The Void Full Of Stuff

I don't know this person

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when you think of ⁣ men like me ⁣ don't⁣ think of shining fireworks in an⁣ empty town, think scented candles ⁣ smelling like cigarettes ⁣ and walls full of polaroids of winter⁣ in the noon of april, think ⁣ cloudy sunrays slipping through⁣ cracked window panes and missing⁣ doors, think of tongues in denial ⁣ every time we kiss, think of yourself ⁣ embraced (read: encaged) within ⁣ poetry slit into our throats. ⁣ you will not leave. ⁣ ⁣ to ⁣ men like me ⁣ horrors sounds a lot like ⁣ winters. curtains in my house ⁣ are untouched and mothers ⁣ in our cities can't have their ⁣ sons resting in their laps⁣ while your hand ⁣ caresses glass like a lover spilling⁣ catharsis out of the wrists, I'll⁣ kiss you effortlessly than most days.⁣ corpses, are in shards of your ⁣ tender skin, for men like me ⁣ buried in the ways your ⁣ voice breaks tears ⁣ on my cheeks. ⁣ ⁣ smudge my name off the⁣ pillars of your diary, ⁣ cause men like me are false ⁣ alarms no warning signs⁣ caged in false realities and ⁣ our heart is the⁣ enemy clan. ⁣ ⁣ ⁣ Evening in Karl Johan Street, Edvard Munch ( Delhi, 2 September '19 )⁣ ⁣ ⁣ #talesofanartcollector⁣ https://www.instagram.com/p/B-OhhgoFlzH/?igshid=gzba3vpuowde

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रब की नेमत है तेरी निगाहें जिसमे बस्ती है उसकी दुआए https://www.instagram.com/p/B4pp5xFhLP-xQrCM1sY8N8lg_bzZTp2_0Rp3500/?igshid=pukz0g2x9h5m

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. these ruins of Gwalior Fort, sitting atop of this hillside drown me in sweet sweet melancholy. i think there's a certain beauty to the damaged. . the cracks and crevices reek of passion, and history. passion that was put into the farthest, smallest, most mundane nooks of it. the history, the time that these sandstone walls have lived through. the knowledge that the walls might crumble if i hold them too tight? calls out to me in a mellifluous cry ever so tantalising almost like the stone effigies of Buddha on the way up who have no noses now. . i dream of the sunrays weeping through the rimes as you run leaving crescent shaped imprints through the sand. . i sleep with my eyes closed, a bit open, almost entirely. with my running shoes on one side, and a knife on another. . run but don't fall, i'll spoil you i'll take all your walls and temples, smother it with my bare hands. because there's a certain beauty to the damaged. i'll ravage you. Hadleigh Castle, John Constable (Gwalior, 8 November '19) #TalesOfAnArtCollector https://www.instagram.com/p/B4cILhOFvdR/?igshid=di59id1v3047

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Continued..⁣ ⁣ it made me feel lonely, my lover being ⁣ in love with his art more than me, ⁣ maybe all artists find refuge under ⁣ emotionless allegories now, i watch ⁣ him paint with his knife as if watching⁣ beethoven play his symphony for his ⁣ eternally beloved pacing his fingers ⁣ through her body, making love to the ⁣ skies in prague. just like my lover does ⁣ with me⁣ ⁣ when he loves me, silent hillsides flow⁣ with poems of the rain, bodies grow ⁣ closer to the slow mourning of the dead,⁣ tongues run rogue amuck each other,⁣ teeth biting it's way into my territory, lips⁣ kissing my scar, where my sixth finger ⁣ used to be, i hold him closer when his ⁣ fingers ravage my temples, my insides ⁣ burn in a raging fire of passion, and yet⁣ everytime he kisses me, it feels like ⁣ i've never tasted anything so humane ⁣ ⁣ i ask him "what will you ⁣ reminisce me by?" ⁣ he says, "you're special." ⁣ "i'll keep your heart". ⁣ ⁣ Part(2/2) Untitled No. 73, Mark Rothko (Delhi, 27 July '19) #TalesOfAnArtCollector https://www.instagram.com/p/B4ZyHQTFDP0/?igshid=1siald9z8y1bt

