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The times you want to hold onto.

2 Jun

Every year over 7 billion people travel 365 days around the Earth. And each one of us wish for that one moment when it all stops and we can enjoy the stillness of it. To look life straight in the eye and in the perfect way, feel the moment.
For me that time has to be my childhood when the smallest tasks felt like adventures and escapades. When you knew that no matter how dark the night is, the sun would always brighten your day. When colors were brighter and flowers more fragrant.

When smiling had no reasons.

And I would hope that some day time stops and all of us could well, appreciate the mundane. Writing is in all of our bloods and if any of my words reached you I wish you would take it in and just hope for the return of the times you want to hold onto.


The Crippled Sun.

5 May

It’s a crippled sun in the sky,
Mistrusting the honor of the night,
Trying hard to shine.
Grudging over the borrowed light.

Rediscovering A Blogger’s Passions-Writing Stories.

21 Apr

So I’ve recently come across the site Wattpad. For those who don’t know, its an amazing website where you can share your own stories/ poems as well as read those of others cost free. I decided to give writing a try. On Wattpad, I started with a novel called “The Sylver’s Script” which is a mystery/thriller. I’m putting up the summary here for you and I know how lazy all of us can be (In a good way, if you know what I mean?) but it would  really mean a lot to me if you all could just have a look at it and comment or like if you find it interesting. I’d really like that, as I need some appreciation to pursue it as a major writing.


P.S, I’m attaching the link here to the story on Wattpad as well. Here it is:
P.P.S, I’m @Adistic on Wattpad. Comment with your usernames so that I can check out your creations!


The man was rushing down a dark endless tunnel with the black waters splashing everywhere, only making his position more vulnerable. He opened his eyes from a severe case of unconsciousness only to find himself pinned down to the hospital bed with the weight of an arm and a sharp glinting knife in its tight grip. The moment was a frantic rush of events for the patient to take in, but countering obvious allusions he ripped off the IV tubes and the other connections attached to his body and managed to get the gunman off of him. Despite, the fact that he’d been stationary for a long period he sprinted out of the room and the gunman trailed him but he somehow managed to slam the door in his face. The marksman last words echoed the halls and then it went silent. The stunned patient stared in the empty and creepy hallway trying to make some sense out of what just happened. He recalled the words of the gunman. “… Where is it? The diary… where?!” But it was all a muddle. In the palpable scare he could feel in each of his cells, he dug his memory deep to look for the reason. But he got nothing.  In fact, his whole mind was blank –he did not remember anything.

Nonetheless, before this traumatic revelation could stop bothering him, he managed to find a pair of jeans and a shirt heavily smeared with blood and on a sudden instinct to grope into them, he found, to his utter astonishment, a small red booklet.  And his gut told him that this was the exact same diary the strange man in his room was looking for. Also, this belonged to him. He frenzied through it, with the hope to reorganize this chaos. Everything still seemed like a wild idea to him; another one of those dark gaps. But, he accessed the situation and came to certain conclusions –he did not retain any concept of his life before now, people wanted him to die for something, he had the ‘something’ they wanted and this thing was the only way for him to get out of this mess.

He flipped through the yellow pages scribbled on with a familiar black-ink etching. Everything was vague except for the last line that stated, “Property of Derek Sylver.” This is a grueling thriller about a man and his rediscovery of himself facing against big deadly odds of whose existence he’s unaware of. His adventures to decipher his existence with the clues from the red diary all along keeping himself away from danger… or rather combating it.

Wishful Dreams.

18 Apr

I wish I could dream the dreams,
That could break out through the prison blues.
Not just be hollow unfulfilled

Tell me your dreams,
I’ll tell you mine.
Don’t fret if they are secrets,
I’ll keep them to my confines.

Because dreamers sore in the sky,
Really close to the sun.
Despite the star’s heat,
They avoid every burn.

Dreams like titanium chords,
Uniting my life, altered and entwined.
Because the eyes that shed tears,
Are the eyes that can shine.

Unguarded Secrets (Kerosene)

11 Apr

KeroseneKeeping it all close,
Right within my reach.
A safely guarded secret,
But its turning out all bleak.

As you’ve burnt it out with your darkness.
And shattered down the dreams.
With your self inflicted purgatory schemes,
And that bottle of kerosene.

I fret through it this time,
Lying low – totally lost and incomplete.
As I fumble through the puzzles,
To find that final piece.

A rusted knife overhead,
Hovering into the outer space.
But everyone has their stardust,
Which no perception can erase.

I still hate that kerosene bottle,
That you so keenly grip.
With my petty world as your fireplace,
And the memories alight like the wood chips-
Yielding fire in my face.

The borrowed light that rains,
Is like my personal deposit
For my little share of that stardust.
To keep the glitter brightly lit.

Yet, filled with inflammable kerosene
That bottle comes in the way.
Giving way to your oxidized dreams,
Breaking me down every time I pray.

Now the kerosene oozes out,
As now that I’ve broken that glass,
I could easily grab my world,
Give you a contemptuous regard.

But I’m not the type that walks away,
Without a second glance,
I’d keep the secrets that belong to me,
And surrender the rest to chance.

The Path Of A Blogger.

11 Apr

Sometimes I wonder if blogging really makes sense…Type out your thoughts and click on ‘Publish’ and that’s it.616045189e2c11e2952822000a1f9695_7 Done. Over. Complete. It reaches the platform. Now, all you can do is wait for it to appeal the globe. Or not.

But there’s a second direction in which it can be presented. For that you need to realize, dig your brain cells, why did you make the blog in the first place. And that’s when you come to know that blogs are not just about writing and posting. They belong to you as a part. Closely knitted to your life like a modern diary. Reflecting your day, ideas, thoughts, anything. And so you end up thinking, “I’ve travelled a long path.” And that makes you content. The path’s rough, lonesome, tiring, strange and difficult. But you need to be daring to cross it.


Its valid for everything. In every walk of life and we’ve known it, down in our hearts, that effort pays off. The less travelled path is rather tough but worth it, I say.

But lets just focus on blogging right now. So, I really hope that my journey will be a long one – like that of a marathon runner. And I am in for the long haul.

And clicking the ‘Publish’ button right now, does not mean I am crossing over my own words. Rather I wish to bring them to you. Give it some time to rain into you…

Too Much Sleep Deprivation for a Lifetime.

22 Mar

Okay, so today has been a day of mix feelings. Firstly, the exam.

Well, strangely it went amazing! Not to sound cocky or anything but it was too easy-breezy. I completed it way past before the time and sat their chomping onto a packet of chips while the teacher positively glared at me. (I wonder if she wanted some. I could have spared a few.)

d183c4ae8d5c11e281d822000a1f9682_7Secondly, I have a bad headache. A really bad one. Sleep-deprived, I am. I haven’t shut my eyes in straight 48 hours. Work! Work! Work! I mean, how much exactly, can a guy work for his examinations? I know, I should have studied before hand (Sounding like my Mum.) but hey, honestly 99% of the teens my age don’t EVER do that. So I’m off to sleep people. When you have a look at this, I probably might’ve already caught a few Zzzs.