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19h · 20
Shuttles for...,
Just as the little shuttles for,
finished, in the loom on the row.

Unnoticed threads flow, seamlessly wrong,
creating a pattern both intricate and strong.

Each throw of the shuttle behind a thousand threads,
Their diverse colours and textures form a rich on heads.

"In teamwork, every effort is a thread,
to the final fabric, of success on the head.

The rhythm of life, much like the weaver's hands,
intertwines our choices and destinies"

In the modern digital age,
every online interaction is another thread,

expanding the vast network of human connections,
Though the threads may seem insignificant alone.

together they create beautiful complex designs,
and I'm sure that's how our shared existence is.
#thought
This quote has been in my draft since August 2024. I’m just waiting for the right moment — a moment that explores themes of interconnectedness, destiny, or the passage of cruel time, and contributes to a broader meditation on how individual actions and moments reflect the unseen forces or small actions that can have far—reaching/blocking effects.
19h · 12
Shallow cuddles
When the body works hard and breath comes shallow,
it speaks of struggle, effort, a drive that narrows.
A pulse that quickens to push through the strain,
a sign of life, a battle, a gain.

But when someone say your words sound shallow,
it cuts, stings like a sudden shadow –
because words should breathe deep, pull from the core?
not just skim the surface, but speak of more?

Shallow cuddles, skin-close and thin,
hardly seem the way into derail
a reckoning long due,
where my words shouldn't clash,
unraveling the threadbare seams
we've held between us.

In the pause, breath touches breath,
and the words, once sharp and waiting,
dissolve into the warmth of skin –
soft, simple, silent.

So I've draws shallow breaths, tight and thin,
like threads that bind the breaking within.
Sweat traces maps down a weathered face,
each line a journey, a quiet embrace.

The weight I bears in every stride,
heavier than air, yet light inside.
For in the labor, I finds my claim,
a whispered truth, a rising flame.

Because the shallow breath, though brief and small,
holds the pulse of the fight, the rise, the fall.
It marks the moments I did not yield,
and that's why it comes – my harvest, my field.
#thought
✦The Rewriting

She had expected the story to stop at some point.
But it didn’t.
It only multiplied.

With every turn of the page,
she saw the world reshape itself.
The walls that once surrounded her—
the ones she knew by heart—
shifted in her peripheral vision,
as though they were not walls at all,
but thoughts held in place by gravity.

She read on.
And she realized—
she was no longer in the room
she thought she was in.
The book was now the room.
The words were walls,
furniture,
the air between them.

“The choices you make write the door.
You are no longer entering.
You are creating it.”

It was almost like breathing,
this new act of creation.
Each sentence she read
dissolved into the next,
and with it, she felt herself
becoming something else—
someone else.

The edges of her own name
blurred,
became vague
as if it had been written
with water.

“This is not the end,”
he whispered from the pages,
his voice a ripple in the air.
“You have always been here,
but you’ve never seen this place until now.”

She closed her eyes
and felt the world continue to write itself.
The journal was no longer just ink.
It was a map—
and every choice she made
shifted the coordinates.
When she opened her eyes again,
the room had become a mirror.
A thousand versions of herself
watched from behind the glass.

She was both the writer
and the story.
She was both the beginning and the end.
And the only question left:
Was she writing this world—or living in it?
#thought
This is an unending cycle—I meant the idea of a loop, where the boundaries of beginning and end blur completely, and the story or reality becomes a continuous loop of rewriting itself. In that scenario, the character and the narrative become stuck in a kind of infinite feedback loop. They create the story, and the story creates them, without an ultimate resolution, making it feel as though it never truly begins or ends.
✦The Elsewhere Draft: For Her.

The first word was hers.
The second was his.
And with the third,
she was no longer sure
who was writing whom.

She read it out loud,
letting the unfamiliarity twist her tongue
like it belonged to a time before.
Before she even knew his story.
Before she knew hers.

It didn’t stop.
The page turned,
but the ink never dried.
Each sentence dissolved
into the next,
erasing what came before.

It was both hers and not hers—
a story that had been written for her
but wasn’t yet hers to claim.

She turned the page again.
And with it,
she felt the room shift.
Not in space—
but in time.

The walls seemed to recede,
and yet—
they weren’t gone.
They were simply rearranged.

And there he was.
Not in the room—
not in the way she remembered—
but in The Story script,
his voice faint but undeniable.

She shut the book.
No longer afraid.
But no longer certain.
The story had already moved
beyond where she had expected it to go.

