Wednesday, October 1

Diamond Dust

We are Fallen Meteors and Shining Lights
Abandoned by our Brothers
Asters and Auroras and Orbits and Coronas
We are Cosmic Scars and Confused Afterglows
Discarded by some, accepted by others

We are Winds in Heat and Clouds in Shame
Of Love and Lust we yearn
Caresses and Winks and Kisses and Blinks
We are Children of the Night and Siblings of the Morn
But we have yet to learn

We are Dogs and we are Demons
The Saviors and the Oppressed
Turtles and Moths and Bears and Sloths
There is much to be learned

We are Dreams and Nightmares
Glass Vessels of Iron Will
Saviors and Whores and Cowards and More
We are Hearts of Gold and Minds of Steel
We think we are, but still

Image Courtesy: Deepa Mistry (Love this!)

We are Flares and Cinders
Cosmic Spaceships of Ethereal Stuff
Hammers and Nails and Planks and Pails
We are Teachers of Past and Students of Future
We may be Diamonds, but that's not enough

We are Skeletons and Ashes
Charcoal Sheets of the Universe
Sheep and Wolves and Rabbits and Bulls
We are suitably complete, we assume
But we have yet to rehearse

We are Visionaries and Fools
Branches of the Holy Tree
Wars and Victories and Benefits and Mysteries
We have wandered enough, we think
But we have yet to see

We are Electric Stars and Poetic Souls
Smirks and Smiles and Shapes and Styles
But while seeking Humor in the Tales of Battle
We have neglected to observe
The footsteps in our miles

We are Asked Questions and Unspoken Answers
We are the Quiet, the Noise, the Words in Silence
Doubts and Fears and Reasons and Sneers 
We are the Known among what He employs
We are but, the Dust in Diamonds.

Saturday, August 3

Flightship 11

There once was a monkey
Drunk as a well
Mesmerized, hypnotized
By life's hidden spell

He was curious, this one
And asked many questions
And he was furious
When the answers were none

And there once was an owl
Wandering through the skies
Searching for the moon
In the rivers of surprise

He seeked the moon's image
He was lost, this grand bird
Searching those flowing waters
Through the rumors he had heard

And so they met
And what a grand meeting that was
A celebration of sorts
Just because...

They talked and they talked
And laughed all the while
Until the monkey changed the scene
With his sly little smile

The monkey had a plan, the monkey said with glee

"Let's move the moon
And catch his image and see
Let's build ourselves a spaceship
And fly across the sea"

The owl waved his hand, and countered with courtesy

"Now don't be hasty
We can't keep the pace
We don't have the screws
To fix it all in place"

But the monkey was stubborn
And the monkey was drunk
Once he had even decided
To be a holy monk

And so he jumped and danced
Declaring his little plan
"No need for screws, we've got the nuts
You'll come to understand
We'll work the days and nights, all the next 7
And when we're done, we'll call this thing...
Flightship 11"

The owl was astounded, shocked beyond a doubt
With careful thought he answered
"This is madness 
This just cannot be
Why the number 11
It makes no sense to me"

The monkey smiled
And answered without haste
"We are 1 and 1, and that makes 11
It's just a matter of taste

We'll fly over to the moon
And tell him to look to the lake
For in that water lies his image
The one that ripples cannot take"

This made sense to all
And so the owl agreed
And so they did what they did
And so the moon was freed.

The End...?

Sunday, April 21


A liberation called for
One we're all for
A liberation of thought and time
A liberation, worth a dime

A liberation blessed with pride and tainted with fate
A liberation we'd all love to hate
One that doesn't have to pretend to be true
A liberation, for me and you

Saturday, April 20

EAC 2.0

It's been 6 nice years on this blog. Writing. Dreaming. Sharing. Those who have been asked to read this are the ones who've stayed. Thank you.

In these years I have grown. A little wiser. A little crazier. The new EAC reflects that. I've done away with the clutter.

There is a LOT of white-space now. I love white-space. The darkness is gone.  Everything is clearer, purer, simpler now. The new logo represents my obsession with simplicity. I've made it myself. I used Powerpoint.

No more fancy statistics or fancy gadgets, nothing. Only what I write and what you read is on here. There are some nice sites I follow on the sidebar as well, under the list of posts. You might like them.

All my posts are listed on the sidebar. Hence, no search bar. No links for comments either. Send me an email, or call, or message. Say "Hi.. Your posts suck, but the logo is nice", or something of that sort.

I've trying to write a book. It's in the works. The project is called 'The Green Peppermint", for lack of a better name and abundant laziness. You're free to mail your own ideas and opinions. I would love to hear them :)

Thank you for staying. Thank you for reading. There is a lot of stuff in the works. I hope I get the time to get it all out to you. Keep smiling, keep reading...

And stick around.

Character Draft - Tom Yester

It is said that when he was born, he cried uncontrollably for days. Nothing his mother did would make him stop, and no one knew what to do. People thought the worst, and assumed the boy was cursed, possessed, or both. There was pain in the boy’s wail, and his eyes carrying a tremendous burden of some mysterious design.

