Not a poem

On his throne of white marble,

the thinking man,

ponders much,

and leaves yesterday behind.

A moment for you

Cycle down a deserted dark road with the wind blowing through your hair.
Forget about the helmet.

Let your mind replay every single word of The Argument Sketch.
Laugh until your eyes water.

Remember times of madness, of raucous laughter, of friends, of photographs.
Things always look better in retrospect, don't they?

Shout out the lines to every ridiculous Hindi song stuck in your head.
"Suraksha, Suraksha, teri karenge saaton janam!"

Talk to yourself all you want. Entirely in cliches. In Klingon. Backwards.
No one's listening in.

Search for answers to your questions.
Now's a good time to start.

Cry for lost opportunities. Cry for the things that did not go as you wished they would.
You're the only one who really cares.

Scream for the times you screwed up. Scream for a better you.
Pedal ahead.

Dream of belonging, warmth and company.
They're all yours.

Live.
For you.

Lilian

He looked out of the window as a stream of water droplets sped downwards outside the cold glass pane. This was going to be one long plane journey. He never liked to travel alone - there were no interesting people on flights anymore, just fat middle-aged women whining about the cramped seating and bald guys in suits reading a fat bunch of papers.

Just when he was about to put on his earphones to drown out the numbing silence, he noticed a pair of sparkling eyes looking at him from between the seats in front of him. When he looked at them, they disappeared. A minute later, they reappeared, this time from above the seat. The eyes had the familiar shyness, and yet a mischievous tinge. This time he looked out of the window like he couldn't see them peering down at him, and then suddenly stared back. The eyes slid out of sight. This game of hide-and-seek continued for a while.

The face to which those eyes belonged was now smiling down at him over the edge of the seat. As he smiled back, he looked deep into those eyes. In that most innocent of moments, he had found a happiness he always searched for. A true love, untainted. Words were unnecessary. A mutual understanding. There were no agendas, no perspectives, no opinions. A jump back to a time in life where things were simple and straightforward.

Before their game of who-blinks-first could end, a rather grumpy mother called out, "Lily, get back in your seat and put on your seatbelt, we're about to land!"

Lilian had given him so much.

New York

Honk.

Honk.

Honk.

Middle finger.

Of Identity

Is he my skin?
Is he my eyes?
My several faces,
or my sole disguise?

Is he my anger?
Is he my pity?
Is he unique,
a single entity?

Is he my mirth?
Is he my fall?
From the outside,
Is he my wall?

Is he a loner?
Is he my friends?
Is he my ambitions?
My means, my ends?

Is he my beginning?
Is he my fate?
A randomly chosen
personality trait?

Of people I meet,
Is he a blend?
And when I'm gone,
is he my end?

And every morning,
I stare at the mirror.
Is he really me?
Am I truly him?

Los Angeles Metro

Aging Chinese woman, pink shirt, fading jeans, tattered shoes, trolley, huge black plastic bags, unruly kid.

Young black girl, red and white scarf around neck, green t-shirt, jeans, white shoes.

Middle-aged Hispanic man, dirty white vest, brown shorts, large sunglasses, gold necklace.

Hot Chinese girl, yellow glares, white t-shirt, tight jeans, I-Pod Touch.

Hispanic father, son hugging leg.

Two young American girls, mosquito glares, Hollywood dreams?

Large Hispanic family, chatting loudly, half a dozen kids running around.

Raucous laughter at possible Spanish joke.

Doors open.

Next stop, Universal City Station.

Turn

Whence he came, there he returns,
Yet at night, the weary traveller yearns,
"Kuthe aahes, Aai?"