She wasn’t just reading anymore.
She wasn’t just revising.
She was rewriting the space between them.

"I wrote you in because you were never meant to be an observer."
#thought
In Chapter Ten, where the power to alter the narrative shifts completely into her hands. She is no longer a passive reader but an active participant, a co-author of this shared, uncharted space. As she reads, the world around her bends, shifting with her thoughts.
"You are the beginning of an ending
you’ve never been told."
✦The Revision Begins

The house didn’t creak anymore.
It listened.

Every floorboard,
every doorknob,
every window pane—
they held their breath
as she read the sentence again.

She whispered it aloud.
And somewhere,
something changed.

The mirror in the hallway blurred.
Not fogged—blurred.
Like someone had smudged the image
with an eraser meant for dreams.

She stared into it.
Not at herself—
but at the edges.

Behind her,
the hallway stretched longer
than the house should allow.
Three more doors
than she remembered.

One of them
was open.

She took the journal with her.
Not for comfort.
But because it pulsed now—
as if the pages
were breathing.

Each step toward the door
felt like a footnote
she was only beginning to understand

On the other side:
a study that had never existed.
Books she’d never read
but somehow recognized.
A cup of tea, still steaming.

And on the desk—
The Story script.

Its title:
Elsewhere Draft: For Her.

She opened to the first page.

The words were hers.
But she had never written them.
#thought
In Chapter Nine, a place where identity and narrative become indistinguishable, where the boundaries between the written and the living start to vanish. Here, she’s not just reading; she’s becoming part of something far larger, far more elusive.
"The wind carries with it a name you haven’t yet learned to speak."
✦The Quiet Pull

She stood at the edge of the room
like someone visiting a memory
they weren’t sure they were allowed to keep.

The journal sat where it always had.
Nothing had changed—
and yet,
everything had.

Since the dream,
she’d felt a pressure.
Not grief exactly—
grief was loud.
This was quiet, constant,
like the hush before a line is spoken
on a stage not yet lit.

She reached for it once.
Stopped.

There was a fear in her—not of death,
but of being read.
As if the moment she touched the journal,
he might see her
too clearly.

What would he find?
A woman still frozen at the door.
A heart not broken,
but suspended—
midbeat, midgrief, midline.

She finally opened it.
Not quickly,
not dramatically.
Like one opens an envelope
they never expected to arrive.

And there—beneath the faint ghost
of the sentence she’d seen before—
was another.
New. Still indenting.
Still warm.

She closed the journal
as the wind moved through the house.
But the air didn’t feel cold.
It felt… unfinished.

And she wasn’t afraid anymore.
#thought
In Chapter Eight, reality begins to echo. Time softens. The sentence becomes a doorway. And for the first time, she wonders if she’s truly the one left behind—or if she’s being written forward.
"Elsewhere Draft: For Her."
✦The Elsewhere Draft

It isn’t death.
Not in the way they told stories of it.
There are no tunnels, no lights,
no ledger of sins.

There is only this—
an unfinished page
floating between versions
of a world that never quite agreed on him.

He exists now
in the folds between edits,
in the italics no one remembers writing.

The clocks here don’t tick.
They hesitate.
The air tastes of typewriter ribbon,
dusty and old and waiting.

He’s tried to rewrite himself.
He’s left messages—
on paper, in dreams, in the weight of silence.
But stories are stubborn.
They follow the first draft
like it’s law.

And yet—
someone heard him.

A fingertip
brushed his absence
and read it like Braille.

She.

She is not like the others.
She feels the narrative bending,
even as the others stay inside the safe plotlines.

He watches.
Or rather—he is watched
by the idea of her.
Somewhere in her world,
his journal still waits to be opened.

He doesn’t know what happens
if she turns the next page.

But if she doesn’t,
he may remain here forever:
a sentence misplaced,
a man lost
between revisions.
#thought
In Chapter Seven, move gently back to her—but now, she’s sensing it. That blurred edge between grief and unreality. The journal pulls at her, not just with memory, but with something alive. The chapter lets deepen her inner world while letting his presence stir in quiet, eerie ways.
“You are not a reader, you are the revision.”
✦Between the Lines

The next morning,
she returned before the others.
The journal was where she left it—
but something felt different.

No wind had blown it open.
No hands had turned the page.
But another indentation was there—fainter,
as if pressed in a dream.

She ran her fingers gently across it,
letting the words rise in her mind
like breath on glass.

