Category: Whispers

You traded weather for walls.
Edges for upholstery.
A spine for a swivel chair.

It felt smart at first—safe, efficient, adult. Bills on autopay. Calendar obedient. But comfort is a slow tourniquet. It tightens while you smile. It steals blood from the parts that once reached for the storm.

You know this. You can hear the hum. The dead air. The soft kill of easy things.

So break it.
Pick the road with teeth.
Choose the work that argues with you, the kind that makes your lungs file complaints and your hands sign the waiver anyway. Let the wind be your supervisor. Let friction take attendance. Sweat until your excuses dissolve like sugar in heat.

Money? Use it like salt, not syrup.
Praise? Spend it like coin tossed to a wishing well—seen, then gone.
Security? Earn it by wrestling the day to a split-decision.

Stack small, savage wins— the early alarm, the cold water, the extra rep, the honest no. Make repetition your liturgy and pain your currency. You’re not chasing suffering—you’re paying attention. And attention costs.

You were not built for padded rooms. You were built for thresholds—the exact place where fear and duty shake hands and call it faith. Stand there. Every day. Until the man in you thickens back into someone who could carry his own name up a hill.

Choose the hard thing.
Bloom in any weather.
Stay awake or stay asleep—but understand— the bill always comes due.

A girl is born. She now has a “temporary” home; she is expected to go to her “real” home.

Once she goes, that “real” home never feels like home. She wants to go back to her temporary home, but it was always temporary; she can’t stay.

So where is her home? Maybe her grave.

Isn’t this painful?

Or perhaps the pain has evolved into “honor,” meant to satisfy a society’s collective sadism—finding false honor in scapegoating.

This sort of an “honor” is well known in the subcontinent, the rest of the world has its own versions.

The girl—from birth to death, for no reason other than being a girl—remains an eternal refugee.

One candle glows, a year now spun,
May every dawn bless you, little one.

Twelve moons have danced to greet your smile,
May kindness guide each coming mile.

Small hands that grasp tomorrow’s light,
May dreams stay gentle, bold, and bright.

Your first year’s song has just begun,
May love be rhythm, hope the drum.

A single step, a world to roam,
May laughter carve your lifelong home.

A single flame in midnight hue,
May every wish come true for you.

Year one is done, the journey new,
May stardust guide the path you pursue.

Tiny laughs like fountains play,
May love surround you night and day.

From first soft step to open skies,
May wonder light your dreaming eyes.

One dawn behind, a thousand more,
May joy keep knocking at your door.

Petal-small hands greet rising sun,
May grace attend you, little one.

Twelve bright moons have circled fast,
May courage cloak you to the last.

Your story sings its opening part,
May hope reside within your heart.

Birthday bells ring clear and strong,
May kindness keep you all life long.

Candle’s glow and cake’s first slice,
May life unfold in warmth and spice.

You carry a fire the world can’t see,
To become who you’re meant to be.

It flickers most when nights are long,
It feeds on silence, not on any song.

Some chase sparks that fade too fast,
While others build a flame to last.

Take one step true, then take one more,
The path will meet you inside your core.

The loud will boast—the bright will blind,
Yet the depth walks quiet and leaves a sign.

The flame is yours yet don’t be flown—
It’s kindled where truth is sown.

Let others drift and walk away,
Their fires dim along their way.

Don’t look towards the crowds to cheer,
But to become what you hold dear.

So guard the spark and let it grow—
Enough to see the path you know.

There was once a presence—
not quite a girl, not merely a boy,
but a light the soul recognized
before the mind could give it form.
A breath beside your breath.
A knowing.

You did not call it love.
Love was still sleeping in the language.
But the stars leaned closer when they walked beside you,
and silence learned your names.

Time, like wind over sand,
carried both of you into the world’s forgetting.
The path split gently—no storm, no blame—
just the hush of a door that closes
without ever having opened.

Still, they remain—
not in photographs,
not in the echo of old songs—
but in the pauses between thoughts,
in the space where longing becomes a kind of prayer.

Some love does not arrive to stay.
It arrives to awaken.
It leaves no footprints,
yet walks with you for lifetimes.

You may never meet again.
But when dusk drapes the fields in amber hush,
When a voice you never heard calls your name inward.
What you shared was not a chapter—
but the breath before the story began.

In the end, we are all survivors,
Of our own hearts.

The wind held its tongue on the edge of the pines—then spoke in the hush.
Not in thunder, not in verse—truth broke in the hush.

I sought the road, and maps, and signs that pointed me right—
But found the gate unlatched and oak, half-broke, in the hush.

The brook did not babble that morning, just shimmered and sighed,
And something in me, once bound in smoke, awoke in the hush.

The world had been loud with wanting, with clocks and fire—
But love did not stir till I let it soak in the hush.

I thought God thundered. I thought He’d split sky and stone—
But He came as a leaf, as a look, as a cloak, in the hush.

No preacher could preach what a crow taught perched on ice—
When it flew, it left a poem it never spoke, in the hush.

And so I write not to fill the page, but to fall
Into that wood, once more, once broke, in the hush.

I carried her out through the morning light,
Where dew still clung to blades of grass,
And robins stirred in gentle flight,
And time, for once, forgot to pass.

She giggled soft, a stream’s delight,
A ripple threading through the day,
More tender than the hush of night
When stars blink all their cares away.

She clutched my thumb with fingers small—
A trust too wide for words to pen.
It taught me how the great and tall
Must bow to love again, again.

Each laugh she gave, each half-formed word,
Was poetry the world can’t frame.
No lyric more alive I’ve heard
Than just the way she spoke my name.

Yet prose she is, too—clear and kind,
A daily tale my soul repeats,
A rhythm set inside my mind,
In every breath, in all heartbeats.

So if you ask what truth I keep,
What faith I guard from age or fall—
It’s her, who laughs upon my lap,
And makes the earth seem small.