A boy's journey through words and the mixtapes. I write every Thursday.
Love each other like your lungs loves a breathe of fresh air.
It’s how relationships ought to be,.. must be!
Because,
your breathe is your life line.
That’s it!
Everything’s that’s said on love, to me personally is like a sugar in the water.
p.s. a seed of wisdom — when it comes to making a deliberate choice about true love or true anything,
learn from Derek Sivers,
“Hell Yeah! or no.”
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They promised to love each other forever,
which of course, in a long time, didn’t at all, endure the jerking-off of time and tides.
Long story short — He left her for another girl.
That full of $#!+, pathological liar.
He robbed her from bones to the thinnest of her skin,
and sucked all the winds away from her wings,
and black-holed all the lights dry, far faraway from her poor, heavy life,
suffocating,… killing her trust-ship wide-open, wide naked! Alive!
But, like all living wounds would heal someday,
like all sufferings would eventually sublimate one day.
She will too.
And it won’t be because of some vapid, woo-woo magic wand,
let alone one liner, cheaper than the table salt — wordporn shams.
It won’t be because of someone with a big mouth, full of sophisticated advices and pity craps;
It sure won’t be because of any rational poetry, or songs or gratitude ka-ta, et cetera.
She will.
She would’ve,
only,
and only,
purely,
b.e.c.a.u.s.e of her WILL.
Taking from US President Mr. Lincoln: For herself. To herself. By herself.
p.s., break ups crack open the beauty in the devil. It’s true as gravity to say, break up seldom break you up.
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Let’s open a book.
It’s called love.
As any normal lives, I’ve also been through defining, deafening blows. Plenty, plateful of heartbreaks, heartaches, and many,.. many mercilessly chilling, shrinking, airless chest evenings.
Gasping. Tired. Done.Battered, broken, all t.e.a.r.e.d up, all to myself in pity corner of rooms you all wouldn’t know.
I’ve seen my people walked, … and some still going through rocky roads.
Happily depressed. Unwillingly masked.
Lost. Lonely.
Sold to lies. Cold.
Cold!
I’ve heard of monstrous stories from souls no different than my own — stories of being mocked, mopped, of being beaten, being ripped off by their owns. Cheated. Cruelly treated.
D.a.m.n.e.d by fate.
Belittled. Betrayed.
Now, as they say, meekness is not weakness.
And, as I navigate around the ocean of knowing and unknowing.
I wonder if am I qualified enough to speak for love !?
I wonder if I s.h.o.u.l.d question more about l.o.v.e,
love, of real kinds,
of the rare kinds !?
Comments closedFood for Brain.
Oxford dictionary defines assiduity as,“Constant or close attention to what one is doing.”
Not very long ago, I learned of a wise American Investor by a name Charlie Munger from a lovely co-worker.
Charlie (a vice president of Berkshire Hathaway Inc.) once quoted ‘Assiduity’ which from my understanding he meant sitting on your arse, and think, and put on mountain of work around your time, and invest hours after hours of blood, sweat and tears into things you deeply care about.
Precisely, Charlie in his commencement speech at USC Law School in 2007 said,
“Another thing you have to do, of course, is to have a lot of assiduity. I like that word because it means: sit down on your ass until you do it,…”
Correspondingly, as I now navigate around my own body of experiences, it is fine to speak that I’ve written many rubbish forms of literature (or broadly speaking toiled over horse shit of fluid, volatile artifacts) in my life. However, in the same continuam, so have I also penned plenty that I am glad they did crystalize, and substantiate — that they did join forces or sneak peaked into this gigantic world of beautiful knowledge and infinite wisdom.
Well, regardless of what smell or scent they carried and left, or no matter how deep or shallow the imprint they imprinted; I wrote what came to me. When-in, both nature and nurture became my food and my feet.
I worked shamelessly, recklessly, lovingly, unpreparedly. Gracefully.
