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let the records state that...

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leaving evidence. that’s what we’re doing, right? i know i am. every day spent on working up the metaphorical ladder of life, fumbling for the next step, but somehow looking ahead and finding the next bit to hold onto. this place is my evidence. let the records state that 8 april 2019 is the day things begin falling into place. i have spent so much of myself on things that do not fulfill me, do not fix me, do not even fit me. so much of chaos, wasted on people, things, ideas that have yet to blossom any truths. only lies. this place shall hold my fears. and my flaws. and banter about the dumbest thoughts known to man. and this place shall know peace. and truth. and the most profound lies. and accepted lies. and unacceptable truths. and journeys beyond usual perceivable measure. this place shall speak of homes that are not people, or places, but moments, moments you keep going back to, as if rehearsing for a natural deja-vu, even as you know that what you shall find for yoursel
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evolution of doom

​We're the broken-hearted. We're the romantics. We're the stressed, the depressed, the oppressed. We're the revolution, the result of evolution. We're the lost, the distraught, the complaining lot. We're the broke, the overdosed, the confused smoke. We're the epoch, the bedrock, the much sought. We're debauched, and we've been popping in pills each night like they're confectionery. Manufacturing peace and calm by the early morning. Addicted to anxiety like it's daily medication. Overdosing on pills to give attention to the outside and be blind to our insides. We're breaking apart, we're half-broken, and half devastated, but we need no fixing. We need no fixing. evolution of doom Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: one day, i sincerely hope, you shall look back at this, and understand that these days are gone. hopefully.]
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describing my normal

​Trying too hard to preserve life, we tore our skins. We were dysfunctional, faithful to all definitions of disorders, or as she liked to say, "Chaos Exhibit A." Waiting for our springs to bloom life. We lose sleep over our mind's days of slumber, seldom slender than the line between reality and fiction. We've fictionalised every moment to the point where we cannot recognise it for what it is. We see a filter block our eyes so much that we need it to see clearly. We've adapted to darker colours and normal people. They just don't see it. The flimsy cover that hides what has decayed inside. We’re different. We’re the same. We’re broken. We’re hurting. Not in vain. I'm spending nights writing letters to the broken, hoping they'd mend, and I'm spending days destroying the letters after reading them and failing to fix myself. The clockwork has been jammed beyond repair, and replacement costs more sacrifice than what the world accepts. The
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one day

​One day. We base our lives on one days. We dream, and we promise, and we live for one days. I didn't have a one day. Hell, at one point I was certain I didn't have any more days. 9 and out of place. 10 and friendless. 11 and too quiet. 12 and walk home alone. 13 and don't know how to talk two sentences without messing them up. 14 and a slight waste of space. 15 and heartbroken and want to die. 16 and no idea what to do in life. 17 and hurts so bad I don't feel anything else. 18 and stuck, with no idea why. I don't really remember it being just a phase. There are happy parts in every story, but I think I only have the parts where I'm busy and pretending it is all fun. Somehow, it's all disappointing when it needs to matter. I'm all disappointing when it needs to matter. But to the world, nothing matters. I'm smiling. I greet back. I get grades. I help out. I exist. I am. They don't care about one days. They probably don't e
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the perpetual act

//we are the light at the end of the tunnel. we're just fumbling for the switch. // It's not a big deal. It's a play. All of us, actors. Very good ones. Running on our beats. Beats embedded in our hearts, beats screaming in our heads, beats getting louder and louder, as if they're leading up to something big, something important. Something different. But nothing's different. We're walking. Still unclear about where, or why. There is a script. There must be, for the words we say are sparking connections in people and new characters are easing into the play, developing vigour, and progressing further and further till they fall out of words, till they have no more lines to say. They leave in quiet exits, without a song to bid them farewell, without a pause to see where to leave for. They just leave. But it's somewhat peculiar. There isn't a mirror to see our faces and know where our expressions are going wrong. No soundproofing to hear oursel
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last wishes (or, how to not exist)

