When it died, instead of burying it, i tossed it up aiming at the outerspace so that it becomes an other worldy thing and doesnt haunt me.
the satellite caught it and while i was watching the telly, the news lady spoke of it.

i tossed it up aiming at the outerspace so what bound me to it breaks, so i forget or only distantly regret. so that its becomes into an asteroid, a planet or something else.
the satellite caught it and brought back it's ghost.
i should have buried it instead.


i dug it out from a directory which keeps everything and
Remarked: "i wonder how hot/cool/beautiful/stunnin/attractive u are that ppl jus cant resist u.."
i am deeply sorry for annoying


the funny part is that stories we write in parts of what we remember
and not the whole of what we remember.
memory might account many things including billboards and signs or even patterns in cutlery..
but that bit we dont mention.
like if i were to write a story about my dad.. it would most definitely be about how he loves airplanes.. like a young summer school boy. completely fascinated by them.
about mum.. i would write of her indulgance in cooking for me.
all my life i'd thought if only i could do anything to take away her regrets, but the sight of her preparing my meal when only a side of her face i can see, there is a strange feel of content in it and there are no regrets.
and such short exerpts, brief encounters would make my whole story.
there would be so many days, so much else left out... but i guess thats the nature of a story and a story writer.


Unknowns write poems in a journal everyday.
they are poems of love.. mostly.
i read,re-read, recite, hum.. go back and forth, murmur,sing, take off, brood, reminisce with them.
everyday i stare out from the rider's seat in a bus
and that view of the glimmering sea looks like the window to a wall clock
and in it a box with me in a birdy cap, stuck to a spring.. waiting for the hour to tick.