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tale of an art collector ⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣ gazing through the lively hallways ⁣⁣⁣ full of art, a bit of red, a bit of beige. ⁣⁣⁣ savor the virulent grace, enigmatic ⁣⁣⁣ details skin tone calling out through ⁣⁣⁣ the glass shelves, the night remembers ⁣⁣⁣ each and every one of them, how my ⁣⁣⁣ lover loves these. my lover is an art ⁣⁣⁣ collector. ⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣ my lover loves to hold his lovers ⁣⁣⁣ immortalised in his art, to revive him ⁣⁣⁣ to the times he held them by the ⁣⁣⁣ small of their backs, how their skin ⁣⁣⁣ felt against his, their plump lips would ⁣⁣⁣ wild against his like earthquakes in ⁣⁣⁣ pink, the lines on their palm would ⁣⁣⁣ mark territories over his body, call ⁣⁣⁣ them their own, hair brushing past his ⁣⁣⁣ face and warmth of their bodies, ⁣⁣⁣ would warm the madman in his cold ⁣⁣⁣ blood, send him to a tranquil ruins ⁣⁣⁣ of forgetfulness; that is, until he woke ⁣⁣⁣ up in the middle of the night. ⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣ my lover's handiwork, are his most ⁣⁣⁣ precious possessions, worth years ⁣⁣⁣ and years of honing. now, pale skin ⁣⁣⁣ adorns his wall-ways, beautiful lips ⁣⁣⁣ glisten through jars full of glycerine, ⁣⁣⁣ a few lovers that he loved little too ⁣⁣⁣ much grace his hallways and his sleep⁣⁣⁣ they still look over him, their eyes still ⁣⁣⁣ possess the yearning for him as they ⁣⁣⁣ did when he poured porcelain down ⁣⁣⁣ their throats as he kissed their body⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣ Part (1/2) The Art Gallery at Louvre, Hubert Robert (Jaipur, 5/10/19) #TalesOfAnArtCollector https://www.instagram.com/p/B4Zxc7nFFMg/?igshid=1cus6583u7sf9

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⁣this house is on fire – four walls⁣ a bed and two pillows⁣ this blue on my wall reminds me ⁣ of you more than the sky⁣ on days when the clouds are kind⁣ you have a tendency ⁣ to soak yourself in the rain ⁣ until your tears dissolve themselves⁣ in your very being; while i⁣ rage against the clouds ⁣ for having no mercy on me⁣ i can't hear silence anymore⁣ you, and i, we have been over this.⁣ ⁣ when you leave, i come back⁣ to this house, the city lights ⁣ arrange themselves to form your name⁣ i seek refuge in empty buildings ⁣ and hearts, breathing murmurs ⁣ into the nooks of your skin⁣ resting in the broken cradle of your arms.⁣ ⁣ the ache, it's an enigma ⁣ between you and your mouth⁣ to soothe the carmine on your ⁣ wrists and your lips, you bite ⁣ your tongue under your breath⁣ while writing poems.⁣ writing poems that reek of –⁣ scented dahlias,⁣ of swallowed heartbeats,⁣ of bloody gashes on your skin and of⁣ kisses on my neck.⁣ ⁣ you don't kiss me on my cheeks⁣ to say goodbye; instead you hold ⁣ my hand and, steer your eyes ⁣ away from me - so i don't see tears ⁣ running down your cheeks.⁣ ⁣ winter is setting in,⁣ but don't worry, i'm ready⁣ i've poured gasoline all over us⁣ pulled you close to me like i did⁣ everytime our lips touched⁣ this house is on fire⁣ and i, pull you closer⁣ for one more dance. https://www.instagram.com/p/B1dtqk0FqsG/?igshid=53dv7gpzb9hl

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Ae dil mere nadaan, tujhe hua kya? Khojta kyun rehta use chaaro dafa Shaam si woh ruhaaniyat hai Nazm si woh muskuraahat Uska har harf dilon me mere ulfat hai Kaazi, yeh ishq ka sawal hai Yahan meri haar hi haar hai ।। https://www.instagram.com/p/B0wQc0AgXPD/?igshid=1kefu141dun8x

