Tuesday, July 15, 2025

The Boy Who Spoke in Pages

Most people remember 19 as loud—hostel noise, late-night chai, rush for attendance, unplanned trips.

But for Ruhan, 19 was quiet.

Not peaceful. Just...quiet.

He wasn’t invisible. People knew him. Teachers nodded when they passed him in corridors. Friends waved. Sometimes they joked about how calm he always looked.

But Ruhan wasn’t calm.
He was contained.


His World Was Made of Edges

He sat near the edges of classrooms.
Took the corner table at the canteen.
Exited group chats silently.
Said “I’m good” more than he should’ve.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to belong. He just never knew how to fit himself into conversations that moved faster than his thoughts.

He didn’t hate people. He just preferred listening over explaining.

So he started writing instead.


The Diary That Didn’t Care

It wasn’t just any notebook.

It was an old, leftover diary from 2021 — thick pages, hard paper cover, originally meant for planning days that had already passed.

He found it in a rusted shelf at home, under old bills and phone boxes. The cover was maroonish-brown, with corners that looked chewed by time.

On the back, in his own uneven handwriting, he wrote:

Ruhan M. | Private. Do Not Read.

But of course, that was just for effect.
No one even knew it existed.

That diary became his second skin.
He wrote every single day—not in paragraphs or poetry—but in fragments.

“Felt too much again today. Didn’t say anything, just walked away.”

“The chai guy asked if I was okay. That was the only real question I heard all week.”

“Still miss Bhai. Two years. Funny how people stop asking about someone just because they’ve been gone a while.”

It wasn’t about being deep or dramatic.
It was survival.
A quiet unburdening.


Life Between Bookshelves

Three evenings a week, Ruhan worked at a bookstore named “Paper & Pause”. It wasn’t big. Just one floor, one counter, one bell that rang when someone entered.

The owners were old, kind, and rarely spoke unless spoken to.
Perfect.

Ruhan loved rearranging shelves, discovering strange book titles, watching customers debate over covers and blurbs. He even had a secret game—guessing people’s personalities based on which aisle they walked into first.

The job didn’t pay much.
But it gave him stillness.
And in that stillness, he’d write.


The Drift

College life was moving like a train.
People around him were applying for internships, planning their resumes, asking “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

Ruhan didn’t have an answer.
He barely knew where he’d be next week.

His connection with people began to thin. Conversations felt surface-level. He smiled at the right times. Laughed when others did. Nodded like everything made sense.

But most nights, it was just him, a pen, and that diary.


The Afternoon Everything Shifted

It was a Wednesday.

Clouds hovered. Not dark enough to rain, not light enough to ignore.
His second lecture had ended early. He had an hour to waste.

He slipped into the campus library.
Found a seat by the window—his usual one.
Opened a random book—just to look like he belonged there.

He took out his diary, scribbled a line or two, then tucked it between the open pages of the book.

Just for a moment.

A message flashed on his phone:

“Classroom shifted to 302. Come fast.”

In that small rush—the kind where your body moves faster than your awareness—he packed up his bag, stuffed the book back into the shelf…

And left.


The diary stayed behind.

And Ruhan wouldn’t realize it was gone…
until it was already too late.


Coming Next: – The Note on the Board



Saturday, July 12, 2025

Dance of Me

I dance like I’ll never dance again.
I twist time in my fingers,
Tangle the world in my steps,
And scatter my dreams on the floor.
I dance like I’ll never dance again.

Something inside me answered a call—
A current I couldn't name.
Everything felt perfect…
except me.

The world faded into its own slow storm,
Held by the ghost of time already passed.
Nothing in it ever lasts.

With every move, a new color spills.
Music hums from the raindrops,
Songs fall soft from the clouds—
And all of them whisper:
Dance… like you never will again.



“I dance like I’ll never dance again…”
That line isn’t about celebration —
It’s about desperation.
A moment where I feel something calling me,
not to a stage or spotlight,
but back to myself.

I write this poem from a place where I feel completely out of sync.
The world moves forward — but I don’t.
Time moves around me — but I can't feel its rhythm.
So I start to dance — not with joy,
but with a need to break through something.


“I twist time in my fingers,

Tangle the world in my steps,
And scatter my dreams on the floor…”

When I dance in this poem,
I’m not really dancing to music.
I’m dancing against life.
I try to control time, distort it,
because it feels like it controls everything else.

I tangle with the world like it’s a fabric I want to tear.
And as I move, I let my dreams fall —
not carefully, but like broken glass I no longer have strength to hold.


“Something inside me answered a call—

A current I couldn't name.
Everything felt perfect… except me.”

There are moments when everything around me looks okay.
The sky is calm. The noise is distant.
But inside?
It’s like something is knocking —
not asking me to come alive,
but reminding me that I’m not.

I’m not present.
I’m not okay.
And that ache for wholeness
That’s the current I can’t name.


“The world faded into its own slow storm,

Held by the ghost of time already passed.
Nothing in it ever lasts.”

This is how depression sometimes feels to me —
like the world is happening, but behind glass.
Everything is slow, like in a dream,
but I’m awake — and I can’t touch anything.
Time becomes this haunting ghost:
You had it. You lost it. It’s gone.
And you keep walking in a world
that’s already let go of you.


“With every move, a new color spills.

Music hums from the raindrops,
Songs fall soft from the clouds—
And all of them whisper:
Dance… like you never will again.”