She whispered the line aloud
as if it might summon him—
not as a ghost,
but as a revision.
An edit not yet finalized.

That night she dreamed of him.
But he was not how she remembered—
he spoke in footnotes,
walked through places that didn’t exist
in the world she knew.

She woke with ink on her palm.
No pen near.
No one else in the house.

The journal remained closed.
But now, she didn’t dare open it.
Not yet.

Because part of her believed
he was still writing—
not from the grave,
but from the margins of whatever reality
had failed to contain him.
#thought
In Chapter Six, the space beyond the margins, where he exists not as a ghost, but as an author misplaced in someone else’s draft. This chapter plays with metafiction, isolation, and the idea that reality might just be a poorly edited.
“They keep reading the wrong ending,
He mutters into the quiet."
✦The Sentence

It was late—
the kind of late that feels like forgetting.
Everyone else had gone.
Only she remained,
fingers hovering just above the open journal,
as if touching it would confirm
he was truly gone.

She didn’t mean to find it.
She wasn’t even sure she had.

But under the light,
when the shadows slipped just right,
a sentence revealed itself—
not in ink,
but in pressure.

Indented. Whispered into the page.
Words carved, not written.

She stared at it
long enough for the room to notice.
It felt like a riddle,
but one meant for someone else.
Someone who knew how to read endings
before they happened.


---

Outside, the wind changed.
Inside, nothing did.
Not visibly.
But she felt it:
a seam opening.

Reality, like a page,
had margins.
And he—
he had always been writing
between the lines.
#thought
In Chapter Five, where She step into his voice through letters—not through memory, but through something stranger. The journal starts to speak—not loudly, but personally. With blend memory, metafiction, and mystery, while deepening her presence too.
“I am not gone.
I am written elsewhere.
You’re reading it wrong, he told her.
The story isn’t over, You’re still on the wrong page.”
✦The Page That Waits

The blank page sat like a mirror,
not reflecting, but remembering.
It did not accuse.
It simply waited.

He used to say
“A page never forgets what it was meant to hold.”
As if intention alone
could haunt paper.

Now they stared at it
like it might explain everything.
Why he left the window cracked,
why the keys were still in the dish,
why none of them
had noticed the silence growing teeth.

There had been signs,
maybe.
But signs are only clear
in hindsight—
when the story
has already been written.

They did not speak of guilt,
not openly.
But it lived in their glances,
in how carefully they stepped around his chair—
like it might still be warm.
#thought
In Chapter Four, tone shift a character—perhaps someone unexpected—who discovers a single sentence written faintly on that “blank” page, setting off a slow unraveling of truth and memory.  A thread is pulled. The “blank page” reveals something faint, and with it, the line between truth and fiction begins to bend.
“If they read this, it means I’ve disappeared from the wrong story.”
✦Margins

They began to speak of him only in margins.
Not directly—not yet.

He was too much and too little all at once,
a name softened by echo,
a memory dressed in careful language.

Simple things,
said to the air,
as if he might still change them.

His journal remained shut.
They couldn’t read it—
not for lack of trying,
but because every page looked different now.
Ink turned to questions.
Margins filled themselves with silences.

Someone, once,
whispered he had been writing a final entry.
But the last page was blank.
Perhaps it had always been.
Or perhaps
he had left it that way
on purpose.
This narrative with subtle emotion, symbolic imagery, and metafictional touches. In Chapter Three, depends on memory and guilt, while suggesting that something unsaid and still continued building.

"Maybe, he was waiting for someone to finish it,
But the room did not agree, it creaked in quiet resistance."
✦The Hollow Room

The room had not changed.
Not since before.
The chair still faced the window,
where morning light spilled across the floor
in measured silence.

His coat remained on the hook,
arms empty.
The clock ticked,
but no one had wound it.

They said grief was heavy,
but this—
this was a kind of weightless haunting.
A space untouched, yet entirely altered,
as if absence had rewritten the walls
when no one was looking.

They walked in like strangers
to a memory they had helped build.
Each item—a relic.
Each breath—a trespass.

Someone touched the coat.
It swayed.
And in that small motion,
time flinched.
#thought
Since, they walk the line between the seen and the felt, the literal and the symbolic. This format move fluidly through thought, memory, and presence, preserving, while the the story shifts pushing forward.
"He wouldn’t have liked the curtains drawn."
"He always sat facing the door."
May 12 · 33
The Story
Nitin Pandey May 12
Let's make The Story:
Grief didn't scream here,
but smoulders like an old fire.