Assiduously.
p.s. for a more simpler/ clearer perspective, assiduity can also be used alternatively with a pop-word the art of showing up.
And, finally, finally to wrap this whole thing,
I want to end with a quote from one of my favorite writer, Steven Pressfield: where he said,
“Put your ass where your heart wants to be.”
Cheers!
Comments closed“Sometimes people are more certain of everything than i am of anything. ”
– Robert Rubin, In an uncertain world.
At a risk of being called a smarty-pant myself.
I dedicate this specially to cocksure boys and men.
Girls, women, I don’t mind though!
It’s okay to be crude, novice and of course somebody who’d happily sprinkle the spark of humility fragrance on every chance than turning up as a cold, know-it-all, bragging, bashing, blabbing jack a*s.
It’s okay to err, reflect, learn and move on in life than become an arrogant, stubborn, these heavy, always-so-right, paranoiac, complaining, yammering, hard to deal with di*k heads.
Again, there’s nothing wrong with being open, vulnerable and emotionally enriching than the ones who’re shallow-bold, self-righteous, self-acclaimed dumb-intellect, taxing bag of bones .
Moreover, here’s a compelling catch; not something totally out-of-this-world, not anything synonymous to voodoo, grandiose, crazy shit but overlooked for sure;
A must learn art of staying grounded!
In a world which celebrates, the world which breathes and breeds on uncertainty — your cockhead-ness is distressing and irrational;
In a world where everyone’s undoubtedly a hero of their own life story, the world where all human h.a.v.e a voice — you strangle-holding anybody with your half fcuked philosophy is barbaric and unethical.
In a world where mistakes, failures and imperfections are wonderful gems, the fire and the flame to our natural existence — beating up your chest and announcing ‘I’m forever right! I’m perfect! ‘ is a nonsensical narcissism. It’s plainly disgraceful.
So, my friends, I present to you a free, premium word of wisdom,
also, a message to myself. For Life.
Practice silence amid the world around that can’t stop talking (borrowed that line from Susan Cain’s spellbinding creation, Quiet).
Listen.
Feel.
Self-question.
Empathize.
Listen some more,
and then perhaps call to action (only if need be).
p.s. Like my grandma says, frequent demeanor is a justified cue to make sense of the person’s terrain and the peaks,
thus, train and tame your demon (believe it or not but we all have one inside us), your yang.
Again, for better lack of words;
Stay grounded.
Comments closedYou.
You’re about courage.
You’re about growth.
You’re about love.
You’re about kindness.
You’re about a not-so-special DNA-ed humbleness.
More importantly, you’re about the work of art you paint over yourself, over and over again throughout your life; all too frequently changing; ever flowing and a never ending work in progress until one day your life’s finally finally over.
Heedless.
You’re not your dumb smartphone who’s been mocking at your stupidity for your urge to digest plastic emotions and pleasure it propounds verily.
You’re not one fucked aftermath of countless judgments, unsolicited advises, desperation for validations and approvals from paper people with tasteless ground.
You’re not these painstakingly filtered photographs of yourself, most of them shamelessly oblivious to the reality of stacks and stacks of boredom, inevitable despair and everyday struggle.
More importantly, you’re not a lost soul you think you are, lest you should be proud of your fight and blissful of your fleeting existence despite lingering death in the moment, in any moment.
Be mindful.
You’re these beautiful songs you listen to in a loop, the songs you hummmm… with all your heart,
You’re a living and a dying star my friend, who around life’s confined ebb is a wild, free boat.
Convulated. Confident. They will finger point your ass with as many nouns, verbs, adjectives…
You are probably anybody they want to see you to be.
But, your identity is a naked simple dear, you’re the sperm meeting the egg;
your worth — the words you weigh before you wear, before you speak,
your true worth — the fire you burn, the actions you make.
To the nutshell, and for one good last time,
scratch your own itch, you!
Ask, not who you are or who they think you are.
Ask, who you want to become.
p.s. Don’t forget, you are going to die.
