The Night

November is setting in. Winter is advancing forward taking away all the warmth of summer. With it's advancement the nights are also moving fast to end the day. But I like to wonder if the reason behind the nights moving too fast is because it too wants the winter to move on fast and disappear, completing the course of nature. And every year it is the same process. The night pushes and struggles with winter although it cannot alter the or even move the gigantic mass of winter which is moving in a deathly pace at its own accord. In spite this night never grows weary. It struggles and fails every year although it never gives up. 

How many times have I become the night that tries to push winter away?
How many times have I tried to become what I never was?
How many times have I tried forgetting the past instead of embracing it?
I do not have a count like the night which has no inkling of how many times it has failed and has risen again. 

I can only conclude that I am but an idiot who does not have a slightest hint of what she is doing but advances forward. Although it is said that only the passionate wait forever and spent one's entire life yearning to touch the sky one can never reach. Surely, the night too is passionate. A passionate idiot who years to touch the sky. 

I am the Night. 

Photo Credit: Manish Amatya Sir 

Verse: Snowflakes

Can you hold one of these snowflakes?

when your hands thirst for warmth. 

Can you hold me?

For I am one of these snowflakes

falling into an unknown world. 

Can you hold me?

Though I am not a flower,

that blooms in the heat of July. 

But if you hold me...

I will melt. 

I will melt in your warmth and merge

into all that you are. 

Words saved me

Words I've realized have saved me than any other thing. I think I was eight when I first realized and felt the beautiful flow of words. Even when I was a child, away from the ways of the world and its rules without having an ounce of understanding, but just a child drunk on the phase of childhood. Even before I even knew what words were, words were given to me...or rather they chose me. 


Words have somehow saved me from myself too. They were like my fear that stops me from hurting myself even I'm unaware about the possible threat. They've stopped me from destroying myself, from the addiction of loneliness. They were the ones who tried at first to poke at my heart, gnaw at my mind, knock on my thoughts continuously until I finally decided to close the door behind, take a pen and write the first letter in the fresh page of a diary. Little did I know that they would come so easily after that, like a lesson I've thoroughly memorized for an exam, and then they would become an addiction; the train of thoughts following the trail, some buried yet some gasping for air, would come out of my heavy heart covered with a thick layer of dust through the years that had gone by. Words replaced my loneliness and then they taught me to fall in love with me and my thoughts over and over again.  

Words; it is so easy to come by. It seems they are found on every street, stuck on walls, tattooed in  the body of others and some painted on the floor. Yet I found words not on the first letter of my Nursery years ago when my hands first learned to hold a pencil but I found them in the sinking world of my loneliness. It seemed it had conspired to meet me alone and  miraculously save me from my impending doom. 

Words saved me. 

The day I stepped up

'If a story is in you it has to come out' said William Faulkner. I don't honestly know if I have a story worth telling, a story with love at first sight, near death experiences, life changing moments or anything by the name of miraculous or amazing. I don't deny the fact that I do have a story; a story of inspiration, regrets, defeats, disappointments and love buried within the depths of my soul that is demanding to come out and be manifested in words. I don't even know if that story will come out but I can't deny the overwhelming emotions in me that is wanting to spill on these pages. And yes, everyone has a story and I have mine too which is why I decided to start blogging. 

 Honestly, I am like a flower trying to blossom between the spaces of stones; vulnerable and oblivious, unknown if I will ever survive the scorching heat of the day or the cold breeze of the evening. But I also know that to become a writer is to be vulnerable and also to have the courage to share the words which we are so accustomed to keep within the lines of a diary. 


Whenever I see someone older and experienced achieving the heights of success with their words I am imbued with fear and insecurity. I am let down with a thick cloud of worthlessness on having read their works. There are many aspiring writers in whom I find this same feelings mirrored. But here I am writing( or trying to write) my very first blog, hanging onto a single thin thread of hope that somehow I will write with passion and inspiration and perhaps it will be read.  

                                         One of my favorite quote about writing that inspires me no matter how many times I read it