I ask myself if I am real,
but the question never settles.
It drifts, circles back, repeats—
like everything else in this place
that feels like living
but never quite is.

To love you is to stand in the path of fire, knowing I will burn, and yet, I do not move. Tear me apart, scatter me like dust, and I will still drift toward you, pulled by a force greater than reason or fear.

I stitched reverence into its skin,
pressed belief into its vacant hands,
set it upright and called it truth.

I amble down this melancholic lane, my steps echoing the cadence of an old, forgotten song. Memories flood back like a deluge, moments of me, rooted in the same despondent lane, my heart heavy with sadness. Yet now, I walk these same streets with a renewed purpose.

This time, the sorrow doesn’t consume me. The sting is familiar, but the weight is lighter, as if shared by an unseen hand. I walk willingly, my head high, because to let her escape the clutches of this path is a balm enough for my soul.

बेबसी का ज़हर सीने में उतर जाता है क्या?
मैं जिसे आवाज़ देता हूं वो मर जाता है क्या?

It’s a whisper-thin line, drawn in sand, nearly gone,
two faces in a crowd, close enough to blur.
One treads lightly, gliding on the edge,
the other sinks, rooted in what’s safe.

It’s a threadbare coat, familiar and worn,
a place where effort takes its leave,
where possibility stifles, yawns, and sits,
as if greatness took a detour,
and forgot its way back.

Here, dreams fold into small corners,
content to whisper rather than shout,
while the world moves on,
never asking what could have been.

Here, the spark drifts like autumn leaves,
caught in the soft arms of familiarity,
settling—where dreams and time blend,
and purpose loses its way in the crowd.