Drown out the noises, It's too quiet here To hear the silence. Bury the lies alive, It's too dark here To see the truth. Murder the air above, It's too hard here To breathe the love. Destroy the world around, It's too painful here To kill the pain. last wishes (or, how to not exist) Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: may you never need last wishes.]
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things I wish I told myself earlier

It's okay to be broken. You! Yes, you staring at the screen trying to make sense of these words so precisely placed in a certain order with the supposed objective of conveying meaning; you're complete, okay? Everything you've done, every time you've tried remembering who you are, every night you've wished to pass away sooner, faster, less painfully; it's all worth it. Get up. Wash away the pain. Dry the tears. And do what you'd do if nobody else in the world mattered except you; if the world was ready to hear what you have to say. If they were actually, truly, ready for you. Yes, I'm asking for hope. Stop giving close to nothing to yourself. Come on. You're someone who gets to the top of that high cliff and doesn't want to scream to express how liberating it feels. You'd much rather just sit back, away from all the chaos. You're someone who looks up, instead of down below and walks away knowing you'd rather stru
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reasons why i stare at fallen leaves

I imagine roads must be litmus tests To see if I still hurt, and they always say positive Which means I still have to kill A little more of myself, to see myself in all the darkness; It means I have to fill A few more holes before sand pours me out dry Before I fall apart ever so quiet. I cross roads looking around thrice, And once behind me, Because I fear something from not just inside me pushing me, And I fear not stopping, and always stopping, And too much sunshine, and too little pain, And I fear it'll be quick and certain and ugly and split And fragmented and broken and staked and baited And each time I cross it all fine, Without another panic attack, I have already imagined my death twice. So tell me to cross the road, And tell me to hold your hand, And I'll tell you I don't like it, Because I don't trust myself with hands anymore, Not these fingers, not half as much in daylight as at night, And I'll tell you it's so easy to
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how to stay alive

We're still alive. Facades have healed the burnt skin underneath. The delirium has subsided. Life has survived. I'd tell you how this happened, of course I would. I'd let you in on the Secret, but you'd have to die for it. A million times. And emerge stronger each time, like a golden Phoenix, resurrected by spirit and reborn with resolution. You'd have to breathe deeper than your lungs can take in, and let reality take it all out of you. You'd have to wish this made more sense than it does now, and pray there is a destiny. A script to direct your next words. And decide your next epiphany. You'd have to scream, and you'd have to smile. And most important of all, you'd have to honestly, deeply, passionately fall in love. You'd have to love. That's how we stay alive. how to stay alive Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: facades choke you, but sometimes they teach you to smile]
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addicted // letters to my be-lov-ed, unsent :) //

I keep having this recurrent dream. You come to meet me. You wave your hand, and I smile from the window. You go into the building to climb up the stairs, and I rush to the door to greet you. But, somehow, you never make it. Sometimes, the mind plays tricks on you. It finds the one thing you're addicted to, and then uses it to break you apart. There must be a good reason, because why would the mind want to destroy itself? We're all addicted, though. We all know that. Those who don't, are too addicted to find out. April 16. I tell you I love you. You just... smile. Communication was built to avoid exactly this, Lila. Addiction is a trap. June 18. You look at me. I look at you. We smile. We look away, together. Addiction pulls you in slowly. It gives you joy. Peace. Whatever you seek. September 14. You tell me you love me. I... freeze. Almost like I'm capturing the moment, to hold on to the moment before it flies away. I tell you I love you
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31st december //letters to the walls//

