Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections

Your Grey Memories 

D’you see the grey ring, my love 

It’s how I cherish your memory

A grey circle of your voice 

Conjuring on my screen 

With every word you utter 

Just’s my heart skips a beat

Listening to your bleeding heart

Fr’m behind your 70ft walls

Booze attendin’ to your demons

And freein’ your soul for me

The grey circle is your soul

Reachin’ out for its love

And it’s me, oh it’s me indeed 

The one yo’r heart rushes to

No matt’r how, no matt’r what



New stories monday thursday 

Follow the blog on Instagram @thestonedstoryteller

Posted in Originals, Reflections

Three Kinds of Love – Solid, Liquid & Vapour

When he first kissed me, a needle pierced in my belly.

It never aches in a physical place, like the skin or the stomach. It is a suspended pain, somewhere in the ether of my insides. Like an entity, that is beyond the capture of my physical body, is feeling that love. A dimension above. In another dimension altogether.

A needle like thing was piercing me, in that dimension. I was able to feel that dimension because of his kiss.

I told him I had been kissed before. And they were quite passionate. Much more than his. What I meant was they were very assuring. In that they were full of thrust and force, in the physical body. In their physical use of tongue and lips, powerful and persuasive. Just the way they competed in real world. With persuasion and power to tell me of their superior love.

But when he kissed me, I felt a needle piercing me. A prick leading to a drop of blood. And then some more blood and some more pain. In a completely different realm because the blood came out as words and paintings and rhythms. Never as blood itself.

In the earlier kisses, the pain was distributed only to the place their tongues and lips touched me. Leaving bruises and sometimes even real blood. But this was an internal bleeding, and internal bruising. This was all over my body. I could feel the pain diffusing all over my body. The way invisible gases distribute all over in the room. And liquid water remains on the ground bound by gravity. And a solid ice, remains even more limited, bound by the attraction of its own egoistic identity. The attraction force of its own particles.

But his vaporized love was spreading through me like the discreetly released sarin of a chemical attack. And quietly choking at all my egoistic fears and apprehensions. Putting me to a slumber of love, of peace, of faith. In his arms.

In the beginning I mistook the difference between the physically tangible forms of other kisses and other loves. The absence of color and form of your sarin deluded me into thinking there was nothing there. But it was not until I turned to walk away, that it began showing effects. The strangling, the choking, the breathlessness, loss of neuron cells, an intangible gas causing a tangible death. And I knew. It was you.

Am I too late in realizing this? Was my first question after understanding this third form of love. But I guess after a lot of thinking and wondering and calculating and hoping, reality struck me. I was dying after all. Every single day, losing some of my neurons. Dying to the world I knew. Closing my eyes to the illusions without, to open within me a world of alternate truth. Deeper truth. Where the source of all the muddy rivers existed. Where all waters were pure because everything was pure at its source.

So when this death was already happening, might as well let you know that I was dying. And so I did. I pinged you. Called you drunk. Showed you the bruises the water and the ice left on my body. Told you I feared the same from you and so I kept away. Told you I was sorry.

Told you that I had finally learnt the meaning of the word passion. That it rooted itself in the Latin word passion meaning pain. It was first used in the history of English language for describing what Christ felt when he was nailed to the cross. When he adorned a crown of thorns on his head. Bleeding all over. In pain all over.

But he accepted each drop of blood as a symbol of his love, for other humans, his beloved. It was love dripping the color red that day. And such a pain borne for and out of love, was named passion.

It was not the physical aggression or a bruising emotional liquidity of love. It was an omnipresent breathe of vapor that wholly bruised a human inside out. Not in one or two places, but in each bone, muscle, down to each cell.

And I told you that your first kiss had the truest passion I ever knew.


Cover image ©thestonedstoryteller

Follow the blog on Instagram! @thestonedstoryteller


Posted in Poetry, Reflections

i began writing to capture

i began writing to capture.

to capture thoughts of other worlds

that showed themselves to me in quietude

to capture emotions wrapped in my skin

trapped between layers of cells released in tears

to capture uncontrollable waters gushing out

from the folds of my bones as experienced eternity

to capture dripping blood that fell uninterrupted

drop by drop, from wounds unseen in my soul

to capture the demon of fear that lurked 

beneath a sheet with a hole in it, abiding its time to attack

to capture everything that the world told me 

was absolutely full of shit and of no use to it

for the world has learnt its ways of moving on

from heartbreaks and bleeding and crushed dreams

it does not need the comfortable quilt of signs and lines

to become words to become emotions to become its tears

it goes on. it moves on. it lives on. 

and i am left behind with a choice

with the world or without the world.


Cover image ©thestonedstoryteller

Follow the blog on Instagram! @thestonedstoryteller


Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections, Travel Stories

man is such an ambitious heart!

man is such an ambitious heart

a wild dreamer and then 

a wilder hustler

we could be getting it in inheritance

across millions of years creative labour

handed down across all fields

sex is not the right word for 

the most primal human nature

creation is, the will to pass on

to carry forward, to take the baton ahead

continue the journey whose 

beginning we never saw

nor end would we see

all we have is a baton and

the thrill of running ahead with it

to next level to next generation to next mountain


Cover image ©thestonedstoryteller

Follow the blog on Instagram! @thestonedstoryteller

Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections, Travel Stories

to the brave wanderer

out in the open waters where you tasted freedom cast ephemeral shadows under the sun painted your own paintings with the hue

you also lost some of your own colour in the nights of the journey and the bumps of rough waves 

when it was time to return to the shore you looked back in despair for having achieved nothing but loss on this journey 

loss of dreams because it never turns out as you plan 

loss of love because you know you will leave the waters behind

loss of freedom because rest is also necessary 

and finally loss of those paintings you made with your shadows beneath the sun 

after all they were paintings on water what were you expecting | go on row ahead row back to solid grounds and saltless waters 

lie down after a hearty meal to look up at the stars 

fall asleep to counting them and dream dream dream again of these waters 

dream again of my vast uncertain chaos 

dream again of chartering another course down my dark waters 

dream again of a new adventure a new treasure a new love 

dream again of me


Cover image ©thestonedstoryteller

Follow the blog on Instagram! @thestonedstoryteller

Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections, Travel Stories

you are the fire

you are the fire you are the light you are what brings colour to my black and white life 

in your arms begin even the toughest days on your breasts they come to a safe end

you are the centre of my circle of life yet without beginning or an end of your own right

the wheels of colour the circles of eons all center around you

you are the point the source the bindu where it all begins

unselfish without any self of your own you exist for others for the creation of others

it all begins in you it all belongs to you and yet you belong to none at all

Cover image ©thestonedstoryteller

Follow the blog on Instagram! @thestonedstoryteller 

Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections, Travel Stories

A Treacherous Mountain Being

You are a magnificent blue green

In the sun’s shade

You breathe the mountain winds

On your rippled surface

And feed on the rains

Those zephyrs bring

A blessed gem beneath

The mountain knuckles

A carved and shining stone

Held captive in minerals and its own value

It is only when the sun retires

That you return to your wild self

Disappearing into the dark skies

Ceasing to be a decoration

Becoming an untamed force

Unseen and indecipherable

Dissolved into oblivion


You quietly teach by example

To men, the art of living

Paying honage to light and life by day

Retiring to darkness and death by night

To live the best of both worlds

Above, as under

To remain inbued in contradictions

And yet be a wholesome being


Cover image ©thestonedstoryteller

Follow the blog on Instagram! @thestonedstoryteller