A storyteller’s guide.

A storyteller’s guide.

Hey! I honestly don’t know if it’s a guide from a storyteller to us normal people about life or it’s a guide to storytellers, so I decided to let it be both (Like Theon was both a Stark and a Greyjoy – Game of Thrones reference). I hope you like it! Do tell me if you do. The comments section is all yours. Show some love?

Hidden in the blankets of old streets in Paris was a blue house. A story-teller lived in this house that smelled of the ocean. His name was Zale.

Zale’s house was filled with objects that he’d collected over time that represented different story-telling principles. A black toy gun from when he was eight was framed in a glass box to remind him of Chekhov’s Gun concept. His (now dead) bird’s cage hung from the fan in his living room but its tiny gate was open to suggest artistic license. A ball-pen placed on his first ever tablet to characterize Juxtapose.

Continue reading A storyteller’s guide.

Greetings from yesterday.

Greetings from yesterday.

This poem is on a on a more chilled out note compared to a few other poems I’ve been writing lately. So you might notice a slightly different writing style. Tell me if you like it in the comments. I got a prompt from TTT to write a poem on ‘if memories wrote back’. This is it. I hope you enjoy it 🙂

I’ve spent days wondering what I’d do
if someday, my mailbox overflowed
with letters from my yesterdays.
I’ve imagined opening my mailbox
and being greeted by 2008 ‘my first movie in theatres’
or one of my ‘drunk voicemails to exes’,
maybe even that trip to Troy.
I’d shuffle through the pack of letters from my yesterdays
and read a bunch.

Continue reading Greetings from yesterday.

For all of us.

For all of us.

Creativity stems from happiness
and happiness from us.
You’ll also find it stuffed inside a Thanksgiving turkey
or playing hide-and-seek with you.
I believe happiness is like a new puppy
(also, happiness is a new puppy
or any puppy.)
Creativity often seeps through
a pain-soaked pillow, too.
A pain-soaked pillow is a story-teller
that emphasizes the right words
whispers its way to the tragic ending
and in my case,
bows down when done.
Memories are the best muse
because they’re the 18-hour-long
exact scene to scene replica
of our book
and that’s something we’ve all always wanted.
Why is this for all of us?
Because we are all artists.
Here’s a short story in a poem
or as I like to call it
‘a beautiful distraction’
(I hope you thought of the person
who broke your heart
because I did)
When Rao made sandals
from unused or old car wheels
and smiled when his daughter
didn’t complain about rocks the next day
you should’ve seen the smile on his face.
Happiness. Pain. Memories.
So hi, artist.
You’ve got so much to learn.

Previous posts: Maybe – A shadow dance.
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Damn, your eyes.

Damn, your eyes.

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Draft 4

He had beautiful eyes. Not the kind which makes you want to drown, but the kind that makes you want to swim back to the shore, which makes you want to sit on the sand while you watch the waves move back and forth, and which you just can’t get enough of. When I looked into his eyes, I saw myself. And even his eyes, just like his words, made me feel beautiful. But beneath the reflection lay emotions he never wanted to talk about. There was a story of fear narrated by his frantic eyeballs, fear of not being held on for, fear of not being worth someones time. He had once told me about it, about being an atelophobic (which he considered to be the worst fear of all).

His gleaming eyes told me about the times when he had breakdowns but no tears had come to his aid. Stars twinkled in his eyes, not of hope but of longing. Longing for the day when his fears, anxiety and confusion come to a rest. I wanted to be there when the day came, and I wanted to be the reason why.


She had beautiful eyes. Not the kind which makes you want to drown, but the kind which makes you want to set the world on fire. She had fire in her eyes, and it made you warm. It was a campfire by which you and your friends sat down and had marshmallows as you sang “Stairway to heaven”. It was a forest-fire burning down everything that came in its way. But it was also the fire that heated a blade to remove a bullet. It was beautiful, destructive and caring. But beneath the fire were stories only a few people knew. There was light in her eyes, unfolding the story of how she feared the darkness that consumed everything every night. There was passion in her eyes, a passion that burned brighter every day. And there was chaos, stories of when her heart had been broken, of when her mind hurt from thinking too much, and of when she just could not do anything about it.

The fire in her eyes was not of anger, but of intensity, passion and love. It was ablaze, and I wanted to burn in it. I wanted to destroy myself in her love. I wanted to burn in her fire. I wanted it so much, that even as I take my last breath, I hold it in a little longer and burn a little more.

 – Excerpts from a book I will never write.

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