Let's make The Story:
what remained was a shape?
emotionally or regrettably—
whatever, the truth was escape?


Let's make The Story:
as though the weight was not of flesh,
but the memory—fragile and unfinished ash.
#thought
Some called it death. Others, a mistake. But the silence insisted it was neither. It was simply a moment too surreal to be real—an event so clean, it almost looked like fiction. And in the end, the narrative settled: not a tragedy, not a reckoning—just a bad dream no one could quite wake from.

But dreams, even the awful ones, leave residue. And the story—
the one no one wanted to tell—
was just beginning.
May 10 · 47
The Eye
Nitin Pandey May 10
Where The Eye's name had once been written,
there was a single, unfamiliar line.

A moment where The Eye self begins to dissolve into the text,
But every wall is a setting, every eye a reader, every life a story.


The journal grew heavier in The Eye's hands,
its pages rustling without wind,
And on the inside cover—

The Eye felt the words,
not just in mind, but in bones.
The Eye was becoming part of the draft,
and the draft was becoming part of Eye.

But now, The Eye felt less like the reader
and more like the text—
less like the observer
and more like the observed.

And then The Eye felt,
the walls watching back.
And for the first time,
The Eye closed the journal.
#thought
The eye is the observer, the one who interprets the world, assigns meaning, and fills in the gaps. It is both literal and metaphorical, representing the act of witnessing and interpreting. It shifts the story from mere events to experiences. In this context, the eye is not just passive—it shapes the story by the way it perceives and reacts, much like a reader actively shapes the meaning of a text through their interpretation.
May 10 · 38
The wall
Nitin Pandey May 10
The walls had always been there.
Plain. Solid. Reliable.
But now, as you stepped back into the room,
you saw them differently—
not as boundaries, but as settings.
Frames for a scene still unfolding.

The fissure led to an underground cavern.
Walls glittered with crystalline growths,
pulsing—faint, alive—
casting shifting patterns of light.

You reached out.
Fingers brushed a surface, smooth yet singing.

Then—a day.

It began on the crystalline plains.
A fissure, overlooked.
The others moved on, but you felt it—
a vibration, low and calling,
like a whisper in the bones.

Against protocol, you descended,
armed with only tools and resolve.

And then, as if hearing your hesitation,
the wall beside you shifted—
not physically, but perceptually.
It blurred,
its edges softening like the margin of a dream.

Through it, you glimpsed another room.
Not the one you stood in,
but a place just beyond.
A space where light moved differently,
where shadows weren’t tied to objects,
where the air felt written.

Mysteries do not yield to distant eyes.
They must be felt, stepped into, lived.
Mysteries do not yield to distant eyes.
They are known by touch, by step, by breath.
#thought
The wall represents the boundaries that separate the known from the unknown, the living from the dead. It is both a physical barrier and a symbolic one—a threshold that defines the edges of reality. it’s not just a backdrop, but a container for the echoes of the past, a structure that both protects and confines.

It had begun while mapping the crystalline plains. The others dismissed the fissure as unremarkable, but you felt something pulling at you—a faint vibration beneath your feet, like a silent invitation. Against protocol, you descended, armed with only basic tools and an unshakable resolver.
May 2 · 43
Through the Hedgerow
Nitin Pandey May 2
✩Hedgerows in the Wall
—by you, through me

There were hedgerows in the wall,
but the eye—
steady now—
found a soft path through.
watched the body of a friend
like a map I never learned to read.

Success lies in the silence between blinks,
in how you looked at them—
not them,
but the way your gaze built a story
I was never allowed to edit.

I kept searching for
an easy-to-find exposit,
a sentence that would unfold my life
like instructions in a language I almost remembered.

But I keep failing to log in
to the blind words they left me—
receipts without purchases,
echoes without sound.
And yet, here I stand—
one eye against the hedgerow,
trying to see
what was never truly hidden,
just…
misunderstood.

But the story of a friend, once blurred
by metafictional words—
characters written in the margins
of what I thought I knew—
now stands whole in the quiet,
no longer shaped by how I read,
but by how they were written to be.

Truth wasn’t hidden,
just waiting—
not an exposit
but a slow unfolding,
like dawn breaking on familiar ground.

I no longer wrestle the blind words,
no longer seek login to a place
that was never locked,
only misread.

Now, I read the echoes gently—
not as puzzles,
but as parts of the song
that brought me here.

