Dear _,

I’m writing this more for myself — a bold attempt to  let go of things carried quietly for too long.

Life. It’s hard, harder still when I’m tired, or hurting myself. On these hard days, the feeling of alone superseded the need to show up. But for the pieces of family that still matter to me. — for those who try their best to show up, for the memory of people we miss… In a world made of struggles, I never dare to ask for perfection.

A humble, tearful cry. I don’t want to feel invisible. I selfishly ask for love that means something more than shared dinners once a week.

Dear Diary

                     It’s not my fault

It’s easy to render
Myself a victim
Driven by consequence
                                    
Accountability
Sheds daily
                    Like skin
It silently falls

Perhaps I shall erase
My cuttings of
                    Foregone conclusions

They surround a
Diary full of days
Each encircled
                    By failure of others

Where is the side of me that faked tears but never a smile?
Where is the side of me that lied about having a fever instead of hiding it?
Where is the side of me that poured out every problem instead of carrying them alone?
Where is the side of me that blamed home food instead of craving it?
Where is the side of me that spoke without fear instead of swallowing my words?
Where is the side of me that fought instead of walking away in silence?
Where is the side of me that ran into crowds instead of seeking solitude?
Where is the side of me that answered endless questions instead of questioning my own existence?
Where is the side of me that cried over the smallest things instead of smiling through the pain?


Somewhere along the way, I lost that childhood.
Somewhere, I let its innocence slip through my fingers.
Somewhere, I turned my dreams to ashes and let the Ganga carry them away.
Somewhere, I buried my laughter beneath the weight of expectations.
Somewhere, carefree days turned into sleepless nights.
Somewhere, age and responsibility silenced the child within.
A carefree childhood faded,and a responsible adulthood took its place.
Yet, in the quiet corners of my heart ,that child still knocks, still whispers, still waits...

Hoping, one day, I will open the door again.

But how can I tell that the door will never open again?
How can I tell that the path has closed
forever?
How can I tell that it all came to an end long ago?

There once was from Mount Disappointment
A fella who lubed with some ointment
     A patch of dry skin
     Till he sinned a gross sin
And missed an important appointment.

The mind whispers,walk the path of dharma,like Arjuna, with his bow drawn tight.

The heart replies, let me offer love into it,like Meera, singing to her Krishna through the night.

Situations whirl around me.

Like the churning of the cosmic ocean—Samudra Manthan

Where every choice pulls like devas and asuras

Tugging between what’s right… and what’s desired.

But my soul, ancient and still,speaks in the voice of Vishnu, resting upon Ananta.

Soft, eternal, and unshaken

Do what is necessary

Time moves—like Shiva in his Tandava

Moments rise and fall

Karma spins its golden wheel.

In the center of it all

Like a flickering diya in the wind

Like Draupadi with folded hands

I stood… still.

Not knowing what’s right and what’s desired.

Until something touched me

Not a voice, not a word,but a divine light

Like the jyoti of Arunachala.

The kind of light Yashoda must’ve See when she looked into Krishna’s mouth and saw the universe.

It said:

When your heart and mind stop their war and start walking together,like Lakshmi beside Vishnu grace flows into action.

Miracles don’t just visit…They begin to live in you.

When your soul accepts the leela,when it bends with the time,even suffering becomes prasad.

Even poison, like Neelakantha’s, becomes a sacred strength.

So I bow

Not in surrender,but in sacred acceptance.

I do not run after answers.

I do not ask the winds to calm.

I walk the sacred thread—that unseen sutra,woven by Saraswati’s wisdom and Sita’s silence.

That ties duty to devotion.

Lets love carry its weight.

With no need for reward.

I woke with too much purpose this morning.
I swear it was me
who split the dark sky open
like pointed steel through wood.

The sharp hack of existence hit
when I visualized my wallet
on the kitchen counter,
leaning against that vase
with the snake on it.

Second in line
at the grocery store,
cart overflowing.