Shallot’s Meat @monetsirises - Tumblr Blog

letsbelonelytogetherr

— Acrewss

shisasan

“Something in her was violently sensual, alive, earthy…”

— 𝙰𝚗𝚊𝚒̈𝚜 𝙽𝚒𝚗 , 𝙳𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚜 - 𝙴𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊 (𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝟷𝟿𝟽𝟽)

metamorphesque

The Thin Red Line (1998), dir. Terrence Malick

metamorphesque

Lilac, Martiros Sarian

Nature's ways are wonderful and unfathomable. The grain swells in the soil, the sprout grows and flowers when the time comes and then it bears new fruit and so does not die. We are like grain. We never die because we are One with Nature. To understand this is to comprehend Immortality--the Apotheosis of the Human Race. It is with this conviction that I have lived my Life. My Life is a store of my experience, a Life of aspirations, sorrows, joys and triumphs. (M. Saryan)

virusmeadow

“I want to be ripped apart by music. I want it to be something that feeds and replenishes, or that totally sucks the life out of you. I want to be dashed against the rocks.”

— Jeff Buckley

I miss the city’s intellect, yes—but I miss him with a severity that renders all else trivial.

Walking beside him through those familiar corridors, every passing second felt like an impending loss.

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Why do I utter this truth to the damp air? Because my devotion to him is a vast, terrifying architecture.

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10th June’26 [Italian Embassy, Delhi]

They never warn you about the cities that feed on your life force while pretending to cultivate your mind. I gave Delhi everything—my sleepless hours, my devotion, the quiet fever of my youth—until my own body began to reject the soil I was trying so desperately to root in. I thought I had more time there. I thought I had unfinished work among its echoing galleries, its cold stone corridors, its endless labyrinths of art and memory. But leaving wasn't a choice I made; it was an extraction. A brutal, silent exile that tore me away from the only hands that ever knew how to hold me.

When I went back for those brief fourteen days, time felt like a dying pulse. Walking beside him through the familiar shadows, every second was an excruciating calculation. I should have pressed closer. I should have anchored myself to his ribs. The distance between us was a slow, agonizing poison, yet remaining in that place meant letting it hollow me out completely.

Now, I am marooned in the high altitude of these mountains—a world reduced to damp pine, drifting fog, and the soft, ghostly padding of our cats across bare wooden floors.

The strangest part of love is its absolute terror. I speak this aloud only because my devotion to him is a vast, frightening thing—a devotion so heavy it makes the mountains feel fragile. I still haunt the ghost of our past life. I miss the sanctuary of exhibition halls, the smell of old varnish and turpentine, the silent communion of looking at paintings while our fingers remained intertwined in the quiet corners of crowded rooms. I miss the city’s dark culture, yes. But I miss him with a severity that eclipses everything else.

He is leaving the world behind to join me in this sanctuary of mist and pine. Soon, the miles will collapse into nothingness. And as the grey haze settles over the valley, he will be standing beside me—holding my hand, binding my fractures, and keeping the quiet with me. I miss him so terribly that I can’t wait to see him again.

[P.S. he is very much alive and thriving. He is busy packing stuffs and preparing for leaving Delhi too]