay now?”
The mirror asked,
“Do you think you are free now?”
I said,
“I feel comfortable…
my clothes aren’t even touching my skin.”
It said,
“Will you change this dress
if someone doesn’t give you a good comment?”
“No,” I said.
“I’ll keep wearing it
no matter what anyone says.”
It replied,
“Good. Then you are enlightened.
But remember
Comfort and freedom are two different things.
You can feel comfort when you’re free,
but sometimes
your freedom won’t buy you
the comfort you want.”
I said, “I don’t understand.”
It said,
“You will.
When the time arrives.”
“When?” I asked.
“Have patience.”
“I don’t have any,” I said.
It asked,
“Are you uncomfortable now?”
“I’m curious,” I replied.
“Curious… but still comfortable.”
The mirror fell silent for a moment
then said,
“The day you stop seeking
confirmation from others,
you will gain absolute freedom…
with comfort.”
I said,
“I was just seeking feedback.”
The mirror laughed,
“You scroll feeds anyway
just need to stop feeding
your insecurity.”
I snapped.
“I’m going to break you for being rude.”
It said,
“I’m more than one, dude.”
“I’ll break everything I see!” I shouted.
It replied,
“I have a split personality.”
I said,
“You’re making random assumptions!”
I got angry,
it got angry
I punched it.
It shattered.
And from one tiny shard,
a voice whispered,
“Mate…
you just broke yourself,
not me.”
I can write… about random things.
I don’t know if the words I drop
land softly on the heart,
or fall like leaves nobody notices.
I write feelings
raw, unfiltered,
like whispers running wild in a storm.
But will I ever train myself
to be the writer I dream to be?
I don’t take abuse.
I don’t wear chains around my voice.
This
this is not who I am.
I used to write love letters…
for strangers, for lovers,
hoping their hearts would bloom like spring.
Love happens.
Life happens.
Sometimes both feel borrowed.
I shoot bullets of emotion
random thoughts
into random skies,
for random souls living in corners
I’ve never seen,
with intentions softer than morning light.
And this world
this world is chaos in costume.
A circus of chance,
a map drawn with shaking hands.
Tandems, pandoms, candoms
I make up words
just to feel alive again.
Cause I
I’m a random guy
with random nerves,
random dreams.
Random is my name,
because nobody really knows me…
Maybe that’s freedom.
Maybe that’s lonely.
Maybe
it’s everything.
So leave it.
Let the world stumble as it will.
Let thoughts wander barefoot.
