If I could hug myself the way you hug me;
life would be translucent to pain
and we would allow light to pierce 
through our lovely bodies;
infusing the distance in-between  
like vacuum does to heavenly bodies-
combine.　

What happens when the fire in your soul starts to burn? I used to collect letters from dustbins and letterboxes, the ones which were rejected either by people or failed by non existent addresses. There are numerous feelings trapped between the blue lines and white envelopes, sometimes it exceeds feelings because they become a distinct rock of happiness which will never leave you, except it always silently erodes when you are not watching - like the pages of the letters slowly turning yellow with age. Beyond all the hidden messages of love and desires, of loss and resurrection, of forgiveness and translucent second chances, there was always one primary feeling, when one wrote a letter to another. That is the feeling of being remembered. Sometimes the brain is tormented by the thoughts of unrequited love, false promises and bad breath. It always fights to find some meaning in it all. Everything must be present for a reason, everything must have a purpose, something must be mine. These are the thoughts which letters feed into. They make you feel remembered more than anything. It makes you feel transcendence and tremendous luck of being remembered by another soul, crossing boundaries with their words, physical and the kinds which are formed around the heart like cracked cages of steel. So, when the fire in my soul begins to burn, I shall write letters. 

Have you ever wished that you could penetrate your own self aiming to reach depths which would surpass your bodily fluids. Would it be too much to feel the insides of my skin and the tenderness and strength that lies within. I mean the kind of ‘within’ that really exists. It would be especially incredible if I could touch my nerve endings from the inside of my body, unexposed, like fireflies in a glass jar, capture an orgasm a hundred million times the power of the sun. Only if I could travel this intramural country of veins and discover the verdant plains and the evergreen forests accompanied by luscious waterfalls, I would truly feel alive. I would certainly plant a flag for every organ I have visited like pioneers do with their accomplishments. I would also make innumerable minute graveyards for the cells that have been lost fighting my battles. If my mind was capable of holding such prowess, I would conquer my body.　

There are more than a million silk strings that are entangled between my butter fingers. I clutch these strings and draw them as close as I can to tie them to my heart. They merge with my veins from my wrists combining with very other vein in my body, grounded. If you watch closely and run your eyes along these strings, each one would lead you to a different heart. I’d like to think of all of them as my life lines. Yes, I have many life lines because I have spoken with that many hearts. Not all strings run down smoothly enough to be called a perfect life line. Some have knots, messy knots (they sometime seem to have a life of their own). They become bigger and bigger like snowballs which were left unattended. They remind of knots which I refused to brush out, the ones in my hair only wishing they would unknot by themselves. I never knew how the hearts at the end of the strings felt but I know that they are still beating because the strings still exist. Sometimes, I don’t sleep at night, afraid that I might break a few threads if I pulled to hard or even worse, if I let loose the strings a little, eventually ending up losing them forever. Alas, I can’t help but live in spider web world of strings, until I meet a weaver who would set me free by weaving something more meaningful other than memories out of my strings.

Your bones may one day become white shimmery particles scattered on a remote sea shore because that is where you always wanted to live and your skin may start to resemble creases of dusty curtains because you couldn’t converge enough energy to open the blinds and breathe the sun. Age may over come your body like an avalanche in slow motion but our eyes will always remain. They would be the only pair holding a million reflections of memories captured in a moment passing you by like the shadows of shapeless trees. They will forever water your body with yellow brilliance like the smile of a child playing with　 the sunlight. Your eyes will have the power to sustain it all, the paradoxes, the illusions, the defeats, the realities wanted and the realities lost. They will protect and conserve your tears for when you need them. They will allow you second glances and give away second chances a hundred times. How unselfish of them to entertain you with the musings of your mind in the form of dreams while you peacefully rest in the glow of the moonlight. They have the tremendous strength to grow as the days go by never ceasing to present to you miracles every single minute. If you are reading these words you lived a thousand lives in a single life time.

EveryOne is dancing with their arms outstretched 
waiting to be lifted like fallen feathers from the ground.
EveryOne is wearing their best smiles for perfect tomorrows, 
silently absconding broken aspirations and half eaten piece of cake.
EveryOne needs to drown a little; camouflaging instantly with 
sunlight and shadows.

EveryOne leaves the door open, slightly 
while tucking their own minds to rest, hoping 
that a certain kind of peace would follow a ray of moonlight
back into their beds and seep into the recesses of their minds,
illuminating their dreams once again
 

When I opened my eyes, it was still afternoon. The trees had not moved since I left them by themselves to sway in the warm summer breeze. I inhaled their verdant lives and shared my wordless thoughts with their souls. They are my window friends and I often let them overwhelm me. Envious of the wind I always wanted to ask them if they always enjoyed dancing with the wind. I believe it was some kind of symphonic attraction because even if wind passed the trees by, they fluttered their tiny leaves as if applauding. I remember once I spoke about wind and her glorious wings of freedom. You seemed to think for a minute and revealed some truth of a sharp nature. You said that the freedom wind carried with her was an illusion. You said that the wind is so graceful and natural in her dance that no one seemed to really realize how much pain she was in. You also found it troubling that people always thought that because she resided in the sky, she could flow anywhere. You said it was a magical game of pressures. The highs and the lows of pressures made her dance in between them, in which she was rather trapped. She could go not flow just anywhere instead she followed a tremendous routine. It was all an illusion. 

Maybe wind doesn’t really dance around; maybe she is trying to run away but getting no where. Hence she whispers to trees for help and cry for relief. Maybe the trees are trying to move and protect her but all they create is tiny vibrations through their leaves. By the time the trees can do anything, she passes them by. That was the day trees became my window friends. We often talk about a girl named wind, the girl who always passes them by. 

I often find myself standing with my arms crossed tightly. They are trying to intricately hold each other in while I am trying to fight off that indestructible mechanism of sadness that builds itself around me. I can feel it in the little pauses in conversations, in the slow deep breathing of a sleeping dreamer, in the delicateness of a roasted marshmallow. I can see it diffusing in the grey breathe of a cigarette, in the extreme relevance of goodbyes, in the silence of clinking crockery from only one side on a table for two. All strangers have stories and if you look closely they may not be strangers at all. You only need to listen. You need to listen to the heaviness in their footsteps, you must listen to the tiny starry splinters in their eyes and they will not falter in revealing the truth. You must listen to sound of their touch. You must listen to their backyard oceans (which consists of a million thousand droplets of tears) and the echo of their heart beating. Every moment is significant irrespective of the nature of it. Every moment is a story wrapped in a blanket of sadness that you just need to gently peel of and suddenly you will not be lonely anymore. All the strangers in the world are a part of you and you of them. So uncross your tightly crossed arms and just listen because the essence is not in the bind it is in the bond.