A.V

(I’m writing this so I can breathe) This is A.V. An INFJ and a Virgo. A person not built for the noise of society, because the presence of people, their gazes, their questions, their expectations, all seem to press in too close. Human closeness doesn’t comfort him, it freezes him. He shies away from small talk, the way one avoids the cold touch of metal on a winter morning. Words spoken without depth feel like static in his ears. He rarely meets eyes, not out of disrespect, but because looking too closely feels like peeling away skin, too raw, too much. He needs meaning, always. He can’t move without reason, without purpose. Every action must have a soul behind it. His heart doesn’t race at gold or applause, it flutters quietly at the sight of wild blue skies, of dew settling into green leaves, of rain on windows. He recharges in silence, in stillness, alone. He can go deep, so deep it might surprise you, but only in the soft privacy of one-on-one conversations. Put him in a group,...

His presence stands tall and unwavering, as strong and steady as the ancient redwoods that have weathered countless seasons, their roots deep in the earth, unmoving, eternal. And yet, despite that stillness, I feel something shifting between us, as if an invisible red string is pulling us closer. My shoulders lean toward him, drawn the way branches stretch toward the sunlight, seeking warmth, seeking something unknown. His presence is warm, calm, comforting, like the soft apricity of a weary evening. My skin senses his heat before I even touch him, the fabric of his shirt grazing over my bare arms like a whisper, featherlight and fleeting. Our shoulders brush, a quiet closeness we have known before, yet still, my heart refuses to accept it, racing as if something unknown, something irreversible, is about to unfold. My mind, once filled with words, stills into silence, as if caught in the hush before a storm. And then, he closes the distance, as if I have silently given hi...

Oh Captain, my Captain. To write poetry is to express , The world from your eyes. To carve silence into sound, To paint the world in syllables, To give voice to the unsaid. To write poetry is to inspire , The spark of creativity. To strike a match in the dark, To catch fleeting thoughts like fireflies, To turn a single word into a universe. To write poetry is to live , The moment you so waste. To gather the seconds others forget, To breathe life into fading memories, To find beauty in the breaking. To write poetry is to know , The depths of one's mind. To dive into the ocean of untold thoughts, To listen to the silence between words, To understand the self before it is lost. To write poetry is to believe , The cruel world still bears kindness. To stitch light into the fabric of sorrow, To find warmth in the coldest spaces, To remind the heart why it beats. To write poetry is to rebel , The demons inside. To break chains made of silence, To set fire to t...

 आप जानते हो, हम इतने अजीब और ज़्यादा सवाल क्यों पूछते हैं? शायद हम मतलबी हैं... कौन जाने किसका बुलावा कब आ जाए। शायद इसलिए हम आपसे सब कुछ सीख लेना चाहते हैं, ताकि बाद में कोई अफ़सोस न रहे। हम नहीं चाहते कि आप चले जाएं, और हम कभी जान ही न पाएं कि मम्मी और पापा कैसे शख़्स थे। शायद इसलिए बार-बार पूछ लेते हैं, और खुद को तैयार करते रहते हैं उस दिन के लिए जब आप नहीं होंगे। ये सब मामा, ताई जी, और परिवार को देख कर सीखा है। दिल... कभी कठोर नहीं हुआ, पर आँखें अब ग़म की ख़ूबसूरती देखना सीख गई हैं, और दिमाग... ग़म से उभरना। हमें अभी तक बात रखना अच्छे से नहीं आता, परिवारि निभा पाएंगे या नहीं, पता नहीं। (शायद पत्नी अच्छी होगी तो शायद निभा जाए।) आप लोग भी ज़्यादा उम्मीद मत रखो, और अपनी ज़िंदगी बिंदास हो कर जियो। जो हो रहा है, होने दो, ज़िंदगी बहुत छोटी है यार छोटी-छोटी बात की चिंता करने के लिए। (हाँ मम्मी, ये आप ही के लिए कह रहा हूँ।) तभी शायद हर अलविदा, दिल भर के होनी चाहिए, क्योंकि कौन जानता है, कौन-सी रुख़्सत आख़िरी हो। 21 फ़रवरी – आज काफ़ी दिनों बाद पापा की कमी महसूस हुई। त्योहार, सालगिरह, ज...

Aap theek ho mosi? Aap theek ho na? Aap ka shareer theek hai na? (A voice overflowing with care) Aap acchi ho na mosi? Aap theek ho na? Paccka? Phir kyu apke shabd sun ke humari maiya ke aakho mai assu a jate hai? Phir kyu mai logo sai apke bare mai acchi km buri baate jada sunta hu? Kyu Hume lagta hai ki Hume apko sahi karna hoga? Kyu hume lagta hai ye sab bolke apke mn mai humare liye bas krodh aur gridhna, utpann hogi? Phir kyu kabhi kabhi apke shabd aur apka laheza bilkul pasand nahi aata hume? Kyu nana nai apko tokna bandh kar diya hai? Kyu unhone apko theek karna bandh kar diya hai? Kyu mosi? Kyu? (And tears fall) A.V

In a mountainside, this cafe resides, full of glass, wood, and vibe. It’s morning, far before the rush hour. I step in, look around, and pick a spot by the large glass windows that frame the green mountains. I open my book and order a coffee. Murmuring hums blend with the gentle songs of my soul. Plates and forks clink softly. My heart finds its place here. A cafe crafted with care and warmth. Black and brown tones create a cozy ambiance, and flowers spill outside, adding color to the view. There’s enough space to house families and friends comfortably. My coffee arrives, warm and rich. I look around: vintage bulbs hang from the ceiling, suspended on copper pipes—a bold, open design that exposes the air conditioner lines and beams. Some might opt to close them off and hang bulbs from rustic jute ropes, but this openness feels intentional, raw, and refreshing. Each table is set with seasoning bottles in both glass and plastic—though all-glass would add a nice touch. Every table has a ta...