Dear 31 December, Hello, friend. In the search for our own design, we have come full circle again. We're crossing the finish line, together. I didn't think I'd make it. Did you? I'm breaking our little tradition. It wasn't a very good tradition, anyway. No tears tonight. No excessive sleeping because 'it's just another day' and 'I don't feel well.' No waking up at 3am to see how many missed calls I got. It's only fair. A new year calls for change. Every month-end, we run short of money, so we cut back. Every year-end, we run short of time, but we don't give up, do we? We hope. We look at our private moments, and we think, there's more to life. There always is. But whenever we meet, why do I feel that we're a miscalculation? It just doesn't add up. Yet, here we are. Looking back to see my triumphs and missteps, miseries and regrets, jolly moments and their subsequent hasty farewells. Well, life never
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unremembering

When I told my friend, I've never memorised anything I've ever written: Neither the beginning, nor the end, He was curious, like most men are, About pointless things, which is bizarre, And asked me, "Why?" And I said, "Scars." What I didn't say was, Everything I've ever written, has been written with sadness, With pain, all stained, An overexposed negative with too faint colours, All in an attempt to make a picture. Their idea of brilliance isn't staying up nights, Because the mind refuses to stop thinking, Nor is it breaking down every fragment of life Until there's nothing good left, Nothing worth an ounce of happiness. Years of memories are lost in my head, So I don't remember why I was scolded, For being too talkative when I was 7. When I don't remember ever having friends, Or things to talk about, lies to make up. Words in my head are always out of order, Like they were when I was 8, And every
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burnt diaries (or, posthumous accounts of the apocalypse)

I see red all over- bloody wounds. Last night was hard on both of us. I see black out there- insomniac blindness. Sleep is a stranger to both of us. I see green around edges- mouldy letters. Last loves still hurt fresh for both of us. I see yellow outlines- nonexistent hope. Illusions can only fool us so many times. I see white layers- afraid skin. Last breaths are hard for both of us. I see you. Broken, hurting, dying. You see me. Choking, lost, dying. We see a glow. A trail. White. Yellow. Fiery. We close our eyes. It is time. We kiss. Breaths in sync. Fainting, even as the world grows louder, Even as the world turns quieter. Reassured that all I see, All you see, Is each others' eyes, Each others' smiles. burnt diaries (or, posthumous accounts of the apocalypse) Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: every apocalypse shall find for itself a story of mending]
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i think i only lost my mind

Words left your mouth, but never reached my ears. Time left us broken, but always let us heal. You left, but never looked back at what you left behind. Do I look up your lost words, or my lost mind? i think i only lost my mind Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: look for the truth. always]
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the syria we know

The rubble has cleared. The dying have died away. The ghosts have been set free. Free to look at these atrocities, and want to die again. What has the world come to. A young man cannot be injected with painkillers, because there is no clean skin left after the chemical burns to inject it into. An old woman weeps without a voice, for it has died in its swan song during her daughter's last moments. A panting son runs some more, in hope of finding his lost brother, in hope of finding a touch of familiarity in an alien expanse. Hope arrives in a red and white box screaming sirens of aid.  Stethoscopes, kits, medical equipment out. The healing begins. The young first. Then the women. Then the old. In order of survival rate and value of life. And in all of this, one simple question rises up like the smoke many fear: what of the children? What of them indeed. They scream louder. They perish faster. "Forget you ever had them." th
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another love poem

I'm writing love poems again, Without really saying that I love you; Without telling you your hair is messy, And that I like it curled and hanging and confused, And cut and tied and rebellious, And that you look away too much, When you talk to me, So I have to stare longer To see you see me To see you see we, To see you in glee; Without ending phone calls when I have nothing to say, Since nothing is my forte anyway, And we need nothing, nothing else. I'm writing love poems again, Distracted by the distraught disarray of distance, Recoiled back by bullets of wishes shot into the dark. I'll explain this: I'm staring at the ineffable sky, Thinking, if I shoot a bullet above, Where will it bury itself, And who will it hurt to fulfill its purpose, For, you see, when the War was on, The accuracy of the bullets never mattered, no; What mattered was where they would plant themselves, Which life they would uproot, when they fell from the sky; My w
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i don't know when i fell for your music

