@visitofmyhometown: Things I Carried Back

   The Moment Froze 

That night,
I looked up,
and the sky opened like a quiet book —
every star,
a sentence I’d forgotten how to read.

The wind whispered like an old friend,
carrying secrets in a language I once knew.

The stars weren’t stars.
They were windows —
looking into versions of me I never became.

The silence wrapped around me
like a thick woolen shawl —
heavy, warm, and full of memories.

And just when I began to understand…
the clouds arrived —
not like weather,
but like a curtain call.

The sky shut its story.

I stood there —
a closed book in the rain.

I didn’t speak.
I didn’t move.

Because in that moment,
I wasn’t just under the sky…

I was part of it.

And maybe…
I still am.
A page left open,
somewhere above the clouds. 

@visitofmyhometown day-4

collection 2

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.

---

   Where Do Lost Things Go?

Maybe they slip away at night,
carried in the quiet pockets of the wind,
to a place where broken watches still tick,
and unread letters finally find their eyes.

Maybe they sink
to the bottom of our hearts,
changing faces until we no longer recognise them—
a laugh, a street, a name
we swear we’ve heard before.

Or maybe…
lost things never leave.
They just wait,
patiently,
for us to stop running long enough
to see they’ve been here
all along.

Collection 1

Between the Wind and White Flowers

It was 5th July, around 6 PM, just after a rain. I was sitting by the window of a crowded bus, using the window as my shield so no one would ask for my seat. The roads were wet, the light was soft, and the world felt briefly clean and slow.

Then I saw

eyes are looking to know the wait,
catching the view of the art.
none of us are waiting to see,
we’re all running behind the falling tree...

suddenly, the view gets stuck on a beauty—
a moment I had never seen before.
one holding the weight of the earth,
one holding the light of glamour,
one holding the confusion between a saint,
and a need too proud to speak.

the wind passes through each the same,
but she stands like an ice mountain—
calling everyone to praise,
yet not hoping anyone would explore.

I was with the wind,
free-flowing, moving with nothing to hold.
but near her,
even the wind seemed to pause.

the closest I’ve felt—
after the rain, each colour was holding her hand,
asking her never to leave,
never to leave.

and I,
still in a moving bus,
kept looking back—
as if beauty like that
might vanish if no one watched.

by Suraj Godiyal

Between the Wind and White Flowers – My Reflection

🟫 Stanza 1

eyes are looking to know the wait,
catching the view of the art.
none of us are waiting to see,
we’re all running behind the falling tree...

What I saw:
I was sitting at the window seat of a crowded bus after the rain. It was a bit humid. The roads were wet, the light was fading — around 6 PM. As I looked out, I realized how no one really stops. People move, rush, cross — but they don’t look. I was the only one who was just... watching.

🟫 Stanza 2

suddenly, the view gets stuck on a beauty—
a moment I had never seen before.
one holding the weight of the earth,
one holding the light of glamour,
one holding the confusion between a saint,
and a need too proud to speak.

What I saw:
Then I saw her.
A girl, maybe 25 or 26, standing at the side of the road with flowers — some resting on her shoulder, some in her hand. She was selling them, but she wasn’t moving. She wasn’t asking, just standing — still and strong — in the middle of a red-light crossroad.

🟫 Stanza 3

the wind passes through each the same,
but she stands like an ice mountain—
calling everyone to praise,
yet not hoping anyone would explore.

What I saw:
The breeze was brushing through the streets, across people and vehicles. Life was moving fast, without pause. But not her. She stood like a statue — like a mountain of ice. Unshaken. Cold, maybe. But beautiful.

🟫 Stanza 4

I was with the wind,
free-flowing, moving with nothing to hold.
but near her,
even the wind seemed to pause.

What I saw:
Before that moment, I was just going with the flow. Nothing deep, just another ride. But when I saw her, my mind stopped. I couldn’t look away. It felt like even the wind that was touching everyone passed her... slower.

🟫 Stanza 5

the closest I’ve felt—
after the rain, each colour was holding her hand,
asking her never to leave,
never to leave.

What I saw:
The rain had just stopped, and everything felt fresh. Colours looked brighter. The road, the air — it was all shining a little. She looked like she belonged to that moment — like nature itself was holding her there.

🟫 Stanza 6 (Ending)

and I,
still in a moving bus,
kept looking back—
as if beauty like that
might vanish if no one watched.

What I saw:
The light turned green. The bus started moving. She stayed behind, still standing the same way. I turned my head, kept watching her as long as I could.

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