This is the moment where emotion spills out.
Where I stop caring about rhythm, or control, or who’s watching.
I just let go.

And in that letting go,
even nature joins me.
The raindrops become my orchestra.
The sky sings, not loudly — but enough.
It’s like the universe tells me,
“Just be here. Just feel it. This moment might never come back.”

And so, I dance.
Like I never will again.
Not because it’s beautiful —
but because it’s true.



Is Raat Se Pehle

Kho gaya hoon yaar main,
shayad khud se bhaagte bhaagte,
logo se nazrein chhupte ,
kahin kho gaya hoon...

Nahi chahiye ab koi,
nahi zarurat ab kisi ki.
Bas—
khud ko dhoondhna hai,
is raat se pehle.

Kaunsi raat?
Yehi raat... jo aankhon me hai,
yehi andhera jo meri baaton mein hai,
yehi darr... jo mere saath  hai.

Kho gaya hoon apne banaye nakshon mein.
Us nakshay mein jahan har ghar ek jaise hain,
har shehar ek sa jhalakta hai—
jo chalta bhi wahi hai, rukta bhi wahi,
aur puchta bhi sirf ek hi ghar ka pata.



“Kho gaya hoon yaar main…”
These aren’t just words. I’m not just feeling lost — I am lost. Not on some street, not in a wrong city — But inside my own mind. Inside my own life. I keep running. Running from a version of myself I don’t want to accept. I hide from people, dodge their questions, avoid their eyes. Not because I’m hiding something —But because I have nothing to show.

Maybe I’m tired of pretending.
Maybe I’m scared to look into the mirror and ask myself,
"Where the hell did you go?


"Nahi chahiye ab koi, nahi zarurat ab kisi ki…"
That wasn’t anger. That was exhaustion. I wasn’t pushing people away because I hated them — I was trying to protect them from the version of me I no longer understood. At that point, I didn’t want company. I didn’t want comfort. I just wanted time — to sit with myself,
To face myself.
Before the darkness I felt inside became too loud to silence.

"Is raat se pehle…"
What is this raat? This isn’t the night outside my window. It’s not about the moon or the stars. This raat lives in me. It’s the quiet I carry that no one notices. It’s the dullness in my voice. The blankness in my eyes. The heavy pause between my sentences. It’s the darr — the fear I don’t talk about, That walks beside me like a shadow, Even on sunny days.

And I know… if I don’t find myself before this raat fully consumes me,
Then maybe, I’ll lose myself forever.


“Kho gaya hoon apne banaye nakshon mein…”
I built a map for my life. Like everyone else, I had dreams, directions, timelines. But the truth is — All the turns I took, all the choices I made — They started to look the same. Every city I visited inside my head felt copy-pasted. Every decision… repetitive. Every home I imagined? It led to the same empty doorstep.

The map I trusted
Became the same trap I now can’t escape.


sometimes, you don’t need answers.
You just need a voice to say what you’ve been feeling.
This was mine.




Friday, July 11, 2025

🎵 Dance of Me


They Never Meant to Rain

🌧️ Before the Rain – A Moment

It was around 05:00 O'clock .
My exam had just ended, and the weather outside was teasing—windy, heavy, and full of clouds. I was waiting for rain.
Not just water-from-the-sky rain, but a kind of relief, a soft release from everything inside me.

But it didn’t come.

I got on the bus, reached my stop, and still—no rain.
With my bag weighed down by books, a few personal things, and my diary that holds more than pages ever could... I kept walking.

Two boys raised their hands to stop the bus at a non-designated stop. I pointed them to the actual one, only to be met with unnecessary ego. That moment stung more than it should have. My mood sank.

I had left my umbrella at home, almost on purpose—like I wanted to be caught in the rain, fully.
But it still wouldn’t rain.

Instead of going home directly, I took the longer way.
My steps slowed down. The sky was on the edge of something.
The wind kept pushing my hair to the left, whispering things that didn’t have words.

I reached home.
Still dry. Still waiting.

I went to the rooftop. And that’s where it ended.

That’s where the poem begins.

It never meant to rain.
The loud voice inside me
Was screaming toward the clouds—
Their destiny written,
But none for me.

It hovered above me,
Like an umbrella half-opened
There, yet never mine.

The dark wasn’t ordinary.
It carried a sensation
Like time had quickened,
But stumbled in glitches between seconds.

Why is everything in a hurry?
What are they afraid of?

It never meant to rain.

Buildings are losing their color.
Trees fading without protest.
Birds, tired, looking for shade.

It feels like I am the earth—
All of me, waiting
For them to rain.

Believe me or not,
They never meant to rain.



Monday, July 7, 2025

The Left Shoe


I saw a shoe today—
just one,
left on the roadside
like it had been in a hurry
and forgot itself.

It wasn’t broken,
just alone.
Facing no one,
but pointing somewhere—
as if it still remembered
where it was meant to go.

I didn’t touch it,
but it touched something in me.
Like a question left unanswered,
or a goodbye that never reached the door.

Who leaves behind only one shoe?
Someone running,
or someone carried away too quickly
to look down.

The dust had settled,
but I stood still,
wondering how many people
keep walking
with half of themselves missing.

And if even a shoe
can be this forgotten,
what happens
to the parts of us
we leave behind to survive?


by Suraj Godiyal 



He Heard the Grapes