I don't know when I fell for your music. So many words were skipped in the playlist of life. We left worlds un-described, so they crumbled into memory, cocooned by the natural memory eraser: life. There was comfort in not saying, no truth in saying now anyway. It was late, no, too late. Far too late. So many lost songs, midnight sparks of eureka, half-asleep moments of revelation, all remarkable points of life's elevation: when this energy you feel in your body makes you feel alive all over. A truth in plain sight, revealed. The intimacy of night makes the heart revolt against its inclinations of day. It happens slowly at first, and then all at once, and before you know it, the night is your new inclination. A road just meant for the wanderers. The seekers. What did we seek? What did we skip? Where did we slip? I should know, but then, sadly, I don't remember how we got here. I only remember wandering away, not wandering to. I don't rememb
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nightmares

With mad purpose I break tonight, remembering the phoenix that died trying to rebirth. It is the same story, the one with a different character, but the same actor. Night has broken. Shambles of mental monologues have disintegrated into complicated dialogues with no point. This is the syncope I keep trying to pronounce — the loss of sound from within the words, where one eats up parts of the word in course of habit, and I eat up parts of my sentences, in course of poor habit. An incomplete nightmare, always leaving the possibility of its completion as a prospect of horror. Desolation inviting loneliness. A melody that glitches in the middle, a song that sings to itself, recalling its words from the echoes, but never quite getting them right. This is most definitely a trance. I am not awake. Silence hears the universe call out for hope, the distance fading it all. The universe continues anyway. The coherence still broken. The words still haphazard, but not quite. &quo
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the typo

The cleansing. That is what they called it. The British. Americans were quick to copy their forefathers. And so it spread to the United States of America. Publishers were hanged. Authors died of poverty. Editors became paper recycling entrepreneurs. Journalists were persecuted. America was great again. You see. There was once a great war. A war of intellect. Historians and linguists fought. Politicians promptly joined in. Lawyers wept. Common citizens began to blame the government. The syllabi of high school graduates in English was too heavy and complicated for an average mind. An intelligent man naturally came up with the idea to simplify the English language. His quest led him to a reasonable conclusion: it was time to kill the Comma. The Common Comma complicates. It redefines. It reiterates. Prepositions would no longer begin sentences. People would no longer forget the comma before a quote. The end of a quote would be the actual end of it. MBA graduates would pride upon
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me too?

It's very easy to ignore the online world. Unless you are affected, none of it matters. Most friends I know make an effort to stay away from political news, criminal reports, and anything dark-themed, because that is what our society has become. A bright and clear mirror of the dark skies we live under every day. Safety has become a passing opinion. Trauma a trend. All we share now are humour, movie reviews and artwork, because that is all that's left pure. But not quite. Comedians, actors, directors- all people we look up to for their creations- are creating madness. They're breaking people down, bit by bit, all under the blinding light of their stardom. It's too bright for me, anyway. And to think that these people were once admired for their open-mindedness, "woke af" thoughts, or even their work. It is incomprehensible. People are speaking up, and people are being heard. Right from the top, to the friends I personally know. And the sound is hurt
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the Satan's melody (or, another night at the bar with a random stranger)

And, my dear, your scars are old, your heart's turned cold the summers don't shine enough on you your tale's all told your destiny sold you owe the alive some more company so kill and burn and scream but don't you dare say you're meant to only weep. The mirror lies And the reflection sighs And the world's all spectacled So put on your smile And walk the extra mile Life is a precious trouble. The pen is mightier The sword rarer The books may tell you that Ask the dead what chopped their heads: The sword is still finer. So wage your war and lose your fight To the demons on earth Hell is for another day and heaven a myth Come with me tonight. the Satan's melody (or, another night at the bar with a random stranger) Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: mirrors shall find you, someday. may they find you happy]
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the final masterpiece (or, how to be a nihilistic artist)

