Hello there. In this blog, sometimes, we post stuff we find in our drafts, regardless of how old or new they might be.


Stifled and choked back,
Cries mandatory,
Of love lives.
But merely,
a directory,
of names that once brought joy.
Kind of lazily,
And a loss of symmetry,
Adorns the carefree,
Sin factory.

Grief is universal.
Present, stubborn, just around the corner.
But Grief had nothing to teach me and it did not learn anything new from me. I was typical. It was typical. We were staring each other in the eyes. None of us looked away; eyes questioning but not demanding answers, not wanting answers. On my part, like any other grieving person, I refused to see beauty in the patterns of the universe and for reasons that still make sense. Everything ended in grief. I couldn’t see it coming but we stayed, hand in hand, until time made one of us disappear.


Piano tiles,
And the slender fingers,
Of the lover.
Gone a million miles,
North East,
And eased,
Into the fantasies,
Of your carbon whore,
Who she abhors,
But loves you more,
For the ecstasies ,
That you bestowed,
On her poor soul.

They think (hope) that I would do the honorable thing and think of you as a rival but I choose to be a coward this once in their eyes and be brave for myself. I have decided to cherish your existence. You have lessened the burden of life on me and many many others. Pardon me for being extra cheesy about it.

Competition and rivalry have always looked foolish and a waste of time to me. You win or you don’t. What’s there to lose? Loss is something quite unfathomable when one thinks of it as a consequence of something quite equally unfathomable. But truly, loss could possibly not be prevented. All in all, you (you as in the person I write about when I write about destiny) are either a rival or potentially, the only and the first spark of something presumably resembling love. And if I don’t cherish it, then I am an idiot.


I heard He likes broken hearts and resides in them
So when you broke my heart
I gathered the pieces and handed them all to God
And asked to him to accept the price and fix you
It sounds like bribery ; trust me, it wasn’t
but I really didn’t know what to do
I can’t fix you
It’s not that I haven’t tried
I’ve prayed night after night after night
And Im sorry I’m not a man
But In your eyes
Just half a human

I wanted to look up the stats. How many girls are killed each year for being girls? What percentage of abortions are done because the fetus is found to be female? How many women are killed and then said that it was in the God forsaken name of honor every year? What percentage of girls face emotional and mental abuse in their own homes just because they supposedly committed the felony of possessing the XX.
Women are mad brave. I must say it again. Women are brave. So brave. All except some really stupid ones are really brave. At some point in history, capitalism made everyone weigh your importance with the gold that you bring in. Welcome to rich kids’ dumb little playground.


I wish that I knew
Where you would go
Now that you’ve left yourself alone

Sadness is far more complicated than happiness could ever hope to be. Happiness lacks reason. It’s random and light. It comes and goes. It stays and sometimes, does not. Sadness takes time to develop and to grow; to house in your heart and be at home; open doors, running water, sunlight pouring in,nice and cozy. Years. And by the time one notices sadness, it has been engraved and rooted so deep inside one’s heart of hearts. There. Settled; with children and grandchildren and multiple wives.

They all chuckle as we wonder what made us so completely and irreversibly sad.

One hundred years of solitude (sort of a book review)

pdfs. I think we all have a lot of them in our phones. Downloaded; to be ignored forever, never to be opened unless checking to see what it is about or just going through them when we are bored. Which is exactly what I was, lets say, because admitting that I am supposed to be studying 24/7 isn’t easy. Anyway, like any normal person, I looked for an escape and like any normal person, I looked for it in my phone and found this book.

This book is so freaking insane.

When I first scrolled through it, I thought it’s a war story and the main character is this dude named Colonel Aureliano Buendia who is always taking great pains to give us a detailed account of the weather and with some melancholy, talk about every memory that each element of nature in that particular instant brings back to him. You’d think this guy discovered Spain.

This overview didn’t spark joy, honestly, but anyway I started reading it for the sake of reading and forgetting that anything in the world other than it amounts to anything more than mere silent existence. guess what, I love this book so much. 8/10. Perhaps, the fact that I had never read anything like it before (magical realism is my new favorite), made it even more amazing and devote-your-whole-day-to-it-able for me.

My favorite character is probably Ursula. A total boss woman and the only Buendia with actual functional brain cells apart from Jose Arcadio Buendia (the main guy, the first guy, the sitting under the tree guy) who definitely has my respect and whom I would refer to as nothing other than ‘sir’ if I were in Macondo and I would stay as far away as possible from Amarantha.

(Ok I am not even going to talk about Rebecca’s parents’ skeletons lying about in the Buendia house dancing tiredly in their dirty old sack and no one caring about it at all. Its so frustrating like bro please just bury them already) isn’t it very much like how the ghosts of fictional classical dead people might actually invisibly be? Or the strong but silent schemes of the quiet and mysterious characters?

While we are at it, can we talk about how cool is the name Gabriel Garzia Marquez? I wish my name sounded that dope. He lived up to it, though, didn’t he? I would expect nothing less from a Gabriel Garzia Marquez tbh. I remember thinking ‘this guy is nuts’ and at the same time knowing that he is nothing less than a genius.

Sometimes I think about how Remedios the baby grandmother and Remedios the beauty had kind of a similar fate. First of all, they were both too pure for this world and secondly they had to deal an unwelcomed and unwanted attention and sexualization in their own innocent manners. Through them, the author has portrayed what is devastatingly fundamentally wrong with society and it’s attitude towards women.