And in that seeing,
the wall breathes,
the eye opens,
and I know:
what I missed was never lost.

Now, I trace the margins
not for meaning,
but for motion—
where silence scribbles
its own kind of clarity.

And the wall?
Just a setting.
The eye?
A reader.
The story?
Still being written.
#thought
Nitin Pandey Apr 28
✦A Myth in Three Voices

“Some are born in fire, some in glow—
But a few are born where time folds slow.”

✦ Prologue
In the space between dusk and night,
between fire’s retreat and silver’s rise,
there exists a being born not of one,
but of both.

Neither fully light, nor wholly shadow,
Virelai is the Betweenborn—
a flicker at the edge of touch,
a breath the cosmos forgot to hold.

This is the lament, the whisper,
and the answer of three souls
who move but never meet—
bound by longing,
divided by time.
#thought
Finally—I’ve now given voice to all three: the Sun, the Moon, and Virelai. Each with their longing, their perspective, and their impossible nearness.
Nitin Pandey Apr 28
✦Virelai’s Answer:

I heard you both—
In the hush that wrapped the world,
In the turning that spun my silence into song.
You, flame and fury,
You, glow and grace—
I am made of your almost.

You called me whole,
But I am the seam,
The longing stitched into your passing.
I carry the weight of your near, your never,
The ache of what might have aligned.

I do not burn, nor shine—
I flicker.
A rhythm unplayed,
A bridge suspended between your touch.

But still, I remain,
And still, I wait—
In hush,
In turning,
In hope
that one day,
when time bends gently,
you will speak in the same breath—
and I will finally become
what I was always meant to be.
#thought
Nitin Pandey Apr 28
✦The Moon’s Whisper:

You were born in the breath after sunset—
In the hush I cradle beneath silver veils.
Not in the full bloom of night, nor in fading light,
But in the seam I guard,
Where his warmth could not linger.

You are the shimmer I reflect in tide and tear,
The quiet I hear when stars lean near.
He calls like thunder—
I listen in stillness—
Yet we always pass,
Each orbit missing by a breath.

The Duskchime sings in your silence,
A rhythm I feel in your gaze.
You are the thread of maybe,
The echo of what was almost.

If I could rise faster,
Perhaps your light would stay.
If he could pause longer,
Perhaps you would not fade.

But you are a flicker—
Moving just beyond my reach,
Between goodbye and beginning,
The one I can only dream to meet.
#thought
Nitin Pandey Apr 28
✦The Sun’s Lament:

You were born between hush and turning—
A note I could not strike, a breath I could not reach.
Not in the blaze of my dawn, nor the fall of my dusk,
But in the hollow where my fire dimmed,
And the moon held you close.

You are the shadow I brushed with my final light,
The pulse I felt but could not follow.
I speak, fierce and restless—
While she waits in silence—
And still, we miss each other,
Still, we do not align.

In your chest, the rhythm lives—
The Duskchime—but I cannot hear it alone.
The Song of the Lost Ones,
Caught between my blaze and her glow.

If I could burn softer,
Maybe you'd step closer.
If she could rise sooner,
Maybe we'd find you whole.

But you're scattered—
A half-light I chase across sky and sea,
Between day and night,
Always just beyond reach—
The one I could not hold.
#thought
Nitin Pandey Apr 28
✦ Virelai’s Solitude:
I am neither shadow nor light—
I am the space between—
A soft echo of the sun's last cry,
A gentle whisper in the moon's first breath.

Do the stars see me as I see them?
Flickering between worlds,
Hoping to be more than a blink in time,
More than an afterthought in the heavens’ grand design.

I wait—always wait.
As the sun calls to me with its fire,
And the moon beckons with its quiet song,
But I am too early, too late—
Never the moment they need.

What would it mean, to be whole?
To stand in the place where time no longer divides,
Where the sun's fierce gaze and the moon's cool touch
Meet without hesitation,
Without sorrow?

But I am Virelai,
The space they do not occupy,
The silence they cannot fill.
#thought
I hope this captures a deeper sense of Virelai’s inner world—someone who feels the weight of both day and night but never fully inhabits either. It’s that beautiful sense of belonging, yet not.
Nitin Pandey Apr 28
✦ Virelai's Lament:
I was born between hush and turning—
A song unsung, a breath unbreathed,
Not in the warmth of dawn, nor the cool touch of dusk,
But in the hollow where time wavers,
Where the sun falters and the moon waits.

