The Queen of Nothing

I write about things that don't let me sleep at night.

[dailykafka]

— May 13, 1922 / Franz Kafka diaries

[shisasan]

𝙹𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝟷, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹

[ID: July 1. Too tired. END ID]

[shisasan]

same month, same exhaustion, different century

[philosophybits]

“A thinker sees his own actions as experiments and questions — as attempts to find out something. Success and failure are for him answers above all.”

— Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science

[shisasan]

January 24, 1971 Anne Sexton, The Complete Poems

[metamorphesque]

The Trouble with Being Born, E. M. Cioran (translated by Richard Howard)

[nidhibhasin]

I reach for his face, his scent, his warmth

I lean, reach for his voice

maybe a taste of his breath would suffice

but then I envy the air in his lungs

I envy the whiskey in his blood

the taste of his mouth isn’t enough

I need him more.

I need to taste his blood, so I dig my teeth

he moans, besotted, I go harder

is this love or bloodlust?

I need him more.

how do I live in his bones?

for in his thoughts, behind his eyes

it is not enough

I need him more.

I grab his hair, teeth marks on nascent skin,

mouth slightly open, lips bruised and bloody

dissolute and beery‑eyed, I know his cravings

innocent, naïve

but his tongue could kill

his need, hot and raw, drives me insane

he prays with eyes, tongue, fingertips

he matches my hunger with worship,

on his knees

he meets my barbarity with devotion

I take.

he gives.

that’s how he’s fulfilled

so tell me

who is the master,

who is the slave?

they say to tame the beast,

but I watch him feed the devil his flesh

in my hunger, I see his desire mirrored

in his eyes, my violence, not feared

but tended

I may be holding the rails,

but it is him

who leans back, opens his throat

and tells me exactly how far to go

-Nidhi Bhasin

[dailykafka]

— January 2, 1912 / Franz Kafka diaries

[nidhibhasin]

it’s 4.22am

and I am only waiting for the sun

but really what’s the point

it’s raining outside

-Nidhi Bhasin (I don’t even know this woman anymore)

[metamorphesque]

— Yū Miri, Tokyo Ueno Station

[dailykafka]

— Franz Kafka, Letter to his father

[nidhibhasin]

and today marks my last night

my last rest in my home, in my bed

(not my home really

but home nonetheless)

now life will be all about building

my home

and there’s years and years

until I can finally rest in my bed at

my home

-11.40pm, 1 November 2025

[paper-wounds]

[nidhibhasin]

truly impossible

[nidhibhasin]

four days later

even the smell of my pillow

will belong to a yesterday

no one will ever care to remember

.

the pictures of gods and myths

those leak stains on my walls

all of these that held stories of my insomnia

will vanish, from concrete to memory

.

these table and chair were never mine

they belonged to a man who taught me time

he too vanished, from person to pyre

to prayer to now a poem

.

and I grew gold medals out of this wood

I wiped ink and tears off my fingers

on the same cloth that grief wiped its feet on

before it crushed my bones

.

in pain, I’ve cried, shivered, stayed up nights

accompanied by ghosts, grief and insanity

proposals, interviews and competitions

all said leave, but this table said “stay”

.

the white marble floor of my bathroom

where I marinated in my own vomit, my own blood

the stench of putrid, metal and self loathing

my mirror, a testament of my disgust

.

this mattress will soon forget my weight

my pillows, my only true lovers

unlike any man, have held me fevered, furious, feral

will soon lose my scent

.

where do the things we lose go?

how do i say goodbye to things

that were me, but never mine?

“a eulogy to what never was”

-Nidhi Bhasin

[dailykafka]

— October 28, 1916 / Letters to Felice

[weltenwellen]

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals, Nov 5th, 1957

[nidhibhasin]

Mai aapke blogs dekh rahi thi and it us such a beautiful... the way u played with words... bahut khubsurat aur kafi deep... ❤️

Bhut bhut shukriya!🙏🏼❤️

[nidhibhasin]

I never wanted to leave this city

not for dreams, not for degrees

not for a seaside that tastes like alienation

I grew up in this chaos

the smog, the sinusitis, the 6pm curfews

the deadly Decembers, the cruel Mays

this is where I grew roots

just to one day pull them out?

in the name of growth?

in the name of freedom?

this is not flight, this is exile

I will miss the Gulmohar across my balcony,

drenched in July rains like a lover waiting

the Saptaparni I hummed Rafi to

on cool October evening walks

these trees knew my songs before I sang them

the Palash, oh, how I’ll miss those fire-flowers

blurring past the metro window

as I sped toward nowhere in particular,

but even that fickle moment was mine forever

I know the interchange stations

better than the back of my hand

the Weeknd through Yellow Line halts,

Lana while on Blue

cussing through Magenta

Delhi has held my moods

it’s known the rhythms of my heart

for 27 years now

My city knows

my favourite old fashioned

not for the whiskey,

but for that amber serenity in a glass

it knows my favourite latte,

not for the taste,

but because he was there,

his laughter and warm hands

after long, bruising lab hours

it was never the caffeine, it was his eyes

and now I am to leave all this

for a place that does not know

those decorated Diwali streets with mother,

or Ramleela cheers from Papa’s shoulders

a place that’s never heard

the 9 CGPA announcement

that ended in McDonald’s happy meals

and now I am supposed to go build a life

in a city that knows nothing of me

while this one sits behind

like a dog at the gate, clueless,

wondering why I couldn’t stay?

this city didn’t just hold me, it built me

I am her and she is me

the traffic jams and religious processions

Connaught Place sunsets and Sarojini chaos

my lonely laughter and empty victories

leaving this city is like leaving myself behind

I have betrayed myself

in the name of freedom, I’ve banished myself

in search for opportunity

how come I strangled familiarity?

for the thrill of independence

I have murdered all that nurtured me

how do I leave this city saying “I want more, better”

when all I’ve ever known, I’ve ever wanted

is this, right here

-“freedom or exile?” by Nidhi Bhasin