I painted the lips blue: The calm of water, And lack of oxygen. I coloured the head red: Filled with life, Full with blood. I drew sharp lines, Starting from the veins of the wrists And running up to the crevices of my elbows. I stained the legs purple: Patterns rising up to the thighs, unveiling struggles, And marks of quiet pain. I covered the heart almost black To highlight the reason for all breaths, And to reveal a void in its place. I coated the skin in grey To add the finishing touch, And to balance the blood. And when I was done with my masterpiece, The one the world will inevitably remember me by, I painted my eyes black, And left the colours to dry, And smiled at my creation: My Death. the final masterpiece (or, how to be a nihilistic artist) Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: may your art always save you]
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forever incomple-

Every time you face the mirror Your reflection wants to cry. Every time you face the mirror Your face forgets to smile. So you say nothing, And you look away For you know nothing Will fix this, anyway. And you tell me, You have no worth. Let me tell you, You're a fault line In the Earth Ready to destroy Everything in line, Everything in sight. So bring in all your pain, All your sighs, All your worries, All your cries, All who hurt you, All you couldn't forgive, All who broke you, All who made you this, And make them all stand in line In the line of fire, And let your world shake, Shake with all its might, For it's never too late To finally wake up tonight. And if that isn't enough, If you don't feel enough, Here's a truth for you to swallow A pill that cures all voids: Complete is the greatest lie, For to be complete is To be ready to be destroyed. forever incomple- Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: ne
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smoke and mirrors

// All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts // The curtains close. The Act ends. Scene. They are all you. You see your bloody face. They don't have different faces. Bloody mirrors around you on all their faces. Reflections held up against you. The faceless crowd sees you. Who are you? Deaths are fixed points in time. Your lips cannot move. Your eyes are screaming. The tears are burning. You're sweating blood. The sky is too bright. The mind is too dark. They forgot to close your eyes. You are a dead man arriving at your last destination. You're carried by strong, crying figures. Your hands hurt. Your legs atrophied, but they don't know. You forgot to breathe. Headache. Alive. (now read from the bottom to the top) smoke and mirrors Written by Yash Raj Talan
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when the storm arrives

"Take the sky in, let the rain pour. Let it fill you till your tears of happiness are one with those from the clouds. Feel the rhythm of your heart with the pitter-patter of rain, almost slowing now, and then suddenly rushing again. Hear the quiet in the white noise, the truth in the black sky. Smile and jump a bit, and jump again, and again. Pause. Notice the melody of the world replacing the humdrum of horns, and tiny faces looking up at the sky, all expectant, all hoping for something. Yet, the storm listens to none, it remembers no one, nothing. It touches you for that brief night of your life, and soothes your skin for a while, and then it leaves without a sigh. It leaves without a goodbye." "She was my rain, I made her into skies." when the storm arrives Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: may you find music in the rain, and light in the floods]
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the search for the right words

With heavy heart and long-held breath, I let out the words, "I am not done yet," Or so I am wont to think, For all they hear is gibberish. I recollect some instances Of follies old, deep regrets, Held back, half-wrecked; A ship unaware of its end. The sorrowful roads run their coarse, Quietly delivering screeching remorse To travellers just passing by, And rejoicers ignoring life. But all I am is meaning, Yet to be understood; All I have are words, For you to see it too. the search for the right words Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: the search shall never end. may you still go on]
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the manufacturing defect

It was a manufacturing defect. In the quest of our own design, we had uncovered what we called "evolution". The survival of the fittest. The strongest, and the fastest, both perished. But the fittest, the cunning, the ruthless, armed with the knowledge that the world was theirs to manipulate, had found their way. And that's how we came to be. A journey of death. Over thousands of years. Over billions of deaths. With rules to kill betrayers among ourselves. Entire kingdoms meant to serve a few, and control the many. Rich cultures to bind us to our associations, to attach meaning to our existence. To justify each breath. We ruled our universes. But was that all there was for us? ___ Clearly, humans were superior, but more so in their ignorance. For they missed what was always glaring right at them. The script. Imagine a world where you have the freedom to do everything. That would be too chaotic. So you evolve rules to avoid destroying yourse
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things i'd rather not say

