I shuttle between the world of villages and poverty to that of models and lenses. From crying over death to crying over wardrobe malfunction. From being fascinated with the wrinkled-old narrating stories of abuses to the manicured-siliconed cribbing about commitment phobic boyfriends. From business class flying to travel by general compartment squatting next to toilets.

Life moves in a chaotic pace, nights replacing days, sunsets disappearing into sunrises. I yearn to write about all of it. But time beats me, enslaves me, and i set out everyday to conquer the world. I run. To get all of it. Right now.

But I know I must sit down to write this and give into the restless energy of words in me.

Love did not appear,
In a flash.
It did not possess me,
In the scorching summers.
Or in those rains, that has washed away our buoyant youth.
Not when we filled every second with words.
It is not even the silences.

It must be that road I took last night,
It must the shadow of your silhouette;
the twinge of agony in your voice;
or the poetry in your eye-lash.

It must be the fiery resentment,
of this faceless storm in me.
It must be the angry adoration
For the mirror I see in you.

Love did not appear,
In a flash.
But it catches me unawares today,
Throwing at me, wings;
that had fallen off the cracks.