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𝐒𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬. ⁣ ⁣ Stories of snowladen mountains of Ladakh, unfinished stone castles, chilly winds, the prettiest lake by the camp, a delicious meal of Dal Chawal at a cabin, and how it was the most delicious plate of Dal Chawal she ever had. Sunrise eyes, dusky smiles, warm winters. There's a striking resemblance between Saptarishi and her mother. She tells me that the incomplete stone castle ended up looking like a square button. ⁣ ⁣ Stories of a small suburb in Boston, Massachusetts. How Saptarishi had started learning Ballet then. There was a train station up the cobbled pathway right behind the house, where they'd catch a train to the class. I can imagine, an adorable Saptarishi in a cute little ballerina dress, sitting by her mother, swinging her legs off the train seats all the while looking outside the window and asking her mum a few hundred thousand questions. Her mother didn't tell her as often, but she was really proud of her. While on their way back in summers, Saptarishi and her mother would never miss out on having popsicles. ⁣ ⁣ Stories of a mother who couldn't avoid a sinking feeling in her heart when her little child was nowhere to be seen after school. A little child who almost got kidnapped that day. Who sitting on an auto, saw what looked like her mother's shoes and shrieked for her. The next thing she remembers was someone running towards her, a really tight embrace, a familiar smell, and loud cries on both sides. It almost seemed like the mother got her breath back after hours. Saptarishi spew life back into her. And in that embrace, everything was alright. ⁣ ⁣ (Cont'd in Comments) / Part I https://www.instagram.com/p/Bz8xeySl_5b/?igshid=dyxu4b78vmb1

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"These nights, y'know? They speak to me. " I sometimes just walk down to the park in front of my parent's house. I spend hours sitting on the blue bench. It's a bit oddly built, textured, pinches your body when you sit on it. Almost like the people who made it didn't want you to sit on it. I don't do much these days. My hair is on the fritz, my beard makes me look like I'm a homeless man. That's what my mother says. I think I look like a zombie. I like watching the stars. They are somewhat visible here in the skies of Gwalior. Saptarishi has always fascinated me. Something about it that tells me it has more to it than I can see. I definitely believe it. I'd like to know it's story. I have a strong feeling that it is the greatest story of this century. Empty parks have always been my spot. The swings creek to the wind, there's no one on the slides, the trees are deeply in love with the beauty of the night, the skies are a gorgeous shade of black and white, every sound resonates within me. When I come back, these blue lights in my parent's living room make me feel more incomplete than they should. 3:35AM does have it's own fair share of stories to tell. Right, Saptarishi? https://www.instagram.com/p/ByvyLTnld2R/?igshid=10lbx13q7d7l4

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"We shall meet when the setting sun and rising moon appear together in the sky. The sky will change colour, and all will be bathed in an orange glow. Winds of desire will blow, and thundering clouds will fill the skies. Dry leaves will murmur and untimely rains will wash the earth. There will be no shackles of religion or relationships to tear us apart. All that will remain will be the fire of love in our hearts." They say witnessing a falling star fulfills any wish... But these two stars fell to earth wishing only to belong to each other. //Bajirao Mastani - 2015 // https://www.instagram.com/p/Bys-OB0F67A/?igshid=1ibqjywjhhz9k

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Continued... it made me feel lonely, my lover being ⁣ in love with his art more than me, ⁣ maybe all artists find refuge under ⁣ emotionless allegories now, i watch ⁣ him paint with his knife as if watching⁣ beethoven play his symphony for his ⁣ eternally beloved pacing his fingers ⁣ through her body, making love to the ⁣ skies in prague. just like my lover does ⁣ with me⁣ ⁣ when he loves me, silent hillsides flow⁣ with poems of the rain, bodies grow ⁣ closer to the slow mourning of the dead,⁣ tongues run rogue amuck each other,⁣ teeth biting it's way into my territory, lips⁣ kissing my scar, where my sixth finger ⁣ used to be, i hold him closer when his ⁣ fingers ravage my temples, my insides ⁣ burn in a raging fire of passion, and yet⁣ everytime he kisses me, it feels like ⁣ i've never tasted anything so humane ⁣ ⁣ i ask him "what will you ⁣ reminisce me by?" ⁣ he says, "you're special." ⁣ "i'll keep your heart". ⁣ ⁣ Part (2/2) https://www.instagram.com/p/ByS-uscFXiw/?igshid=1v46edqfp53xf

