Last night, a conversation with my best friend over smooth beats with a gentle topping of herbs, made me realise why cinema beckoned me over, a year ago. My obsession is not film or film making, but the humbling power of cinematic illusions to push you over your own boundaries of imagination and wrap you around with perceptions much alien to you. Cinema can make you feel a reality, that your experiences have not touched yet. Suddenly, you are a new, after you’ve watched a film. Suddenly, you find yourself being born again, whilst absent-mindedly watching a credit roll pass by.
A year in film school, and I want to be able to tell every body, that SRFTI is so unique. It’s a space of dialectic pastel shades- you may not be able place a certain colour, but that doesn’t mean someone else hasn’t painted the sky silly with it. Amongst all that the news and the grapevine has to say, there is really NO right or wrong- just because something did not happen to you, does not mean it cannot or did not happen to me. And just because you may be hurt by something does not mean that every body has to identify with it. Why don’t we treat our atmosphere a little more graciously? There are always new strange clouds in the sky, sometimes giving way to an inexplicable rain. But the tomorrow belongs to you. To me. And some new ideas. Let’s not war about how i saw a rabbit on the moon, but you saw a fluffy scoop of ice cream. Let’s smoke a ciggie together and maybe wonder together, who thought of building those two perfect bridges (one that we cross every single day, and the other parallel, solitary one) and why.



Curiously, eagerly
I wait for the season to change.

Not because this summer seems to be in a semi-permanent flux of hot and heavy
But because I am craving
For the sound of rain
And I wait for Autumn to bring on the soft cracking of dry leaves under my toes,
I’m waiting to share my silence with absent voices of
growing up.


This blue July, shout out to the universe about your loves- be it the smell of an orange soap, the sound of tyres on drenched roads or the fire of a magic soul. The secret truth is, it resonates those vibrations back only to make the love louder 🙂



Drifting with no mindful
No waves, no sun rays,
Stagnant waters
With the absent smell of fresh lies
Over a bottom full of sad eyes.
Eagerly lost
And digger of nests,
Alive today borrowing breaths,
Looking for no horizons
Just unending skies,
Blanket monochrome
To realise-
The silence of staying afloat
The sobs of ancient minds.

July 20sixteen


Mid January and Wednesday,

This grey morning I woke up with an ache in my left brain and a cramp in my right

An hour before noon, the clouds broke

The heavy air dampened my hair and weighed down on my mind
It’s raining,

Said the light to my eyes
And the soil to my smell

Broke the silence,

Whispering against clamoring water drops-


And chaotic-

That love is often found among ancient conversations between lovers, on lit screens with movable letters

So sharp

And free and tinted from end to end in silly shadows

Of room temperature

Of this strange, grey



There’s a boy who lives in my matchboxes.
Don’t laugh, it is very true-
Every matchbox that currently lies in my habitat,
Either hidden from plain sight in gaps between a book and a file
Or the ones that I forget I had in my bags and smaller bags,
They all have a boy that lives in them.

It was a habit,
That initially, I laughed at,
Often got irritated with,
Often, I found it cute and smiled about it,
Then a while later of knowing and unknowing and knowing again,
I attached this little quirk with a boy
And I’m writing a rough verse about it.
This, you can laugh at.

He lit what he had to light,
And whether anyone was looking at him or not
Paying attention
Or conversing with him,
Or not,
He slid that burnt out match-stick back in the box.

The thing with matchboxes is,
You always lose track of how many matches it possibly houses.
Before you know it,
There are about three left
And you hold an un co-operative smoke-system between your fingers.
Imagine, when it’s early in the AM side of things,
You are a rickety, half-open-minded mess,
And one of those few sticks are burnt out.
Or imagine this,
Half box full,
And the universe is in a playful mood-
Every third time you pick a match- its the one with its head burnt out.

This boy some how signed my fire with his habit,
Somehow wrote his name on chances to come
And every time I dig out a matchbox,
And happen to pick the extinguished little wood piece,
He says hello.

July, 2016