I need conversation.

The problem with strangers is that they don’t come with a promise, but I’m reaching out.

You’re not just “A” stranger, you’re MY stranger; and in this fateful communion may we both find solace, familiarity and unbound connection.

Every new experience, be it good or bad, creates a new limitation or inhibition that occupies precious mind space. The less mind space we’re left with, the less we’re capable of adventure or maneuver. Fear dominates and bitter acid burns our throats.

Fear evolves and feeds on itself and the only thing you could still rely on is your instinct. But your instinct is no longer an inborn impulse; no longer free from prejudice, from decay. It’s bruised and biased, just like you. Your instinct failed you time and again; so little faith you have left in it.

In case you’re wondering if you’re in this alone, just know that all stories stem from one another and pour into each other. All stories are one.

Rid yourself of that mind clutter and baggage. Create more space for yourself and for potential; for new stories. Bring yourself back to that blissful state of naught, when you were devoid of experience and your page was blank. Be pristine again. Have no judgment and fear no judgment.

All strangers are mine and we’re all lurking within tomorrow; an idiom for life, a feast for the heart.  

Look a stranger in the eye and say “Bare your heart to mine; I’m most warm when you’re naked”.


”You’re like a star that has fallen into my hands.”

        She had been hearing his words on repeat in the mess she called her mind all day long. She was so busy all day that she couldn’t even muster a better response than “okay.” Her own aloofness bewildered her.

        But now as she lay on top of her roof stargazing at the vast midnight sky, she smirked. She knew something was wrong. She could feel it scraping inside her head. She tried to ignore it; she thought again about what happened earlier, projected it all in front of her: how he gazed at her; how he said it all. She could tell he was afraid. The thought never crossed her mind before.

‪        She had always thought epiphanies were myths. But here she was with the epiphany that he is, in fact, human: he is afraid. It ought to have been magical; she finally had her fervently longed for fairy-tale cliché. But as she stared into the glimmering midnight sky, naming all the stars she recognized, she had another epiphany: stars are copious. What makes Hadar any more special than Procyon? What makes it different from the millions of stars that have already faded into darkness? What difference does it make to shine vigorously when so many have done so before you and shall continue to do so after you? What difference does it make if he loved her? What difference does it make to consummate one single dream when you’re living with the perpetual nightmare of yourself?


of burnt tongues
sipping on hot tea,
gushing over
post midnight talks of
noble pursuits,
and wanting to live life to the fullest.

Have been abandoned.

We have been
hurled into
a hurricane
of misfortune,
the pain of our scathed tongues
pales in comparison
to the burn of

So we gave up our armour.
3am warriors
no more.

staying up
late into the night
no longer brings comfort,
it only promises a morning
in which we are
too tired
to humour ourselves in trying
to find the silver lining.


For breakfast today, we sat at the kitchen and, like I learned in my etiquette class, I folded a napkin on my lap and helped you fold yours [you had clumsy hands]. We then took turns feeding each other things we both wanted to hear.

[‘Find what you love and let it kill you.’ We were both professional murderers by now.]

For lunch, I sat alone, elegantly using the fork, spoon, and knife in their respective order to dissect our conversations. I grew too full and had to stop mid-way, though.

[I don’t know how to occupy my skin so I occupy yours, I spread out and invade every square inch of it.]

For dinner, we sat at opposite ends of the table, giving each other our backs, and fed on the gnawing silence that we harbored and looked after.

[We are too heavy. am too heavy and there’s no space for me in you anymore.]


We come into this world as a single sperm cell fertilising an ovum, and we leave it as a culinary delight of worms. With sex and death being the only inevitable and unsinkable ends to our existence. And even though we are faced with the infinitesimal nature of our existence, society seems to continually want to enforce the weight of the world upon our shoulders.

Let me take you back to every time this situation took place throughout your education. The seen is a classroom, the plot; a teacher asking a classroom full of students: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

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