r/NepalWrites

तिम्रा केशदेखि सुरु गरूँ,

जहाँ साँझले आफ्नो अँध्यारो छोडेर

बिहानी बन्न खोजेजस्तो लाग्छ,

लहरिँदा ती केशभित्र

मेरो नजर अल्झिन्छ,

र अल्झिएपछि फर्किन मन मान्दैन।

त्यसपछि तिम्रा निधारका रेखा,

जहाँ सरलताले आफ्नो घर बनाएको छ,

र तिम्रा भौँहरू,

दुई किनाराझैँ,

जसको बीचमा हेर्दा

मनले आफ्नै बाटो बिर्सिन्छ।

तिम्रा नयन...

सायद यहीँ आएर

सुन्दरताको अर्थ बदलिन्छ।

ती आँखामा हेर्दा

शब्दहरू हराउँछन्,

र मौनताले नै

धेरै कुरा भन्न थाल्छ।

तिम्रो नाकको त्यो फुली,

सानो भएर पनि

तिम्रो अनुहारको सम्पूर्ण सौन्दर्यमा

आफ्नै एउटा कथा थप्छ,

जस्तो पूर्णिमाको रातमा

एउटा तारा अचानक अझ चम्किएझैँ।

तिम्रा ओठ,

जहाँ मुस्कान आउँदा

दिनको थकान बिर्सिन्छु,

र तिमी नबोले पनि

त्यही मुस्कानले

मसँग हजारौँ कुरा गरिसकेको हुन्छ।

तिम्रा गाला,

लाजले हल्का रातो हुँदा

फूलहरू पनि

आफ्नो रङसँग लजाउँछन् कि जस्तो लाग्छ,

र तिमी मुस्कुराउँदा

समय एकछिन रोकिएर

तिमीलाई मात्र हेर्छ कि जस्तो।

तिम्रो अनुहार...

कुनै चित्रकारले बनाएको चित्र होइन,

किनकि चित्रमा सौन्दर्य देखिन्छ,

तर तिमीमा

सौन्दर्य महसुस हुन्छ।

र अन्त्यमा,

तिम्रो सम्पूर्ण अस्तित्वलाई हेर्दा

मसँग तुलना गर्न केही बाँकी रहँदैन।

फूलसँग तुलना गरूँ भने फूल छोटो पर्छ,

चन्द्रमासँग गरूँ भने

त्यसको उज्यालो अधुरो लाग्छ।

त्यसैले अब

तिमीलाई कुनै उपमामा बाँध्दिनँ,

किनकि तिमीलाई सुन्दर भन्नु पनि

तिम्रो सुन्दरताको एउटा सानो अंश मात्र हुनेछ।

म केवल यति भन्छु,

तिमीलाई हेर्दा

मेरो आँखाले सुन्दरता देख्दैन,

मेरो मनले

सुन्दरताको अर्थ सम्झिन्छ।

I haven’t been writing poems recently, tara I wanna know different styles of writing. Lemme know what kinda poems you guys write usually. And how you write it.

यो मौन तोडी म हृदय खोलूँ कि,
यो शब्द छोड़ी म नयन पोखूँ कि,
यो अहम् अहम्लाई, मलाई तिमी, बिन्ती बिसाउँ कि,
यो कथामा एकपटक फेरि म तिमीलाई बोलाउँ कि,

म मन्दिरमा मेरा प्रार्थना तिमीलाई सुनाउँ कि,
म मेरा कवितामा तिमीलाई तिमी भेटाउँ कि,
तिमीसंग तिमीलाई नै पो म मागूँ कि,
यो कथामा एकपटक फेरि म तिमीलाई बोलाउँ कि,

यो हाल मेरो म नजर गराऊँ कि,
त्यो हाल ठीकै, कि आफैंलाई बुझाऊँ कि,
यो रंगमञ्चमा अरूमा म तिमीलाई खोजूँ कि,
या यो कथामा एकपटक फेरि म तिमीलाई बोलाउँ कि,

