Can you hear it?

The silence.

Everything begins there—
in the spaces between our breaths, where our words stumble, break apart,
and dissolve in our blood.

Everything begins in these silences,
when we simmer beneath the skin,
when our dreams bubble, brew, billow, then boil up into storms
that rage just beneath our calm—
when our thoughts crash against the cliffs of our hearts,
swept by the undertow of what we want, of what we hope,
and of all the things we cope with.

When I’m taking pauses while I’m talking to you, the silence isn’t empty.

There is an intimate maelstrom that swirls within me, pressing against my ribcage.

I feel the tides twist, rise, then fall—
I feel the ocean ebb and flow—
I feel its throb that thunders like war drums in my chest.

I feel… every word I hold back, every word I almost say
like a ripple that never crests,
like a wave that never breaks.

But I like silence.

Because, I also see a glimmer in it.
I see the shimmering sway of ideas.
And I feel… softness in their rolling—
softness like the backwash kissing the shore with its foam.

Sometimes… I wish I could just remain there,
nestled in that brittle fold of silence forever.

But sometimes also, the cotton of silence wrapping around me feels so comfortable
that my thoughts become deafening,
and they pull me down, trying to drown me within myself.

So quickly, in a desperate gasp for air—
I feast on noise.

And suddenly, I crave it.
The way the world roars. The way it crackles.
So I melt into its chaos.

I want to feel its pulse, its pound, its music.
I want to drown in the drunken hours.
I want to feel my heart rise with the loudest nights.
I want to cling to laughters that veil all the cracks I try to hide.

I want to stuff the silence—
as if only the noise could save me from myself.

Yet—no matter how hard I try to escape, the silence keeps coming back.

And every now and then,
Life punctuates itself with tiny bubbles of quiet.

…

Like this one.

…

But not all silences feel the same.

There are the ones I share with her…
the wordless seconds lost in her gaze.
The silent glances.
This all feels… different.

These silences make me whole.
Whole, and yet somehow… incomplete.

Incomplete because I often dream of chiseling
from the marble of these silences—
from the air that hangs between us—
all the words, all the promises,
everything I feel for her…

This small yet enormous statue
waiting to emerge from within—
from the rhythm of my heartbeat,
from the waves,
from the storms,
from every crack…

From this silence—
where everything begins.

And there I stand,
fingers trembling, mouth dry,
a chasm yawning between us.

And all I yearn for is to set it free—
This simple

“I love you”.

काश वक़्त को थामना संभव होता,
मैं हमेशा के लिए वक़्त रोक देता।
ज़िंदगी के उस पल को, मैं
थोड़ी और देर जी लेता।

काश अपने दुख बाँटने को
कोई अपना साथ होता,
ज़िंदगी का यह सफ़र
थोड़ा आसान बन जाता।

हमेशा अपने सामने की आवाज़ सुनो,
सामने हर कोई अच्छा बोलता है।
पीछे की आवाज़ को सिर्फ़ अकेले में सुनना –
दर्द का अहसास एक झटके में मिलता है।

कभी अपने कर्म को मत रोकना,
लोगों का काम तुम्हें बुरा-भला ही कहना है।
अपने खराब नसीब के लिए तो
हर कोई भगवान को भी कोसता है।

Someday I’ll be a watchmaker,
Who crafts the hands of time.
Shaped by steady labor,
Fulfilled by each design.

Someday I’ll meet the one who turns
My hours into gold.
Our time will tick — a flicker that burns,
With love both bright and bold.

Someday I’ll feel a happiness,
That keeps in step with time.
Each grain of sand falls into place,
As if each moment were mine.

Today I am no watchmaker,
The hours pass me by.
I hold no hands and give no time,
No joy remains inside.

But someday,
I'll make the time...

In the warmth of a Midsummer's day
He found himself shrouded by darkness
No ray of sunshine seemed to pierce
Irony of which he hated to say

His demons were fighting for display
For years he ran, ignoring his brokenness
Breaking points came and went
All of which bore a cost he didn't want to pay

Problems compounded, as did his fierceness decay
All he wanted was empathy and grace
Time would heal he believed
His old wounds rotting, never healing

If only he could come to terms with his own insecurities
He picked the scabs that needed care
In the Midsummer's heat, the cost became clear
No one could decide his path, nor were miracles his key

Should he turn around and face the sun
Would the war be won
No crusade concludes with retreat
Confrontation was his need

Not by knife or gun ablaze
But by actions, acknowledgement, belief
What more could he say?
Would answers come by asking another?

A fool's folly, facetious belief
His upbringing was not his burden
And his reactions were not excuses
As other's actions were their own

It is with hope he comes to terms
Accepting what has come and gone
For then true growth begins
A cautious hope came again

It was on this Midsummer's day
The boy became a man
With acceptance, his demons stayed
What was more was his change

Maybe then a ray of sun
Could evolve into healing heat
Comfortably warming this newborn man
Instead of scorching the neck of the son

I never learned the rules they made —
the apps, the games, the masquerade.
I tried them once, they felt too loud,
like chasing something through a crowd.

I’ve had my nights, I’ve played my part,
but none of it could reach my heart.
I want something that doesn’t fade —
but not the way it’s now portrayed.

I’m not online, I stepped aside.
Not hiding — just not in the tide.
I don’t perform. I don’t compete.
But that’s how people seem to meet.

They match, they text, it moves so fast —
like every moment’s built to pass.
And while I watch it come and go,
I wonder where the slow hearts go.

Where do they cross, where does it start,
when swipes replaced the human part?
I never learned to play the cut —
Which leaves me here. Now what?