We are liars. We lie all the time. We know what we know, but we never tell. We think we know is best hidden. For our purpose, of course. But it is best hidden. Then yes, I lie too. This is the only thing that keeps me connected to the human world. This is what makes me alive: lying. I am an exile. I think I am an exile, and I will always be. This is the lie I hide. I can’t tell you this. I can’t tell you anything, actually. I know something that you should know too, ...Read More

She was a thief. She stole things & she stole heed. Someone could get lost in her void and come back for he would be stolen of himself, replaced by part of herself. She was called Cyra. A washerwoman once beat her at my face. She stole a cloth. A cloth that was magnificent. Now the same cloth is drowning at the very end of me. They never give, so she steals. And she stole my heart. This is a personification. But indeed it is true. When the goldsmith came and found her forlorn, she took his beating and ...Read More

A hermit came at my footstep. He saw me intently. He gazed at my ever-flow. He then said that was angry. And built a courtyard at my banks. No one paid heed to him. He thought him a madman. The next sunrise, he sat by me. He kept looking at me. Shame is an emotion, I could not express. Yet, as he sat there, with his eyes questioning me, I felt ashamed. Was I to flood? What if Cyra, too, would become a product of a disaster? Will she be remembered? No. For I think not. The hermit, I ...Read More