I just might try my hand at writing somethings here and there again.

ahista ahista.


walking along the annex at night,
piercing wind against my face,
i looked towards the sky
mistaking every glowing bulb
atop every street light
for the moon.


i am not expecting to
have my cake and eat it, too.

all i want is one slice.
like, even a small slice would do.

i won’t even finish the whole thing,
i’d take at most a bite or two.

i’m really only mostly window shopping,
i am not here to take over your bakery.


I am so in love with reality. Both when it is good and bad to me. I am not high on life, but I am high on the notion of living. Both when it is painful and when it is delightful.

Reality has a texture. It has a sense to it that I can sense. I can run my fingers against the edges of reality and just take it in.

I accept and love reality for what it is.

It is, indeed, this relationship with reality that gives me a great appreciation for it. It gets me through the rough and easy times. It helps me create these times. That is where I want to be. A part of creating the times around me.

I accept and love reality for what I can make it.

The world is so beautiful.
So beautiful.
So beautiful.

If life was like a box of chocolates, I would have finished it by now.


I would like to
bring tonight,
for a moment,
your attention
to the moon.

book it.

I feel like a tape recorder on repeat talking about the book making process. But it can be quite consuming and it occupies your mind for a while. Once you’ve been through it, you might think, “Hey, I did this! This is something I can do.” So you plan to do more. But in the process you realize how tedious and repetitive the process is. It’s one thing to do the writing and pass off a manuscript to people who can pretty it up, do the layouts, design the book itself. It’s a whole other thing to do all of the above.

You might think, why isn’t everyone doing this? Then you realize the process becomes daunting. The writing process itself, but then the putting everything together process, too. If you’re submitting the writings to publishers you have to go through the painstaking process of applying, waiting, then possibly being rejected. Now you have to reel off the rejections and apply to other places and repeat until something hits. Even after acceptance, the process progresses at a snail’s pace. You have to wait months to years before you can see a physical copy.

Self-publishing makes the process a lot more tangible. You’re seeing a physical copy (potentially) within a few weeks of finishing the layout, and book design etc. The layout and design is quite trying. You just have to keep at it, bit by bit. You need to make quick decisions, knowing that you will come back to some and some you will forget. But moving forward is more important than deliberations. The pauses cause paralysis. Chipping away is the way. A moment here and a moment there. Then you repeat, once you have something you can review, revise, rethink. You realize that you have something. Something is better than the thought of something. Something you can work with is golden. It is silk against your skin. Something is why you slug away.

I had wanted to (self-)publish two books last year. I was able to slug away at just one. Still. One is something.

I hope to publish two books this year. I hope to walk away with something.


There is so much I want to do. My mind races from point to point, from end to end and it is not enough. There isn’t, as is for everyone, enough time. The pace at which things progress is not enough. The pace at which I progress is not enough.

There is no shortage of items on the list. There is no shortage of the incompleteness of things that I juggle. The list grows even as parts of it are completed. Though it does muddle up notions of completeness. There is no “done,” there is simply the next thing.

Solace lies in this very sequence of things. The drive lies in this juggling of things. My heart continues to beat along this race against time. My heart races against this race.

Watch me catch up to my racing heart.

In reality: reality, to me, is better than all my dreams.

she said.

“When ever is there time to stare at the sky,” she said. I could see the goosebumps forming on her skin as she said it. I could see the hair on her forearms rise. From her facial expression to the wrinkles in her smile, something in her changed when she said that sentence. As if in that moment she was the sentence itself.