nessnote

meri aukat ke andar vali ड्रिंक्स

ameero vali ड्रिंक्स

chud gya

i ache with longing to befriend a crow.

DEADASS

anyways, KAL EXAM H

jisko dukh batao vo competition karne lag jata h bhai. you are attempting to share something about yourself and watch the conversation immediately get redirected into their thing. first of all, i’m not someone who talks about myself often. i’ve always been the listener friend and i don’t mind it (in fact, most of the time, i prefer it.) but on the occasions when i do choose to speak, it’s so fucking disheartening to have the moment taken over so quickly. what i dislike is not that they are sharing something. but it's the inability to listen before doing so. “this happened to you? let me tell you something even bigger.”

finally. (dost ne dilaya)

chutiya toh hu mai

goodnight.

i keep thinking there’s no symmetry between us. if i am the worn-out wick of a candle that still smokes after dying, he’s the star that refuses to burn out even after centuries. i am the chipped rim of a clay cup, always trembling on the edge of someone’s table; he is the goblet carved from a single flawless crystal, catching every stray light and turning it divine. i am the echo in a narrow alley, fading before it even learns its own shape; he is the cathedral bell that shakes entire towns into listening. i am the footnote no one reads, curled at the bottom of the page; he is the thesis argument scholars defend to their last breath. i am the compass that quivers, unsure of north; he is the pole star that does not move, that others arrange their lives around. i am the draft of a poem smudged by rain; he is the manuscript guarded by centuries of hands. i am the fleeting shadow on a sundial at dusk; he is the orbit of planets that mathematicians trust. i am the fallen feather from a bird no one names; he is the whole migration, written across the sky in a geometry only gods understand. i am the lukewarm tea forgotten at the bedside, gathering dust; he is the first monsoon rain that makes entire cities lean out of their windows. i am the faint radio static at 3 a.m.; he is the symphony premiering in a hall of chandeliers. i am the wilted marigold garland after the festival; he is the sunlit field where the flowers are still learning to bloom. i am the equation that never balances; he is the proof that closes the book. i am the dull pebble children kick on their way to school; he is the stone that anchors an entire temple. i am the unconvincing prayer whispered out of habit; he is the miracle that makes believers out of cynics. i am the sigh trapped in a lover’s unfinished sentence; he is the proclamation carved into marble and guarded by sphinxes. and yet, in the embarrassing geography of my chest, i move toward him as if gravity itself prefers him and i am only following its pull. everytime i look at him, a part of me kneels.

i keep thinking there’s no symmetry between us. if i am the worn-out wick of a candle that still smokes after dying, he’s the star that refuses to burn out even after centuries. i am the chipped rim of a clay cup, always trembling on the edge of someone’s table; he is the goblet carved from a single flawless crystal, catching every stray light and turning it divine. i am the echo in a narrow alley, fading before it even learns its own shape; he is the cathedral bell that shakes entire towns into listening. i am the footnote no one reads, curled at the bottom of the page; he is the thesis argument scholars defend to their last breath. i am the compass that quivers, unsure of north; he is the pole star that does not move, that others arrange their lives around. i am the draft of a poem smudged by rain; he is the manuscript guarded by centuries of hands. i am the fleeting shadow on a sundial at dusk; he is the orbit of planets that mathematicians trust. i am the fallen feather from a bird no one names; he is the whole migration, written across the sky in a geometry only gods understand. i am the lukewarm tea forgotten at the bedside, gathering dust; he is the first monsoon rain that makes entire cities lean out of their windows. i am the faint radio static at 3 a.m.; he is the symphony premiering in a hall of chandeliers. i am the wilted marigold garland after the festival; he is the sunlit field where the flowers are still learning to bloom. i am the equation that never balances; he is the proof that closes the book. i am the dull pebble children kick on their way to school; he is the stone that anchors an entire temple. i am the unconvincing prayer whispered out of habit; he is the miracle that makes believers out of cynics. i am the sigh trapped in a lover’s unfinished sentence; he is the proclamation carved into marble and guarded by sphinxes. and yet, in the embarrassing geography of my chest, i move toward him as if gravity itself prefers him and i am only following its pull. everytime i look at him, a part of me kneels.

should i think about a youtube channel or an instagram account where i post? or too farfetched?