There are things I would say, But mostly, there are things I would never Even if it's something I want Something I can ask Something I need: A touch of love, A kind compliment, A smile. You see, I make do with imperfect, Nay, I am too cozy with imperfect: I have stopped resisting it, Stopped trying to change it; I have, instead, done the most bizarre- I have accepted it with all my heart; Imperfect is sad, imperfect is pathetic, It's the opposite of perfect and aesthetic, But imperfect is still better, for reality's sake, It's not all sad, it's not all fake: It's simple and it's horrible, But it's real and it's plausible. Now, I know the world Better than to ask what I know I'd be denied with And I know my reach is shorter than you'd think So I just take the world for what it is: A machine where I'm just nuts. things I'd rather not say Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: live more breathles
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a graduate (finally)

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Today, there are no last words. No goodbyes. No 'phir milenge'. No 'best of luck'. No emotional texts. Time doesn't stand still, and this moment, we can't preserve this. We'll spend our lives trying to convince ourselves this day was among the best days of our lives, and we'll try to remember the faces, and their spaces in our hearts. So we've captured smiles in selfies, and we're quietly hoping the smile sticks just a few years longer. We need the shaadi ki biryaani, after all. We need company. Today, we're here. Alive. Almost ready to face the world ahead. Almost ready to be awesome-r, better, smarter, and most importantly, greater than who we are. And what we are is legends in the making. And legends have tragic backstories too. So don't be afraid if raaho me thoda fisal jao. Just remember the mistakes, and live your days a bit kinder, happier, worthier, if that makes sense. The fear is medicine for you to get better. Do not ov
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i still want our sky //letters to lila, unsent//

Lila,  Three hundred and forty days ago, you looked at the sky, and then to me, and said, 'I love you from here.' The lilacs of the old, red house with the barren garden still smell musky. The flickering streetlight we would lean against when it rained, and pretend it was not raining, and that we were warm enough, and that our hearts were warm enough, too; it's still there, only, fixed, shining bright every blue night. And the 23 pictures we took at that small photo studio with the vintage camera? They're still there, waiting to be collected. Love takes people places. How long has it been? I ask not to seek an answer. I already know. Lila, you were my vacation. I just wished it would never end. And I wished I would wake up relaxed every day, in the calm of you, away from their hurricane reality. And then, slowly, I ran out of wishes. And then, suddenly, I ran out of you. Am I back from the vacation? I'm not sure. I'm still going places. Wherev
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flowers and music

​//if flowers could speak, would they smile for not being white for funerals of lost loves, or smile because they aren't? // Five years ago, I learnt That flowers listen And respond to music So, stupid as I was, I played Taylor Swift to them To see if they wilt in pain, Or remember their last loves again, But the funny thing is, They died. Now, I've learnt, The flowers knew just to bloom And to look up And keep looking Until their dying breaths, Until the same sun they seek Leaves them dry, Discoloured Disintegrated. So when someone told me To not pluck flowers, I said I knew that, For people had been plucked out Too often And I did not want to do the same. My mother once told me To not keep wilted ones, And I just wanted To keep them All the more then, Because that is when We forgret them easiest, We miss them least; We want them left, As they were, Dying, present continuous, And then, simple past, dead. I'm no flower; T
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A Series of Life Altering Moments (or, established facts for the unaware)

​A History of Unfortunate Events Would be a thick book indeed, For mankind's ever so careless. The Sagas of the Dead Would be a great band indeed, For the dead left too much unsaid. But these are not my concerns: For they do not exist; I care not for what couldn't be, And so shouldn't you, For you have better things To give your heart to. Look up, dear, into my eyes, So I can peek into your soul; And then look away, sigh, So I can long, again, for more. You know not your history well, For you are yet to read this: A Series of Life Altering Moments Consists of just you, me, and bliss. A Series of Life Altering Moments (or, established facts for the unaware) Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: may you never run out of books to read, and chapters to create]
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choose life