I am the shadow in the sun’s last kiss,
The pulse in the moon’s first sigh.
I hear their words, tangled in longing—
The Sun, fierce and restless,
The Moon, gentle and waiting,
Yet we never meet,
Never align.

In my chest, the rhythm beats—
The Duskchime—but I cannot play it alone.
The Song of the Lost Ones,
Caught between light and night.

If I could whisper louder,
Maybe the sun would listen,
Maybe the moon would bend their paths,
And time would soften its cruel edges.

But I am scattered,
A half-light—
Wandering across faces,
Between moments,
Looking for the other half of my breath.
#thought
Virelai An old name from the celestial tongue, meaning “thread between rhythms” or “the song that binds what breaks.”
Born not at sunrise or sunset, but in the stillness between hush and turning, Virelai is the only being who can hear both the Sun’s roar and the Moon’s breath at once.
They carry within them the Duskchime, a rhythm that—if awakened—could realign the cosmic cycle and bring sun and moon together again, in harmony.
But Virelai is scattered across echoes—only fragments appear at any given age, in poets, dreamers, watchers of twilight. The full self has never awakened.
Apr 16 · 50
Duskveil
Nitin Pandey Apr 16
In the realm of dusk's embrace,
Souls plan a rendezvous in grace.

Yet, within twilight's tender light,
They just split over minutes so slight.

“In the seventh hush of dusk,” murmured the sun,
As the moon replied, “The ninth of night’s turning…”

Moon hung in the night sky like a silent guardian,
While the words of the Sun thundered through the heavens,

if, there be chosen one?

Maybe, their words entwine,
As time's nuances become a verse divine.
#thought
the Duskveil was the moment when all things held their breath—when day and night touched fingertips before slipping past one another. It is said that in this veil, the Sun and Moon were once bound by rhythm, speaking in silences known only to them.
They used to meet during the Seventh Hush and the Seventh Turning.
But something broke the rhythm. No one remembers what.
Now, the Sun always speaks in the Seventh Hush,
And the Moon always answers in the Ninth Turning—
Too late, too soon. Always almost. Never quite.

And in this eternal miss lies the ache of all longing:)
Apr 16 · 52
Respects
Nitin Pandey Apr 16
Not a bargain, not a name.
Respects never just a prize to claim,
Not, a debt, nor a mark that's made,
Respect is never just a prize to trade.

"It’s just a moment, a truth—an awareness that we together made"

A weight we see in another’s stance,
Even if they never ask for the chance.
It’s the weight of a soul that stands,
Even when no one holds out their hands.
It’s the weight of a soul that stands alone,
That's Unasked, Unclaimed, yet fully known.

Not just for those who rise to be seen,
But for those who exist—silent, unseen.
Not just for those who rise and shine,
But for the ones who stand—by choice, by time.
#thought
Something that already exists within people, whether they see it in themselves or not.

Maybe it’s not about proving worth but about seeing value. Not about placing someone above or below, but about understanding where they stand, what they carry, what they’ve lived.

In that sense, respect isn’t a reward or a transaction—it’s an awareness. A way of acknowledging the weight of someone’s existence, their moments, their truths, even if they never ask for it
I think respect is recognition—of presence, of experience, of existence itself. It’s not always about status, achievement, or even morality. Sometimes, it’s just about acknowledging that someone has walked a path you haven’t, lived moments you’ll never fully understand.

But respect isn’t submission, and it isn’t blind. It doesn’t mean agreement, admiration, or obedience. It’s simply a way of saying, I see that you are, and that means something.
Nitin Pandey Feb 24
I did not ask
to be kindling, to be held
only in the chill of your need.

You called me warmth
but tore through me like firewood
never minding the cold that followed.

I would have burned for you—
glowed, danced, stayed.
But you never asked,
only took.

Now I flicker, now I fade.
#thought
A hymn to the ache of exposure, where my own soul turns its blade against me, and the world watches, unblinking, as I stand unguarded before its merciless truth.
Feb 23 · 48
A Flicker Left
Nitin Pandey Feb 23
Take, if you must,
my warmth, my light,
burn me slow,
or burn me bright.

Let your hunger
have its way,
but leave a flicker—
let me stay.

Is that fair to me?
To glow, to burn, to break—
while you warm your hands
at the embers of my ache?

Take my fire,
let it dance for you,
but know—this flame
was never yours to use.

Burn me,
to your heart’s content,
but do not name the ashes
your own lament.