The sky turned grey and the winds gathered to watch, going out of their way to see the curious scene. With a flash a man appeared, carrying a smile on his face and a whispering and whistling and then singing. The mother cried tears of joy, and little Tom giggled himself to sleep. The rain stopped pouring, and the winds themselves stopped by.

There was a glint in the man’s eyes, and the mother cried with joy and disbelief. He held her hand and hushed her back to sleep. She never saw him again, and little Tom stopped crying since. But the winds were witness, that little Tom spoke to himself that day, that little Tom met himself.
Tom Yester was a peculiar man.

The Grand Story

One fool runs through the rain
Another faces the windowpane
The third fights the inner sin
Another becomes wise within

Draft - Intro

What is going on?

The sky is dark, the clouds, black as coal… Rain… Thunder… Chaos…
Brilliant. Just what I needed to make this splendid day just a tad more memorable. Must be a Monday, another little entry in this bundled series of unfortunate events. This kind of weather is perfect environment for a heart torn lover, or a poet. They prefer this sort of thing. For some reason I felt as though they always expected it. I, on the other hand, am neither. I haven’t been in love for a long time, I’m a terrible poet, and this weather is shit.

I sleep for two hours, I wake up on the third. It’s almost as if sleep has decided to hold a grudge against me. Oh well, as I always say, it is a hell lot better than getting a visit from sleep’s elder brother: Death.

“Add French quote”  Hallo my friend.

Oh hell. Mister wit has returned to make my day more splendid. I should really see a doctor. I’m getting tired of this bastard’s sarcasm and marvelous wit and wisdom. As if my own didn’t suffice, as if my own train of thought did less to fuck with my head.
I was sitting by the window in my room. I was tired, restless, and frankly, a little annoyed with myself. As history dictates, most people have wisdom within them, collected over time, acquired through diversity and adversity, eclectic, pure, innocent. It takes its place in their head, occasionally, and usually, as the voice in their heads that stops them from doing things that would almost always get them killed.
Mine belonged to an extremely annoying moron, who cracked extremely bad jokes, spoke in French, and did a shit job of it. The intonation was off, the accent was wrong, and the phrasing molested the grammar like a grudging moneylender. I would argue, but I don’t speak french. Strangely, I got used to him. But that doesn’t mean that I approved of him. In all honesty, he was borderline maniacal at times, but he did help me get out of a fix every now and then.

Think of long velvety curtains, smooth as silk, caressing your gliding fingers at every touch, beautiful, filled with pride as they welcome your touch. They are hung facing the side of your biggest room, sharing Space with your fireplace. There is no window behind them. Only cold, hard stone. You did not know why. You fight to reason how. But you get no answers. No clues. No hint. you dare not remove them. And you are left with a consistent thought, a persistent question, ever curious, ever wondering..

I’m sure I saw them move. The curtains…

A strange voice in my head, a terrible storm outside the window, and the mystery of the moving curtains.
This is the story of a travelling circus of wise fools…

8 count - By Charles Bukowski

from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone   

one flies

one is left,
it too
is gone.

my typewriter is

and I am
reduced to bird

just thought I'd
let you

Monday, November 26

The Indian Arab who found a sword

He is the black sheep of his kind
And chooses not to see
The triviality of judgement and pursuit
In life's hypocrisy

The sword is blunt
His words do the work
His sword is blunt and harmless
But his mind is not

He chooses to wait
And think, and listen and share
His joyful moments, and those that were not
In order to prepare

He chooses simplicity
Over convolution and twisted circles
And wisdom over thought
And thought over judgement
Most often than not

He wishes to share his tales
And looks for an audience that is open
To opening their minds
To share back like he did
In order
To find...


There was a time when I was a kid would judge myself based on everyone's opinion of me. I had a loving family, and wonderful friends in the middle east, where I grew up. When I reached India in the 9th grade, everything changed.

I was introduced to a rigid educational system that focused on cramming, where excellence was based on grades, and I felt like I didn't fit in. Moreover, I lived away from my family and old friends and was finding a hard time to just 'fit'.

I got picked on. I was a think skinny little kid, among the shortest in my class. I was buck-toothed, tremendously shy, and preferred sitting by self in my corner of the classroom doodling away in between classes. I would not defend myself. I tried very hard to get everyone's approval, to the point where I thought that fighting back would give them a reason to deny me friendship. It was years later that I realized that such people never deserved my friendship any more. By the time I finished my 12th grade, I was about 6 feet tall. I was no longer the short skinny kid. I was the tall skinny bloke. I spent the next 4 years studying for my Bachelors in Mechanical Engineering, something I was never too fond of. Interestingly, I loved those 4 years. Outside university, I was introduced to new friends, I learned music and worked with some wonderful musicians, dabbled with photography and writing, debated over political paradigms and economic constructs, yes, I was in an intellectual's perfect dream.

But it was still not enough.