My guy Melquídias was awesome through and through. He literally knew about every bullshit that this race of Aurelianos and Jose arcadios and Amaranthas would pull in a hundred years and wrote about each and every one of them in Sanskrit and mathematics. Admirable. I bet the Aureliano Segundo part was in stats though. Not to forget Melquìdias cured the town’s insomnia!!! That was something.

The amnesia itself was something. I think it being contagious is one hell of a metaphor.

Intentional forgetfulness leads to total oblivion. We help each other forget things that would have , other wise, lasted longer in its full glory. We take pride in forgetting the past, the languages, the words, the stories and we encourage each other to move on and create new lives and realities. But it wears us down. It tires us. It drains our energy. I suppose it’s because some part of the killed memories remain inside of us , crippled and angry, gnawing weakly at our hearts because there’s nothing much more that they can do. The unnoticeable and negligible feeling of unease passes away in seconds but it has long term damage. We celebrate advancements, intentional or accidental like the people of Macondo thought of the diminished need for rest as a chance to work more, earn more, party more and be better all in all. Then they got bored, they were hopeless and so fucking tired. The gentle weight of memories and the heavy weight of knowledge, everything that made them them was shed from their shoulders and they were left behind wide eyed and clueless. What does that remind you of?

And the rain!

The four years, eleven months and two days of rain in Macondo which started after the banana company killed all it’s workers and fled the area (more ‘realism’ than ‘magical’ tbh)

Úrsula always tried to go a step beyond. Open the windows and the doors, she shouted. Cook some meat and fish,buy the largest turtles around, let strangers come and spread their mats in the corners and urinate in the rose bushes and sit down to eat as many times as they want and belch and rant and muddy everything with their boots, and let them do whatever they want to us, because thats the only way to drive off rain.

Ursula 1:0 Fernanda

Like the Colonel’s routine of making metal goldfishes, the story too, seems like a habit of history. The twins (maybe) exchanging names and forgetting who is who to the twins dying on the same day and their coffins getting mixed up and their gravestones bearing names that they didn’t live their lives with.

That’s not even half of everything I want to say about this book but maybe some other time. Girl has to go to school now. Alrighty.

The maybe alive cats

The world was silent except for two voices. One was mine and the other one was mine too. But the world is never silent, is it? It is in fact too loud and clamorous all the time. Could this too be a myth and another random half-assed but fully believed fact? It does seem so at dawn when the birds are having their last dreams for the night and I have more to say and when I am frantically and eagerly trying to tell God how much I love everything.

The silent hour has more to say than possibly any other hour of the day. It is truly a miracle how one certain shade of blue on the sky of the limits of our eyes can be of such a wonderful event to our hearts, a little revolution every twenty four hours, limited time offer, catch it in the 20 minutes of it’s existence or keep on dying on the inside with not a speck of golden brown relief in the blinding red canvas of your life. Time is amazing. I can never not think of that one Sci-Fi film, Lucy, in which they say that time is the only dimension and we exist in a tiny portion of it (obviously) and that if time ran a bit faster (enough to cover our life span in a nanosecond or even more of a negligible period), we won’t even exist.

That makes me think of how if some kind of a glitch happens in the universe right after I post this and time jumps 50 years ahead (give or take) and I cease to physically exist (above ground ,at least), what will become of this post? I guess that depends on how long WordPress survives or if someone copies it down to some other website or some magazine or a piece of paper or a memory or anything that holds art and literature and other attempts at knowledge, it would survive as long as they do even after I’m dead and the microbes have had many many feasts in my head. Like classic literature and the mural paintings, the scratched words on a tree and the permanent footprints on a cement side walk.

The duality paradox lives in my head rent free. I can’t help but think of everything in those terms on some level. Is the true nature of light particle or is it energy? Many people never presented these arguments before Einstein did because the dual nature of light was nothing peculiar to them. They must have always had believed in the soul of the universe (yep its a reference to the alchemist by Paulo Coehlo. read it.). It’s not a new concept. I bet humans knew from the beginning that we are body and soul not body or soul. (As long as we are alive, at least). It’s ridiculous how scientists got so confused over it and carried out so many diffraction and interference experiments and not to mention, put an imaginary cat in an imaginary box for it. Science is astonishing.

Do we exist outside of our time or not? Would the particle nature of light have a shorter life span than the wave nature? Do photons ever die? Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, first rule of thermodynamics, something of the thing lives on. Maybe, time has nothing on us.

One thing that really hit me while watching “Interstellar” was when Brand says that she still loves Edmund even though he is on a different planet so very far away from where they were that travelling there alone could make them lose hundreds of years on Earth and then she goes you know what “love is the only truly perfect dimension” or something along the lines. It made sense because space and time are painfully limited but things manage to exist and even thrive beyond the four obvious dimensions. There must be something that anchors them to existence; that convinces the future of its right to being. I hope that something that keeps me alive is something beautiful.

Maybe, just maybe, love is the greater, more reliable dimension. More valuable than time. It must be more intricate, more widespread but less confusing and less delicate than time. I sometimes think that time had to take the L just because it’s so confusing. (We did lose our minds watching ‘Dark’).
So Schrodinger’s cat was more alive than it was dead. Shakespeare and Sappho are alive. My great-grandmother who I never met but heard about in so many of my mother’s stories is alive. Dante and Dali are alive. We’re all alive and that was one of the many things that I was and am grateful for.

The birds that were dreaming their last dreams for the night woke up and I had to hand over the sacred duty of marvelling at the universe to them as I went downstairs to have some tea.