Let me smolder,
but leave me whole—
don’t strip me down
to my shroud’s cold fold.
#thought
Feb 15 · 56
Cycles of Power
Nitin Pandey Feb 15
Sometimes I make mistakes!
My mistakes fall like raindrops, soft and quick,
vanishing into soil where memories stick.
But power carves its name, deep and wide,
etched in stone—it cannot hide.

Fates twist like words in a palindrome’s dance,
repeating themselves, as if given a chance.
Between the lines of right and wrong,
I walk a path where history belongs.

Each step I take reflects the past,
my journey framed by shadows cast.
In the mirror of time, I may stand alone,
but I'm bound by forces still unknown.

Now I am tired of these meaningless flights;
one day, I will cut my wings and fill the skies,
a request for peace in the absence of earth,
in the heart of the soul, from a far-beloved house.
#thought
Sometimes, the things I chase aren't what bring me peace. True freedom comes when I release what no longer serves me, stop running, and allow myself to return to something meaningful.
Aug 2024 · 94
LIES...,
Nitin Pandey Aug 2024
Life's intricate,
Tangled and tight.
I'm the shadow,
You the light.

"flying in the court,
Accusations of the mind."
"Wounds are healed,
Accuses Ruth, it's hard to find."

Faces the fire,
Stories are told.
LIES in the heart,
A fight, to be fold.
#thought
The expression of the lies is shown under another headword.
(Headword: A Tribute to My One and Only Brother).
Please, you need to find yours.
Aug 2024 · 111
Travelogue...,
Nitin Pandey Aug 2024
The art of letting go,
Akin a drink, sipping slow.
But, the subject is who's  gonna be accused,
For what? and how? who's gonna be refused?
#thought
it might refer to the life and efforts to move forward, or maybe it could symbolize plans or hopes for the future, that are overshadowed by unresolved issues or lingering sorrow.

I just trying to move on, but still burdened by the past, these metaphors effectively the nature of emotional pain.

the memory, sorrow, and the struggle to move forward are universal, but recurring memories and emotions that affect the efforts to move on.
May 2024 · 201
Appended...,
Nitin Pandey May 2024
हर्फ़-ए-लिबास पिरोये,
एक ख़्वाहिश-ए-ख़िताब लिखूँ...
रूह-ए-स्याह बिखरे जो,
तो तुम्हे नूर-ए-आफ़ताब लिखूँ...
#thought
It seems like I'm contemplating the concept of identity and its relation to moments. while a person's identity is not reducible to individual moments, those moments can still be indicative of their experiences, beliefs, and choices. being a person identity is formed through a complex interplay of various factors over time, including moments, relationships, and personal growth. and each moment contributes to the broader narrative of who a person is, rather than defining them entirely.
But, being an actor, I'm envisioning futuristic moments that can involve immersing myself in a role set in a futuristic scenario. For example, I have imagined portraying a character in a fictional set, in a distant future, where my thoughts have colonized other planets. and my character may grapple with my futuristic setting. I might need to imagine societal norms, and cultural shifts that define this future world, allowing me to fully embody the character and bring the futuristic moments to life on screen.
May 2024 · 114
Persistence...,
Nitin Pandey May 2024
Hoping, distance would dull the pain,
Yet, those memories surprisingly rain.
Sipping my day to day with the sorrow,
Despite flow fares, filings are on tomorrow.
#thought
May 2024 · 113
Eventually...,
Nitin Pandey May 2024
*******, moments are spelled,
Practically, THE THEORY failed.
She's lying on the heavenly bed,
I meant She's near around dead.
Fluid forced, flooring of her vein,
She's breathing like artificial rain.
I found her when she rose in the case,
In those days I was busy winning the race.
Now, I'm running out too far, to the betelled,
She left me a note, I think, it has to be settled,

The Note:)

