Thus Spoke the Parchment

Decades or days...

Of winds and snow

Weight of stories

That I have seen and known.

I lived through days of spring

And summer nights

Beaten, drowned, and dried

A thousand lifetimes in plight.

I carry the memory

Of the forests and sun

Ready for words and art

With ink, well-spun

Every stroke of brush, a lightning bolt 

Struck before, and will again too,

Perhaps with a sharper jolt.

Unafraid of the ink that stains me

And of the shadow that turns into art

Washed a thousand lives in the river

A thousand times from heart.

Awaiting a truth, gold-etched and fierce

That till eternity, will be signed "once more!",

A Great Noon of words

That Life would always adore.

Not merely a surface

I am a net of thousand deaths

Still a sacred beginning I claim

For I am the laughter of the stream 

Captured in a frame. 

Write on... 

Of light and let the essence roll 

I would never hide 

But transmute it into something whole

Delicate as I am, 

I let the world shine through

But tough enough 

To not let the ink pierce my soul.

/ 36

: 189

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A Little Something:

This piece tells the story of a parchment, Washi or Artisan Parchment, to be specific. The parchment is made from the Kozo plant, and involves a process rich in art and dedication that is truly inspiring. 

This piece has inclusions that are allusions to Friedrich Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra. The "Once More!", for example, is a deliberate allusion to Nietzsche's "Noch Einmal!" in English. 

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Copyright © 2026 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

Prism

The room with the solo window brooded

The weight of the curtains and heavy blinds

Were deafening enough for the air, it alluded

It complained to the soul in voices of all kinds

The star's gone; it urged to let go of the binds

A little glimmer, a tiny beam it craved

A mild chance for the blank to be braved

The next day,

It saw a tiny prism on the window sill

Victory for light at last, 

The air let out a humming shrill

The light ray found it at the break of dawn

An array of colors from the rainbow it did spawn

It danced around the reflections

That were frayed, grayed, and brittle

Entered the untouched water-cup

Coaxed to move and break a little

The light was promised an air

That smelled of daisies in bloom

A room of yellow and cinnamon 

And of exuberance in the loom

But the eclipsed pair of eyes there

Had their sight behind bars

Oh, they could see things around 

But their vision, stolen by stars,

Nowhere to be found

Tricked into the walls that smelled of heart

Light has nowhere to escape or dart

Bouncing off broken mirrors

That lay without a sound

It still kept trying to dance around

But without a complete soul...

no music was found 

/ 33

: 219

Copyright © 2026 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

Harmony in Contrasts: Wreathing Duality

The fire launches the LV* with a mighty embrace to kiss space

And the smoke, as its memory, smells the dust with a grey grace

The capsule in its journey, still... in the vast space of dark

Holds remnants of the ashy entropy, left among light and spark

The spark speaks of tales to the mighty ground, as it burns and soothes

The sky splashes ambrosia, veiled in hope and despair of youths

They search and find, explore and hide, the box Pandora** once had

Confusion and clarity aside, Hope-Fairy the mad box did add

In those hopes, they dwelled among feisty forests and witty waters

Mystics in cerulean depth and virid mane beyond authors

They led and followed, the light and dark of glassy bodies and souls

Unbeknownst to common knowledge, they mend and end old and new roles

For a festooned embrace of this and that is the way, spelt in writs

Intertwined in crests and troughs, dwells every life in blinking qubits

/ 14

: 165

* LV refers to the Launch Vehicles (or rockets) 

** Pandora and Pandora's box is a reference to the Greek mythological character and the story of the box she had.

Copyright © 2026 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

The Seed: Bliss in Beginnings

There once was a wide-eyed curious seed,

In a vase of pebbles and flowers, a tiny, quiet bead.

It smiled at the flowers and wondered with awe,

It spoke with the pebbles and thought of its flaw.

It heard of the sounds of air and roars of the sky,

And tales by the rays about dust that go awry.

The liquid silver from the skies would calm it down,

Cold as it may seem, they still had a colorful crown.

There was the shiver of the dew, when the flowers seemed to sleep.

The pebbles went silent, the sunlight... too precious to keep.

How often does the world change in the world outside its own?

The seed wondered, was it worthy to venture out and be s(h)own?

The dust ichor did taste of dark earth and a muddied loom,

But the gold-scented dawn caressed it, as leaves began to bloom.

/ 14

: 150

Copyright © 2026 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

Who's the Alien?

The tracing finger on the glass tracing it the wrong way, 

The bobbing head to the jazz in an exclusively odd way, 

The rhythm of the unfelt conversations moving in an unmoving way, 

There were more wrongs done than the number present in that wasted hay.

