Random thoughts, like clouds, floating in my coffee. Would arrive in sealed manilla envelopes. The eight year old me. Would check the mailbox every other day,. On my way to and from school. Already having drafted a mental reply. A complete page, written in jet black or blue. Yours ever loving, Papa. In a city far off-.

I would like to begin the year of with one of the three Indian writers we read this year.

The Pondering of a Confessional Poet. September 1, 2017 by confirmstatushere. Have I ever told you that I hate the quiet? Some people fill it with busy minds, myself? I reflect, which is possibly the worst thing that someone can do when they have no pieces of them left that are useful.

Of the same four walls. When I wished for it full. I grasp another shooting star. And thrust it into my skull. One, two, three, or more. Knife marks in my heart. I step back to the beginning. Defeated, I go back to the start. Shoes off, so I can feel the sand. With only the sound of breeze. On a beach covered in prints. A sole soul is set at ease.

Riding effortlessly on a large green turtle. Happiness is a fleeing bird,. Joy is the call of a blooming lotus,. If you tried to listen. Peace is a still and infinite pond,. Love is a fragile spring breeze,. Hate is a fire we try to hide,.

I will not pace myself With fiction. Rehan, It did take an inordinate time to reach me. Read the first Part here.

This girl has been broken.