hold me a little longer love/let my sorrow sink into you/and my tears mingle with your lips/let me love you more/hold me a little longer love

when i say i have had enough/tell me i need to live/take my hand/lead me into the wilderness/listen to my silence

build me a house/ stay with me forever/never leave me alone love/never!

look into my eyes/say you will be there/nomatterwhat/and say that again/and again...

let me never feel insecure/abandoned, alone/the only feel that may reside in my heart/should be that of love/your love

assure me that/i would never have to be out there/dying in thirst/in the heat and the sun

promise me that i will /always have your arms/to snuggle upto

nomatterwhat/never let go love/never let go

hold me a little longer love/hold me forever

I-am an everlasting dream

I rolled my eyes down my phone book. I saw my call list, all the numbers I had dialed, all the numbers i had got a call from, all the numbers that I had missed. Now I have not a single person I could call. Just call...

Not a single person, I could meaningfully message. loneliness is so out of fashion man. I am either supposed to be shopping crazy,walking into and into the numerous alleys of some eighteenth century market or laughing up and down the escalators of some splendid mall. Or eating out, somewhere...counting my calories and my cash.

I always have loved being alone though, writing things on my computer, listening to my kind of music, staring at the walls, without quite knowing that I am doing so. Sinking into depths of mushy thought; mulling over things. Or flat imagining, of how things could have been, had life been otherwise. But at times, being lonely is so out of fashion it seems, when you see chicks chatting away on that phone thing, getting away for those infinite walks...to the road near the mountain.

When I stare out of my window, the green highs of the mountain are still a hazy, thought inducing extremity; the cloud hidden peaks are a faint hint of romance for my heart, long solitary walks are for inspiring my indolent self, and keeping a track of myself.

For me life is a distant proposition and love, an impossibility.

Part I

‘So how about getting the lady a lovely new dress?’
I would have sprung off my feet at those words.
And normally say something like ‘Fantastic! Let’s go, get it! What are we waiting for?’
But I had to show that I have my own reservations. Particularly with new comers into my life.
So I remember smiling and saying something like, ‘Mmmm…no. I already have so many’
And then his face evolved an impish smile, ‘A girl can never have so-many dresses, I had heard!’
We laughed that away.
I don’t know what for was he so exceptionally amicable to me. He could have simply treated me like a far off relative, here to see his city. He could have put me up at some hotel, called me home for an occasional dinner, and get done with it. But he would rather see me in a room in his house.
Men at an age like his are conventionally supposed to part from youngsters for their highly screwed up generation Y antics. But he would rather spend his time trying to know what exactly was happening within me.
Was all this because he had been alone all his long life? Or was it because he was an artist?
We were having lunch at one of his favorite restaurants. It’s a mildly sunny afternoon. He eats a little and talks a lot.
Does he at all push his glasses up his nose and behave like that I-am-a-friend-of-your-dad and all? No, he so completely stands apart from that category.
We converse like two age-less people. He is pretty deep as a person. When I am not attentive, I get lost in the contours of his face. His eyes sparkle when he speaks, and he folds his hands on the table when he talks to me.
Is this that young girl fantasizing should I say a ‘middle-aged’ man syndrome? Probably no.
He is just another object of observation. And it is now that I can see beyond his wrinkles…

from a nun's bedroom

Is life a journey to finding love?

I believe in the energy of the universe, and the coating of love over the world when I read Paulo Coelho, who many call a fairy tale writer for


He makes me feel weirdly energetic when I roll my eyes down his words

I wonder where all this energy was before?

And where this shall vanish to after I shut the book?

How can someone write things that are miles away from the mundane addictions of man yet be so widely understood?

It makes my mind leap to unknown heights, delve into depths I have never been to

Otherwise I survive on the remnants of my thirst for absolute freedom

Is life a journey in search of the place where Ican be happy forever?

May be...for me it is

Cleansing myself of fears is another thing

The fear of failure, haunts me, makes my life unlivable

I shall find a place where my soul shall dwell in peace, without the shame that many would call me a lunatic after reading this...

That's all!