There is something about the stars that just makes everything okay.

When I look at the stars, splattered across the pitch-black sky like an artist just flicked her paint-filled brush across it, their very disorder reassures me. The very chaos of those tiny pin points of light makes me feel like it's okay for crazy to exist. Because as humans, we found order even in that chaos. We made ourselves believe they formed shapes and gave names and characteristics to them and even made multiple sciences out of their study. If we could fool ourselves into believing that the very stars have order, then finding order in our lives is child's play.

The science behind the birth and the death of stars and knowing that their light reaches us so very long after it leaves the star itself is fascinating. That sometimes the stars we see aren't even stars but just memories of them, with their light reaching us long after they die.

The most important thing I see when I look at a starry sky is my own insignificance. Compared to the endless magnitude of the sky and the trillions of stars it, who am I really? My life and issues seem so very unnecessary. When I look down at the tiny amount of physical space that I occupy in this planet and then compare it to the sheer infinity of the night sky and the stars in it, I realise how very worthless I am in the great scheme of things.

Those stars are a reality check.

I wish I could see the stars in Bangalore more often.

I can't seem to be able look at my hands anymore. Every time my eyes stray towards my fingers, as I type these words out, as I'm riding my scooter, as I raise my spoon to my lips, I avert them. Because I just can't look at them.

They remind me of how I broke everything. How I dashed it all to pieces against the ground. They remind me of sandcastles in the air which I crushed. Of dreams I built so carefully and then tore into fragments, each flying in a different direction.

They remind me how weak I am, can be. They remind me how I cut myself when I tried to pick the pieces up and how I gave up because it hurt too much. They remind me that the thing those pieces were part of wasn't mine to break, wasn't mine to destroy.

My hands, my fingers, they remind me of what I let go of. What I used to hold on to so tightly. They remind me how you used to fit and how I let you go. They remind me of the things I used to write, the crumpled papers and the letters. They remind me of dark movie theatres, of cold nights and how your pocket was always warmer than mine.

The chewed up cuticles remind me of a deal we made.

The veins on the back of my hand don't stick out any more because now all I have to hold on to is empty air.

I cannot look at my hands anymore. They remind me of you too much.

Waltz to the sound of the waves
Feel the sand between your toes
The smell of the sea
The music of the tides

Take in the power of the moon
As every day she calls
And the waves fall over each other
To do her bidding

Inexorable, tireless, powerful
Yet drawn every day
By her magic

And as you stand by the sea
With the water lapping at your soles
Just remember,
You are only a tiny grain of sand,
On the vast unending, unbroken expanse of time

Waiting to turn into a wave
When your moon calls

In the story Hansel and Gretel, the kids left breadcrumbs to mark the route they were taking. A path they could retrace. In the Greek story of Theseus and the Minotaur, he unravelled a ball of string as he entered the maze so that he could find his way out after killing the monster.

I function with a similar idea, only I do the opposite. I collect breadcrumbs. A spool of thread of sorts. I collect bits and pieces from places I go to, things I experience. So that later, when I need to find my way back to that moment, and my memory doesn't serve me well enough, I have a token to help me along. A bill, a stone from the pot outside the restaurant, a plastic spoon from the ice-cream parlour, a leaf from the tree I was standing under. Small things, all of them. Junk is what others would call it. But for me, they're memories. Yes I know about memories and encapsulating a perfect moment in your head and no one can take that away. But I also use these tiny things as my personal guide, scrapbook, the thread through the maze I call life.

Which is also why I love photographs. Which is why I write down thoughts. All of these things together form an account of my life.

It is foolish to attach meaning to these material things. These transient objects which could break, fade, get lost. But well, I do it. They mark the moments of my life I'd like to remember. A guide to finding that moment in my head.

So I collect, I store, I hoard, I remember.

When poems are finally finished
Complete
Joined and mended
With glue and tape and everything else that is at hand

When old dreams grow
And fit better
Grow more snug

When you smile
Because you want to.
With no pretense
No masks
No lies

When you realise
You are more
Than you thought
Or even imagined
You were

When you know
That you can go on
And even when life knocks you down
You will get up

When your castles in the air crumble
But you still have the courage
And the hope
To build them back up again

When guilt is a permanent part
Of your very being
Part of the air you breathe
The fabric of your life
And you can make your peace with it
Accept it, instead of forgetting

You know.
You. Just. Know.

I think more people should smile more. Enough people have said it enough times in enough ways. But what I mean is that more people should make it a habit to smile at a stranger. We are so full of suspicion and skepticism nowadays that we never make an effort to just smile and all it takes is a second.

I tried it today while I was riding to work. I smiled at a random person while I was stuck at an intersection waiting for the signal to change. And this person smiled back at me. It was so simple, so pure. And it left me feeling happy for the rest of that day. I know it wouldn't work all the time and that most people would probably react with puzzlement or indifference. But hey, it's a nice thing to do. And who knows you might just make someone else's day.

And I think this would work best in the mornings, when everyone is unhappy about having to go to work or angry about traffic or just generally pissed off.

Give it a shot. It doesn't hurt.

I'm a night person. I love the dark. It's scary yes, but there's also something comforting about it.

The night makes everything look different. Shadows play around under streetlights. Owls perch on broken branches, feasting, awake. The water grows still and quiet. The world goes to sleep and it's like everything is holding a collective breath. The night opens up a whole new world.

Its silence is when you cannot escape the thoughts in your head, drown them out with work and traffic, push them away for more important things. The night is when the moon comes out, a reflection of the Sun's brightness yet so much more beautiful. The stars come out and on those rare nights you can see them you realise how tiny and insignificant you are in the giant scheme of things. The night is quiet and loud at the same time, peaceful outside with tornadoes within.

The night is made for conversations. For silences awkward and comfortable. It is made for intimacy, for togetherness, for peace in another's arms. The night brings lovers together as only darkness can, wholly and completely.

The night can be beautiful and eerie. Cold yet amazing.

Another reason the night is my favourite time of the day? It begins with a sunset and ends with a sunrise.