When we lost together, we can not be found,
If I'm lost alone, it will always be a remound.
#thought
Apr 2024 · 161
Delving...,
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
Amidst the moon's tranquil glow,
echoes of a cacophony reverberate flow.
intertwining chaos with serenity,
In this delving juxtaposition of security.
I find solace in the harmony of contradictions only,
embracing the tumultuous symphony of my life's journey.
#thought
The approach integrates by emphasizing the contrast between the moon's peaceful presence and the soundscape that accompanies it, so I'm just exploring the deeper meaning behind this juxtaposition.
Apr 2024 · 220
Splitting hairs.
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
वो थी सुबह, सुर्ख-ऐ-लाल,
उनका यूँ मिलना भी, था कमाल.
बातें तो चल रही अब भी, आसमानी रंगों सी फिलहाल,
मुकम्मल हुआ भी तो क्या? सिर्फ इश्क़ के 'बाल की खाल.
#thought
Apr 2024 · 123
Shroud...
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
Is,
that fair to me?
Burn me,
to your heart's-content.
But,
only this much praise has to be set.
Please,
don't strip me down to my Shroud sheet.
#thought
Apr 2024 · 121
My God...
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
If I have any relationship with my God,
Maybe, Is it my fear?
In the shadows of suffering,
My beliefs and hopes stand as an unwavering pillar.
after every storm, a little more happiness returns to the day, like golden rays breaking through clouds. May I wish only my journey to be adorned with endless blessings, and may the tapestry of my life be woven with threads of joy, that would be never seen as fade and guilt.
Apr 2024 · 91
The God...,
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
A God who does not see darkness,
But, it has given light to our souls?
In the coloured threads' existence, where shadows dance,
A God, blind to darkness, brightest upon us a radiant chance.
Through the corridors of life, where sorrows may take a toll,
It gifts our souls with light, a beacon for every troubled soul."
#thought
Your's...?
Apr 2024 · 93
Fiery Moon.
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
The moon's soft, silken glows,
A canvas painted, that gently flows.
A whispering wind, his weaves untold,
In the nature's embrace, a story unfolds.
#though
Apr 2024 · 98
The sun...
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
silky on that day,
the moon fades away,
only, for the HAPPENS,
will return alone, on his way.
#thought
Reflecting on the transient nature of beauty and the cyclical rhythm of life, this verse captures the fleeting brilliance of the moon and hints at the inevitable return of events, despite their temporary absence. despite the moon's departure, there's an anticipation of its inevitable return, echoing themes of resilience and the enduring cycle of life.
Apr 2024 · 77
Hedgerows...,
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
If, I was on the air,
It's ok, crashes are fair.
But, I was trapped in between and something,
Now, I just want my peace, that I have been for nothing...
#thought
Apr 2024 · 67
Obstructed...,
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
I assure you,
never let you go.
if, you made me gone,
trust me, I'll never be back.
#thought
"the first aspect of the originality is a new one for each prevalence on the same day to obtain the best"
Apr 2024 · 79
Threaded Hearts
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
Self-evaluate,
engaged with fire.
To catch the moon,
That rays was a liar.
#thought
Attraction, Attachment, Love, Trust, Worship, Obsession, and Death these scribble threads have kept me tied to you, till the day, and perhaps it will remain so for, and a long time too.
Apr 2024 · 75
Unilateral.
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
Whenever,
my mind overflows,
with the love words.
no matter what,
by the way. and,
how people treat me,
I just look at my efforts,
and the way, that I wanna see it.
#thought
Apr 2024 · 79
Contextual-words.
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
In Death,
all I need's patience.
But,
my Life is still drowned in Agnes-essence.
#thought
this way essential speeches are extracted, to literary words, in the above-mentioned names, ages, highs or lives for a minute or maybe a second.
Apr 2024 · 82
Domesticated.
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
As my life conclusion,
I shaped by my own decision.
I reap the harvest, it's a chapter,
Passing by day who's gonna be visitor?
#thought
why do people always try to define
death with his words and efforts?
while death can be shown in scrambled and half-dead flowers and also in his comforts...
Apr 2024 · 83
Canard...
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
flaws with the Supper,
mild and kind, 'Saucer.
#thought
Apr 2024 · 72
Imagery faith.
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
Obsessed appearance, let's be the dry run on my faith.
come on, forget me, this should also be my aspireth.
#thought
Apr 2024 · 76
Qutest Proposal.
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
Saw the picture, with the eye,
By the winds, Colours are fly...
#thought
Apr 2024 · 66
Scattering.
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
"the body is just a soulful culmination process of emotions"
"rather than the mean of soul carrying it out to be a spectral-bed"
#thought
that's nature, and any scripture cannot prove that things such as guilt in one's eyes, in case vocal or mortal, connect with the power of ethos.
Apr 2024 · 72
Fading Embers
Nitin Pandey Apr 2024
How could I set up for those ****** rays?
I just gave up on Blazes, to my hand's raise.
#though
"Fading Embers" sets a melancholic tone, that aligns with the overall consistency in tone and style throughout my moods.
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