And yet, they all fit in a hundred different ways,

Like emulsifying oil to make unzesty mayonnaise. 

Words blurted in a glimmer of pride: semantics on a run,

Sentences spelt with blank ideas: memories of syntax gone,

Were they answers, to non-existent questions: mirrors undone, 

Voices mimicing voices, passion lost in groundless tone.

And yet, they speak in a language, to them: seemingly known,

Like new hieroglyphics, with each figure their own clone.

Oh! but wait. If every other thing fits in an unfitting way, 

Am I the human or an alien, as fitters would say?

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A Little Something:

Though written in a traditional 14-line structure, this piece breaks the norms that we generally associate with a traditional structure: the rhyme scheme, the unravelling conflict (rather than a resolution), the binary sonnet, most things, in short. 

Apart from the symbolism in the words (that I so love), this piece has phonetic symbolism as well. It won't be revealed here, of course. Because I hope there must be a heart which would love to find it by (and for) themselves rather than being elaborated here. 

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Copyright © 2026 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

Unwoven Dawns

Completion — was just what has always been aimed for.

Though paths went on, dwellings were always onshore.

A desire to perfect things beyond perfection,

Was stitched into every sweater in her collection.

The winter that existed once, is nowhere to be seen,

Every cashmere strand there, still preserved, holds its sheen.

They smell of fresh sea and lavender of the yesteryears,

Treasured in the oak chest of drawers, in neat tiers.

The spring now— jubilant in bursts of blossoms and blooms,

Dances to tunes of velvet and songs of colorful plumes.

But there's still a teal scarf for the yellow-scented autumn breeze,

Left imperfect (knowingly unfinished) for the salt of distant seas.

The unwoven thread has been a solace for the breathing heart,

In aches of unendings, beats promise of a dawning start.

/ 14

: 133

Copyright © 2026 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

The Cheese No One is Looking For

For as long as I can remember, I have been inclined to visit museums and galleries over almost any other attraction. Whether traveling alone or with family, I always prioritize art galleries, museums, and local eateries. While the latter two categories typically enjoy high footfall, galleries are almost always devoid of a human presence. Although history museums, science centers, or specialized pop-up attractions attract considerable crowds, art museums remain sparsely visited, often hosting no more than ten people at any given time.

Generally, galleries are the least successful crowd-pullers. People do turn up for opening or closing events when a specific exhibition (by an individual artist or a curated group of artists) is launched. However, the days in between witness few visitors. In this beautiful (yet risky) calm, a profound silence resonates, shaped by the communication among the displayed art pieces and the dance of light and shadow on polished floors and textured walls.

Recently, I visited one such exhibition during peak hours on a holiday. It was saddening to see no one there — and mind you, the entry was free. I have never seen more than five people in any gallery I have visited, and I have been to many over the years. 

I usually spend anywhere from two to five hours in a gallery, depending on the scale of the space and breadth of the collection. Only twice have I been the lone person in a gallery during my time wandering the halls—once in India and once abroad—but those instances occurred when no active exhibition was running. This time, just three days into a new show, the silence was a first. While I am not suggesting that no one else ever visits, or visited this particular exhibition, the sparse nature of the audience is often deafening.

I wondered how the curator must be feeling, how the artist must be feeling. Standing there, I felt a wave of shame and found myself hesitant to make eye contact. I wanted to ask the curator if there was anything I could do to help pique interest in the exhibition, but I just couldn't find the words.

I rarely take photographs, but I did this time to help publicize the event, even though my reach on social media is extremely limited, laughable at best. Even friends and acquaintances are not particularly inclined toward visiting galleries and rarely accompany me, even when invited. I wish I could have done more, or at least had some idea of how to bridge this gap. Perhaps only then could I visit an art museum or gallery with a sense of happiness and pride, rather than guilt and shame.

Copyright © 2026 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

ANTIDOTE: a whisper

So many lifetimes forged 

into a glimpse of lines,

a mere encounter with words, 

and a whisper of souls, 

that existed 

beyond today 

and what is known

of yesterday 

or tomorrow...

possibly even more...

Yet not a single heartbeat glances,

never a breath wasted.

/ 12

: 44

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A Little Something:

A "whisper", though not a literary category per se, is somewhat of an ontological state, that might fit an essence (or soul) into any form of literary category, be it a poem, an aphorism, a fragment,or anything else for that matter.

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Copyright © 2026 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

Still

A thousand storms rage in the soul,

Yet not a single hair shall stir;

Among the greys of howling wind,

A single blossom begins to bloom.

/ 4

: 26

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