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First, 2018 was a year of loss. We lost our brother, Pramod Shrestha.
2018 was a year of more letting gos’. A year made of tough choices to leave beautiful souls walk their own miles.
Of many people I’d never meet, of people who’d never want to see me, perhaps ever […]
But, it’s okay.
2018 was also a year of more unpublished, poorly drafted, incomplete, procrastinated articles, poems and essays.
These still decorate a large part of this blog’s ‘draft’ section and handful of unattended ‘Google Keep’ notes as well.
2018 — again, was a year of books, role models, mentors.
Read, listened, learned and duly enacted as many possible.
2018 was a year of unconditional, true found love.
Love unbeknownst. Love beckoned. Love befound.
Late than never.
2018 was a year of many more new connections.
Of kindling old companionship, of creating meaningful soul-friendships with the few new.
2018 by far was an adventurous year. Dhampus, unplanned hikes, bike rides.
Of my first international flight to New-Delhi, of reviving childhood, childlike masti with my twin brother Bishow Shrestha.
Lastly, 2018 was a year of sadness,
of contentment, fulfillment and joy,
of scratching my own itch, of sharpening wisdom around body of words,
of sacred contemplation, continual reflection and perpetual self-refinement along the process.
And from where I see, 2018 wasn’t perfect,
no,
it was just phenomenally real — tethered with repetitive drudgery, ephemeral melancholy and
warm rejoice of daily living.
Thanks for passing-by, subtly,
one day at a time,
one breathe at a time.
Comments closedThese memories by Hollow Coves is playing in a fair, faint volume.
In a company of mere table lamp, and our holy pet, sanu, I lay in my bed; worn, done, sicken, thinking of thinking, for thinking,
trying to think to write , and well, write to think.
Thinking … I remembered, I’d been reading and listening and hearing plenty,
matter of fact, more, more and more about the untapped luxury and wisdom that boredom conceals, … that, sometimes not-doing anything, anything at all, confers a life-changing ripple effect.
Munger calls it Assiduity!
And, without adue, I try to talk my feverish self in — “Fever to you, happened in just the right moment, to duly invite boredom. “
And taste it, and smell it from underneath your chin.
Live it!
And, here, I let her paralyze me, possess me, caress me, rule me, embrace me, fuck me up, bless me.
Clearly, openly, I allowed boredom be my guest in this warm, coughing room — and clear the blur,
and, SHOW ME THE WAY.
Thinking, … among many other things, I remembered, it’d been a while since I wrote anything.
My relationship with words has gotten quieter, thinner, a bit unromantic and cold you see.
But I will bring them home, once again!
Comments closedProfanity Caution
Unflatteringly, I am the light-house of all kinds of deep light emotions (the unspoken but persistently screaming kinds).
Unwaveringly, them thus begetting a tangible, the un-lying
which would’ve otherwise left sunken or say unattended somewhere around my brain’s ganglion or perhaps the heart; I wouldn’t know where.
Yes, that crude Feelings trickling and tickling through the nerves’ endings because of some complicated hormonal shits; catalyzed by mostly pseudo, confusing or say’ gang-banging thoughts at its full-on-full throttle mode.
Unquestionably, I can’t even trust them, all despite the fact that they are my own!
Similarly.
Unlikely lying, I am to share this rocking boat of time and tides, full will passerby who also happen to drag their lugs full with fleeting, stinking, baseless, misleading, ill-informed, ill opinionated, irresponsibly handled, fucked, brainless, headless, finger pointing & fundamentally unsolicited dildo-ial perceptions.
And alas, uncertain I — It’s just that sometimes, I fear my own goodness might lead my breathes and the beats into gone-for-good ashes.
Understandably however, wisdom, she whispers care … care less.
Heed less!
In the main, Happy Birthday Eve to the twins of ditto values.
The forever students of life.
And like you always say
Happy Birthday To Us Myaan!.
p.s.
and the song does ring a bell or two.
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