I could sense the dust sting my face as it flew to me. I could feel the hotness of the sun bearing on my head, sweat trickling down my back and neck. I could taste the dirt in my mouth. Just dirt. Nothing else.

What kind of child desires the desert like it was Paris or London? What kind of child craves for the heat and the dirt? I missed the place where dirt stuck to you like flies to honey.

Possibly it wasn’t a good comparison but I had no photos of Mexico. But I felt that Egypt was the best substitute for it. I could remember the weather and it closely matched a documentary of the Desert. I didn’t care which desert as long as it was a desert.

Now whenever I think of the wastelands, I think of those times I would draw yellow on my paper and call it art. Where I would imagine I was finding another pyramid with new knowledge about how early humans used to live. I think of the times I would play Indiana Jones with my cousins and pretend we were treking across the yellow earth for treasure.

An Octopus on a treasure box

Sea anemones in all fabulous colours

School of friendly whales

Gold fish like NEMO

Sea green bed like a fluffy velvet carpet

Polka dots pebbles to sit

And tranquility and serenity

All this is my dream scenery...

If you ask me about my favourite flower I will say "lavender" as an answer.

I've never seen a lavender garden I don't even know what it smells like

But somehow it's my bias

Just because I had this dream

Where you were in a white dress,

Cowboy hat, looked like a country girl

In the field of purple flowers.

P.S. here I and You both symbolises me alone.

I've never truly seen

the lake with waters

of turquoise-green.

I probably never will

find this ocean within

a small space. just like

the lines of this poem.

the lake with flowers

of the color pink and

cherries with the pits

still inside. Now that!

that is the place where

I want to be, for now

and all of my eternity.

Whenever I close my eyes, I see the bright lands of Ireland. I feel a longing to be there, to lay in the grass and swim in the sea. I long to walk where my ancestors did and to breath the fresh air.

I wonder what it would have been like to be Irish like my ancestors. What I would have felt walking down the seabank, staring at the crystal waters shining back at me. What I would have experienced seeing great green fields instead of dull grey lots filled with smoke and blood.

I see the smoke from giant machines of profit and think about white clouds lazily flying by a clear sky. I see waters clogged with black poison and dream of a crystal clear sea.

I'm most likely overestimating Ireland and it's many beauties. After all, the grass is always greener somewhere else.

One fifth my weight,

I hop along the gray landscape

As if in slow motion:

One leap, two leaps, three -

A squash, a press, a smush

Of my boots in the dust.

They leave behind an imprint

That will soon dissipate.

Here it is all quiet,

Save for the deep huffs of my breath echoing off the glass just inches from my face.

I observe the waxing blue planet

That I call home,

And reflect on how similar I am to these boot-prints in the dust.

It is dark here.

I close my eyes.

I breathe.

In. (Hcch)

Out. (Hfff)

I open my eyes to find myself tucked in bed,

Staring at the ceiling,

Knowing that I need only close my eyes again

To return back to where I’ve never been.

Beethoven’s fifth symphony filters through the magnolia infused air as I stand with my back against a glass enclosed bookcase, each one full of all my accolades of awards, certificates and trophies. I stand there mesmerized, wanting to pinch myself in order to see if all that was around me was merely a lucid dream as I look off into the night sky breathless. I should have known better than to drink the spiked apple juice before bedtime. None of this could actually be real I thought. But after pinching myself and letting out a scowl I realized right then and there that this was all indeed completely genuine. I could see the silhouette of buildings twinkling in the distance, like a parade of diamonds blanketing the black velvet sky. I could almost touch the full moon as it hung so perfectly against the back drop of sparkles, further aluminizing this foreign world. My dreams had come true and without the help of a fairy godmother or a man. I was a star. I took a sip of my Zinfandel, let it swirl, then linger in my mouth, enjoying every ounce of sweet warmth that encapsulated my soul.

In India, there is a place named Brindraban. Scripture says that Lord Krishna played in this place. By Brindraban I understand a beautiful forest with flowerings, water bodies, and colorful bushes. Radha and Krishna hide in this place assuming one has not seen others actually both of them know others. With this assumption, I started to make art. It contains small ponds shaded by a big tree. In the far distance, there is a forest with colorful plants handing on it. In between, there are bushes with various flowers and green grasslands. Radha hides in one bush and Krishna on the other bush. In the middle of space, there is a step upwards and then a place covered by trees with white flowers. My daughter liked it and put in a beautiful frame and hanged on the wall. My mind thinks that this actually exists somewhere but does not know exactly where. Ultimately, something has to be in mind irrespective of what it comes. My Bindraban is in my mind created by myself and presented in the art. Art reflected back to mind and became eternal. I wished that same Bindrame became materialized in one of my dreams.