Are we telling stories through our lives?
Or our lives narrating stories through us?
Are we characters in the novels to be written?
Or writers writing through life?
Are we the narrative?
Or is the narrative flowing through us?
Am I flesh and bones
Or the amorphous voice inside?
Is my narrative yours and your narrative mine?
For we are asteroids that collided
Through space and time.
I am sitting on concrete in the clouds high above
Admiring the green, leafy tops of trees
There are these tiny signals guiding the motion of cars
Red, white, black and blue crawling in the well laid out paths.
I am scared and exhausted per usual, ah my safe familiar feelings
Overcompensating my yearning for company is this daily slumber induced by anxiety
These crawling figures are my own dear ones
With some of them I share pieces of my life, with others the general bond of humanity
I am them and they are me
Like a stream flowing through shores carrying dust and nutrition
There is longing in motion
And demise in rest
And disquieting comfort only in everlasting anxiety.
I yearn to feel safe —
Find a cozy little place to hide.
Promise me to not let your senses give away when you get exasperated
Neither through the roll of your eyes nor curt sentences
Just wrap me in and
Become my afternoon reverie
Instead of being my midnight slumber.
I went to the beach everyday
On the messy sand I lay
I liked the breeze, I liked the blue
The sea invited me to drench me in its hue.
I played, with the water I swayed
But I stayed away.
I went to the beach everyday.
A year — two, three, almost ten
I didn’t still enter in and exclaimed ten! when the sea exasperatingly asked when
I went to the mountains too
But to the sea, I never paid my due.
Years went by in whole
And the sun, growing hotter now, had parched my soul
This might seem a little worn, a little out
Maybe even resemble a headache —
Because all I’ve had is sleep but all I haven’t had is sleep as well
When your mind’s a little too foggy and eyes damp and head has missing whereabouts
And your heart’s trembling and the whole being a little dazed
All you feel like doing is writing
Not as covertly as before; disguise is washing away as well
But all you feel like doing is writing
Maybe the flow of words from the tips of my fingers
Will help unwind the contortions of emotions…
The below is a rant — I’ll try to be scientific and accurate because I am unimaginably critical of myself for being wrong but I’m protecting myself from criticism by accepting first hand above that this is a rant and not an essay or an answer sheet that you have the obligation to grade and please don’t feel that you have the right to do that. Instead if you choose to read my writing below — I, the writer, am putting the obligation on you to keep any negative criticism to yourself. Just the way I think as humans…
What’s currently happening isn’t really a paradox.
We are in the midst of a global pandemic, struggling with public health and harsh economic shutdowns — and stock markets are rising. What’s happening? Aren’t stock markets supposed to be barometers of economies?
Stock markets are interactions between buyers and sellers — so if they rise, we need to understand why are more people buying than selling and vice-a-versa if stock markets are falling. As markets have become globalised and financial instruments have become more complicated, there can be myriad of reasons to understand this behaviour. …
In the midst of this global pandemic, we regularly see ourselves battling with questions of how unsustainable our “normal” has been — whether we can improve upon the guiding principles of our public policies that are largely derived from the field of Economics. Economics is not merely the management of resources — it’s a framework of civilisation. Our normal is currently defined by the base metric of economic interaction — utility. But we know there’s more, there is happiness.
The country of Bhutan releases a Gross National Happiness Index (GNH) every year instead of the Gross Domestic Product (GDP) statistics…
Unravelling the poetry of life