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tale of an art collector ⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣ gazing through the lively hallways ⁣⁣⁣ full of art, a bit of red, a bit of beige. ⁣⁣⁣ savor the virulent grace, enigmatic ⁣⁣⁣ details skin tone calling out through ⁣⁣⁣ the glass shelves, the night remembers ⁣⁣⁣ each and every one of them, how my ⁣⁣⁣ lover loves these. my lover is an art ⁣⁣⁣ collector. ⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣ my lover loves to hold his lovers ⁣⁣⁣ immortalised in his art, to revive him ⁣⁣⁣ to the times he held them by the ⁣⁣⁣ small of their backs, how their skin ⁣⁣⁣ felt against his, their plump lips would ⁣⁣⁣ wild against his like earthquakes in ⁣⁣⁣ pink, the lines on their palm would ⁣⁣⁣ mark territories over his body, call ⁣⁣⁣ them their own, hair brushing past his ⁣⁣⁣ face and warmth of their bodies, ⁣⁣⁣ would warm the madman in his cold ⁣⁣⁣ blood, send him to a tranquil ruins ⁣⁣⁣ of forgetfulness; that is, until he woke ⁣⁣⁣ up in the middle of the night. ⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣ my lover's handiwork, are his most ⁣⁣⁣ precious possessions, worth years ⁣⁣⁣ and years of honing. now, pale skin ⁣⁣⁣ adorns his wall-ways, beautiful lips ⁣⁣⁣ glisten through jars full of glycerine, ⁣⁣⁣ a few lovers that he loved little too ⁣⁣⁣ much grace his hallways and his sleep⁣⁣⁣ they still look over him, their eyes still ⁣⁣⁣ possess the yearning for him as they ⁣⁣⁣ did when he poured porcelain down ⁣⁣⁣ their throats as he kissed their body⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣ Part (1/2) https://www.instagram.com/p/ByS-n7_FKSj/?igshid=3c4bxttb1jl7

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"Hopefully, we'll get a lot of time to look at the stars." https://www.instagram.com/p/Bxrpf8IFoTF/?igshid=1ogh4gup3hp48

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またね // I'll see you https://www.instagram.com/p/BxkiyJplX3k/?igshid=1qq4zep2v7f0j

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limestone walls, meddling wanderers not so hushed cities and morning poha. (at Gwalior - ग्वालियर) https://www.instagram.com/p/BxhqKAQFqIK/?igshid=vnmd4cjqt43r

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these ruins of Gwalior Fort, sitting atop of this hillside drown me in sweet sweet melancholy. i think there's a certain beauty to the damaged. the cracks and crevices reek of passion, and history. passion that was put into the farthest, smallest, most mundane nooks of it. the history, the time that these sandstone walls have lived through. the knowledge that the walls might crumble if i hold them too tight? calls out to me in a mellifluous cry ever so tantalising almost like the stone effigies of Buddha on the way up who have no noses now. i dream of the sunrays weeping through the rimes as you run leaving crescent shaped imprints through the sand. i sleep with my eyes closed, a bit open, almost entirely. with my running shoes on one side, and a knife on another. run but don't fall, i'll spoil you i'll take all your walls and temples, smother it with my bare hands. because there's a certain beauty to the damaged. i'll ravage you. https://www.instagram.com/p/Bw8zx-LBZmq/?igshid=1w5zq2ht8k2l9

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twirling the cigarette butt in my hand i sit down in pools of smoke it's going to kill me most certainly, it will be the death of me yet i go on, take another puff the peppermint intoxicating my skeleton of a brain i still don't know why plants die quicker in my garden than they grow perhaps its good that I never loved myself https://www.instagram.com/p/BwllCuEh_b0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=11mquskt2dm71