Noctis Verses

“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.” ― Saul Bellow


“Depression is a painfully slow, crashing death. Mania is the other extreme, a wild roller coaster run off its tracks, an eight ball of coke cut with speed. It’s fun and it’s frightening as hell. Some patients – bipolar type I – experience both extremes; other – bipolar type II – suffer depression almost exclusively. But the “mixed state,” the mercurial churning of both high and low, is the most dangerous, the most deadly. Suicide too often results from the impulsive nature and physical speed of psychotic mania coupled with depression’s paranoid self-loathing.” 

― David Lovelace, Scattershot: My Bipolar Family



It’s been over a decade of days,
She’d been wailing —

Her pillow water stained;
Draining into a loop —
Of sadness and melancholy

Much like —
Someone with a broken heart,
;Lost muses
— sitting atop a stolen throne

Heartbreaks are hard (?)
Or so it seemed —
Love wasn’t lost, sadly
;The person though – was

Why’d you do this?

Dead men spoke no lie
Here it’d seem —
That won’t be the case

He’d died in his sleep —
With a friend (?) in his arm
While she—

Missing (?)

“Once more, he saw to the point, in the depths of his heart, that woman had become indispensable to him. When I did not see her for a while, I had the impression that something was missing, something very important, and I felt a slight pang in my chest. “

― Haruki Murakami

(Not Relevant)

This is for two people who’ve become close, like family (dare I say) to me in a rather short span of time – both of them became the strangers I would look for in a crowd.

“We have formed a sick little friendship over the past year”

― Dee Remy, There Once Was A Boy

While this doesn’t sum it up – what it does is provide the essence of what they are to me. For, I never expected to chance upon humans like them, even though I am a non-believer these two could make me believe in a god. I am grateful for them if anything.




“Patrice, are you alright?”
Ambre, je suis bien!

“But, but you’re bleeding”
Mon cœur prend une fuite, libérant l’excès

“And your eyes, so pale!”
Ambre, juste une phase. ils sont en déclin comme la lune d’hiver

“Patrice, did something happen?”
Pas vraiment, Evey gauche. me sous-évaluées pour la douche caviar potable

“Oh my! Are you serious? Evey left YOU!”
Ambre, oui, et ce coeur de la mine est de décharger les bagages et les souvenirs de son

“Patrice, everything will work out”
Il sera, il le fera. dès que je me perds dans la rose parsemée lit de mort

“Goodbye, Amber”
Patrice, non.


{Not Applicable}

She had friends –
(A few – close,
Much like family)
Ironic perhaps,
More than half of a sex
Not hers –
In generic terms of the opposite

 Of them also –
The one with tails,
She had one as a lover
And one who was her muse;
In her words –
“He was a beautiful muse”

Of those who’d become family,
A select few –
Could only make her happy (truly)
Other shared laughs and smile –
Not genuinely

Now that she’d been away –
A bunch of hours, really
Wondered –
If anyone missed a broken person
(A few did – she knew
But, mental illnesses were at work)

To her muse, love and all those in between,
Someone’s back on the front

To quote this person –
“Midnight is clichéd”


“We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.”

– George R. R. Martin

Off Grid

He’d realized –
He was broken,
From inside

Not the suicidal –
“I want to die”


Dang it!
“I am not worth it”

It felt liberating –
He knew it was sad

Feeling lost
Didn’t know what to do

Not just that

Wasted days, after days

Helpful (?), not –
Like, if he was to be true to himself
It was all, but a blur!

He felt like doing nothing
Not even – write, eat or anything else


Even though he shouldn’t feel this way –
It felt like no one cared

Much like a lonesome defeat
It stayed – meddling
Mood swings and constant mental breakdowns

The pillow had defined salt trails
Mentally mushed


To the world – he’d smile and say,
“Alive and kicking”

Not all that glitters is gold –
His life was glittery
Not gold


Left hanging –
In a pool of blood, a string attached
A few screams
Some sobs

That was how he ceased
In a jute garland
With slashes to complete the look

A half burnt cigarette,
Note in a tissue with snot
A wilted rose on the study
With a smile on the face

He had come to be –
With a smile
A journal left incomplete
With lost thoughts and tear stains

“Sadness reeks creativity”,
He’d say – with a smile
And the nonchalant dull eyes
No one seemed to notice

That was how he ceased –
With a jute garland and crimson wrist

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