5th October; Salvador

My sight cannot find humans on the mountain, there are other creatures with amazing natural composition. All of them have radiations, almost complementary to the temperature of the altitude.

This is supposed to be a glitch. I think I found what is known to be the Maltese Tiger. It is wondrous to find this creature but a factual fallacy. Apparently, the human database never had a strict evidence of the creature. It is really not in accord.

I have started to understand that humans themselves don’t know their planet. The tiger is blue in colour and the stance of black is very appealing. The creator must be highly precise to put each stroke of dark colour on the light blue skin.

I moved forwards and the creature reacted by stretching his forelegs. Primal tendencies were identified, fear. The primal reaction was an offence in the form of defence. The philosophical input in my data said I should stay still. So I did not move.

The creature came closer and rubbed a soft tissue on my metallic leg. Now I have an error, this is recorded as affection. But this is not its primal nature. Dichotomy or development.


Dunkelheit Book Review: To Dream And Discover.

Ever since I read the works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, I would often think of the poems he could write if he was happier with the day light. The poet puts on the show of metaphors and fancy that hit a revolution into literature, but I wont suggest Coleridge to a young person who is new to the vivid troubles inflicted by the curious mind.

I admired Wordsworth for ever bit of word that shaped up for his love. The depiction of nature was not out of the fascination of the blur, rather the insticts that surface in raw senses.

In the recent past, my mind developed various conflicts. Ranging from my faith to the decadance of each day; nothing rhymed and made sense. Wordsworth seemed too happy, Coleridge would only help me dig deeper in grief. I was not stable to appreciate the extreme streams.

Aviral Kapoor is a 21 year old poet who could bring the two extremes together in synchrony. His book Dunkeheit is a poetic conversational log between God and his innocent human creation. There are symbols embedded in the narration and poems embellished with ornaments of metaphysical answers.

The books is not just a composition of images and metafiction, but a path to the roots of an individual’s identity. From the subconsciousness rhyming alongside the full moon; the poetic synthesis revives the wholestic philosophy of humankind.

To critic the work, I may land up with an argument of ‘ideas’ as an abstract phenomenon. But everytime I read the poems, the words are able to generate past experiences into a compelling messages that I had ignored altogether.

To read the resonance of the romantic period of literature in the post modern world is in one word, reviving. If it was upto me, I would declare Aviral Kapoor as a poet from the early 19th century.  He reminded me of the lake poets, and this remark completely speaks for his potential. 



The Poets In The Cafe

Four of them had lost to themselves. They were not simple to the past, not complex to the future, only words to the present. That is what everything was about, some words. They fell with the rain and surfaced in the taste.

My Muse was in the rain as well, somewhere far or close, how does it matter. Somewhere in the rain with an alien to her potential. It has always been the same talk among the poets, something related to the celestial ink that shapes up their thoughts. From the woman that broke stars into raindrops to the flight waiting up for the next project. From the forgotten coffee to the remembered intricacies of her smile.

There are tattoos engrained in the wood pallets with stories that do not make sense but harmony. And Mathew Arnold said that is enough to save the world, a few words.


The sun would keep it slow in the mornings,
And the rivers would trickle along,
The Symphony is born,
Along the transient trough of time.

As the birds wake the wind,
And the sky starts to feel blue,
The tea leaves never breathe the need,
To just listen to the music in my mind.

On the table, your cup stands still,
Disturbing the song of silence,
Memories speak so loud,
Moaning till the clouds come close.

It is raining because the sun was done singing,
And your cup was too loud to love,
Your coffee smoke would have danced in the mist,
Look how incomplete yet subtle.

My guitars don’t move much,
Rather be strummed by the broken winds,
And the forgotten raindrops,
We are rusting with the woods.

I wonder if there will be a person,
Holding your cup and asking me to sing,
With the hidden sun and the rusted strings,
Your faded red hair, memories don’t allow me to be.

The point is not the vacancy,
But the vacation,
Without you.

Memories alter my music,
And reality,
You were a need, dear dream.

Dead Flowers

My eyes are closed and the only thing I sense is nothing. I don’t know what sound shall guide this feeling, but it is happening. In the grave of my mind where the sand is the stillness of this universe. The dark space where I Inhibit within and without.

She would kiss me with flowers. Petals on my dead skin and I don’t know how to tell her this but I think my body has given up years ago. Now that I understand that only my desires lived and not my intent. Might sound all the darker, this space inside my head and I have nothing to say those kisses or the flowers that will eventually die with the fraction of time. I cannot see you anymore because I don’t want to. Yes, I understand that you are practical and none of this makes sense to you. It doesn’t have to make sense to anything at all. Senses are frail weak conscious traps.

I am a young dead man. And these thoughts are surfaced out of the five minutes that my eyes were closed and nothing disturbed. I carefully sensed my death. How in darkest breaths of the space, I would feel these dead flowers touch the earth in all sincerity.

It was never meant to be. Nothing was ever meant to be, but it did happen. Now I don’t really know from where I have the audacity to hurt everyone around me by saying that all of this that we sense is a web and the more we think, the more intense is the trap.

But it won’t be long until the flowers kissing my dead body becomes one with me. That’s what is meant to be. The slow degradation of senses. My dearest fellows might come to feed the dead flowers with some drops of tears, the clouds I mean are fairly dominant to the skies of life. The cries shall help sincerity reach its salvation.


I have lost myself in the reverie called reality and I need to regain all my spiritual sense. It has been a while since I have extended the limited characters and novels that I started a year ago.  Intuition was the fuel to a surreal sense, as silence would pave the way to absolute sound.

In attempts to continue, I interacted with experiences, but the dependency on the experiences have made the silence disappear. With this article, I shall attempt to gain the silence again. I have been addicted to certain activities and that is also adding on to the exploitation of my exhausted spirit. I named this blog, Spiritsights for a reason that I understand now. It has always been intuition.

Lately, I have been dependent on material object and humans to extract muse. But this practice has ruined my artistic calibre to the core and I need to get back.

I shall practice meditation and intuitive flow, whether it makes sense or not, that is not my concern for I am sure very few actually read. For those who read, you shall find an interesting pattern of automatic writing. It is an experiment to revive the Spiritsight.

Sailing Sun

“Do you know how it feels?”

” To be possessed by lust?”

“No, to write a poem.”

“I never lose myself entirely like this, this cannot be good.”

“I barely find myself stable enough. I am always lost, yes, not to that extent. Kissing you is different. To suck the nectar from the life that was left with a little rush of blood.”

“You are crazy.”


I sat down and she kept standing. I wanted to feel the ground for the first time in my life, she was standing the same way, because she wanted to meet the sky. But I sat down, you see, I knew, that I was at the centre of my universe. Next, to a tree and a girl I love, who I just kissed losing all my senses. How weird it is at times when you cannot explain it all to the closest person there is, how amazing it feels. To be honest, it was really scary as well, to see her stand when the sun was finally setting and it was time for us to sleep. But she never sleeps. She just wants to fly and never to be bound by the arms of faith. That’s why I love her, but I want to hold her.

I love you like a poison loves to kill and at times I cannot help.

“Take a walk. Fly. We shall meet some other day when you like.”

“Yes, alone will be better for both of us.”

“It is an old forest. Please take care”