​Choose Life. Choose a college. Choose a career. Choose your soulmate. Choose bigger smartphones, choose cruiser bikes, cars, Bluetooth headsets and electric kettles. Choose good shape, low fat, and dieting. Choose easy pay credit cards. Choose a 2BHK apartment. Choose your friends. Choose binge-watching, guilt-snacking, and window shopping and make yourself feel what passes for happy. Choose stories, snaps, and double tap; human interaction reduced to nothing more than data. Choose thirteen reasons why Salman Khan is better than everyone else. Choose screaming about illogical statements. Choose beef jokes, unrealistic ideals, blackmailing and an endless tide of depressing misogyny. Choose this life is a lie, and if it isn't, Rick and Morty is God. Choose memes on T-shirts and matching bags. Choose a three-piece suit bought for one-time use in a range of fabrics. Choose home delivery and wondering who the hell you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting
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broken windows

​I don't know how it happened, but somewhere along the way, we grew up too fast. We were the '90s kids. Lost in our worlds. Not phones and Tinder and Instagram. But people, and pranks, and cycle rides, and cricket, and football, and badminton, and just playing around and racing. We sat on benches, and balconies, and rooftops, without cellphones in hands to capture the beauty of the world. We never really could, could we? We couldn't replace sleeping on rooftops, under the starry sky, wondering if now is all there is. We couldn't replace laughing so hard we felt tired, and our stories weren't about dates, no. We were questioning the simple. Looking at airplanes cut through the sky and wondering about their destinations. We'd wonder about our destination, so some other kid could one night look up and see us. Whatever happened to those air bubbles? And the tazzos? Collectible cards, and those beyblades, and saving money for them. Those small Frooti
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journey

​Har dastak par hasil aaina hu mai Har maksad e saajish ka saiyaara hu mai Dhund tu naqaabo ki aakhon mein chamak Na jane, shayad vo aaftaab ka aks bhi hu mai. हर दस्तक पर हासिल आईना हूँ मैं , हर मक्सद ए साजिश का सैयारा हूँ मैं ,  ढूंढ तू नक़ाबों की आखों में चमक ,  ना जाने , शायद वो आफताब का अक्स हूँ मैं। Translation: I am the mirror you find at the end of your calling, I am the shadow of the grand game of purpose, Go, seek for the spark in eyes of masks; Who knows, maybe I am the Sun's dark reflection. journey Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: paradoxes keep you alive. aerodynamically, the bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumble bee doesn't know it so it goes on flying anyway]
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poor vision

Twenty missed calls, eleven texts and six door knocks later I realise I cannot skip through my day by tugging my blanket harder, knowing that the world is sliding away, and the wind is too cold, as if the next breath I take will break me into tears, and let out more than my silence can, more than my distance can, but honestly, I prefer to choke myself till the lumps in my throat ease themselves into the pain, till my sleep is all I can understand, for all it says is nothing, and I understand nothing. Red blankets are not reset buttons, and I wish I could hold up a bigger danger sign, or at least a sign, something readable, something prominent, something that says, "fragile, might break," because every time I get back, tired from this picturesque reality, too tired to see, I wish my bed would put together my pieces, and see my dry eyes, and my wet eyes, and fill them with calm, and fix things up, and unhook the burdens, and not break me again
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light and god

In the light of knowledge, all but the worthy are cast into darkness. God made man. God disappeared. Man seeks God. Man decides He is everywhere. God created the universe. God made man. God disappeared. Man seeks the universe. Man decides He rules the universe. God created truth. God made man. God disappeared. Man seeks the truth. Man decides He is the truth. Truth? Truth must be an absolute. Versions of the truth are nothing but lies. Nothing makes sense. Until we believe it does, in a version of our story. Our lie. Maybe God never disappeared. Maybe He lurks in the shadows. Maybe we are drawn to all darkness because we know Him. Maybe our towns are too bright, and our hearts not dark enough. Man's temples shine with beautiful light, so we can see Him. The dark temple's gates close at night, so God can see himself. The version of Himself. And when He does, if He does, in the little light, he'll close his eyes, and smile at his creation, and Man w
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fucking live

Scroll down your endless enamoured Facebook feed. Go on. Give a piece of your mind to whatever insignificant junk that demands it. Words after words after words manipulating your entire life into moods you didn't even want. Trust a freaking artificial intelligence algorithm to know you better. React to random photographs of random people you see every other day, and people you don't (want to...?). Seek attention with photographs of the same face you've had for years, taken in different angles, hoping someone somewhere cares that you exist. Laugh at a bright digital screen because that's what your life has come to, and you're now wondering if you're a sick waste of space, and air, and time, regretting having lost those minutes, hours, days of your life then, and more suddenly important minutes now. Fuck that. It took me a few generalizations to tell you what's wrong with your broken life. Sadness is a trend. Happiness is a smiling face. Laughter is a f
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independence

It takes a hand To salute the flag, But a heart To respect the nation So spit your Paan, Stamp your cigarette, Throw your wrappers away; Show your hand To the oncoming traffic, And run across the way It takes a hand To salute the flag But a heart To respect the nation So push in the green Under demanding tables And wear your fair face; Pee on the green You see in the open, And run your bloody race. It takes a hand To salute the flag But a heart To respect the nation So rant along As social mobs, Taking sides furiously: Unfurl your screams! Complain! Question! Abusing everyone merrily. And most importantly, Enjoy your public holiday Sleeping, wasting it away, For it takes a hand To salute the flag But a heart To respect the nation. independence Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: idealism may be dead, but action isn't]
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the modern christmas

It’s all bright Christmas Lights in the end, Glowing to announce the occasion or its existence: Miracles fabled into a happy ending; Another excuse to be happy, To celebrate and spend, And gift and get, And love, Love. It's all a miracle in the end- How all worlds change, How mistakes fade, Mistakes make Us. If we could fix it all with a few dollars, And if prayers cost us more than just our time We'd spend them all till we're broke But alas, we're broke already On time and on pennies And deep in debt We can't repay So we Hope. Days die; Years end; Sigh out; Santa bailed Like always. Yet we smile, And leave on the lights For it's Christmas somewhere. the modern christmas Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: you received your first wristwatch on christmas. may you always have time for the ones who gave it to you]
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wanderers of the dark

I'd write you a poem, but it's too late, It's cold under the skin, inside the heart, And a beer is just a minute away, And you, a million; my words slip away From my mouth, and my tongue is left longing For something to fill this emptiness, It's just another night, it's all a mess, And all I have to enunciate is morbid silence. And I'll tell you something, if I could, It's not the words that hurt the most, Sometimes, it's the silences that choke The life out of your lungs, leaving just smoke To breathe into- the smoke of oblivion: You try to take it in, to forget, mark under "Trivial." But it hurts to breathe, to let go, to live. And it pains to wonder, if all I do is wander with no destination. wanderers of the dark Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: you shall always find the right silence for your playlist]
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my demons

"Tell me about your demons," they said, With their still eyes, and their sane smile, And they didn't notice my raised skin-hair Or why I let out a sigh and a smile instead, And I'm glad for it. My demons are not at all like you know them, They're not hideous, or creatures that strike at night, no; They're rarely ethereal, on occasion formless, Not too loud, but quite good listeners, yes, For they've heard all my lies. You see, the lies are important, always have been, Artists, bankers, lawyers, athletes we all need them, My lies mirror my pretentions and truest intentions, And they know, and in they come mocking, quiet, With their scornful eyes, and their lies. I don't recall not being insecure, fragile, confused; I've worn several masks, too many to count, And while many have fit, and adored, None seem anything more than masks, visages, But I carry them all nonetheless. And my demons, they don't like being ta
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