म नदी तिमीलाई कतै बिर्सिए जस्तो गरूँ कि,
म बादल फेरि तिमी तिरै पो बर्सूँ कि,
म सागर, सायद कल्पनामै तिमीमा कतै डुबॅू कि,
या यो कथामा एकपटक फेरि म तिमीलाई बोलाउँ कि।

‘प्रेम थिएन?’ हो थिएन,
म रातलाई तिमी जुन, मेरो पहिलो बिहान,
सपनाको नाउ एक घर, तिम्रो काख सिरान,
र यदि तिमी म,
मेरा नजरमा प्रिय, फेरि नि त्यो तिम्रै नयन।
प्रेम थिएन? हो xथिएन।

I want to say something I’ve been carrying for a while, and I’ve never found the right words for it.

From the outside, my life looks settled. I have work that pays well. My parents are healthy. I married the person I love. I know those are not small things — they’re the foundation everything else stands on, and I’m not blind to them.

But inside, I’ve been tired for a long time.
Not tired from work. Tired from standing in the middle.
I love my parents. I know what they’ve given, including things nobody saw. And I love my wife, and I understand she’s living in a family whose customs aren’t hers, being asked to be someone she never agreed to be. Both of those are true at the same time. I’m the only one who sees both sides — and that means I’m alone in it.

So every visit home, something tightens in me before we even leave. The place I come from, the house that should be the easiest place in the world for me, has become something I brace for. That’s the part that actually hurts. Not who’s right. Just that going home stopped being simple.

I’ve spent a lot of energy trying to explain each of them to the other. It never works. I don’t think it can. And somewhere in all that explaining, I stopped knowing what I want for myself. I threw myself into work — partly because I like doing something well, but partly because when I’m working I don’t have to feel any of this.

I’m not asking anyone to take my side. There isn’t a side. I just don’t want to keep carrying this quietly.
What I want is small. I want peace at home. I want to visit my parents without dread. I want my wife to feel at ease there. I want to stop being the bridge that everyone walks across.
That’s all.

I have been thinking a lot about the way philosophy moves from what is to what ought to be.

We observe suffering and then say suffering should end. We observe meaninglessness and say we should create meaning. We observe injustice and say we should revolt. We observe attachment and say we should detach. The transition happens so quickly that sometimes the judgment disappears inside the observation.

I am not saying people should stop acting on what they experience. That would be absurd. Humans act because that is what humans do. A parent protects a child. A person in pain seeks relief. Someone who feels oppressed may revolt. Someone who is lonely may seek companionship. These reactions are part of reality too.

What I question is the extra step where our reaction becomes a statement about reality itself. Take suffering. I understand perfectly well why an organism wants less of it. Pain hurts. Fear is unpleasant. Grief can be unbearable. But why does that automatically mean that freedom from suffering is philosophically superior to suffering? That seems to me like taking an organism's preference and turning it into a property of the universe.

The same thing happens with morality. Humans create values because we are capable of valuation. We care about children, fairness, loyalty, freedom, stability, love, dignity, revenge, compassion, hierarchy and countless other things. Those values can become shared, institutionalized and enforced. Eventually we call some of them morality.

That does not make morality fake. Morality is very real. It can determine whether someone is protected, punished, killed, forgiven or imprisoned. But something can be real without being intrinsic to the universe. If humanity disappeared tomorrow, planets would continue moving. Stars would continue forming and dying. Physical relationships would continue whether anyone described them or not. But human ideas of justice, beauty, dignity and goodness would disappear with the humans who were assigning them.

That makes value relational to me. Something is not simply valuable. It is valuable to someone, for something, under some condition. A belief can be valuable to a ruling class because it preserves power, harmful to an oppressed group because it preserves domination, valuable to a society because it creates stability and harmful to an individual because it restricts them. Asking whether the belief is simply "good" or "bad" hides all of these relationships.

This does not mean facts are relative. If one person says the Earth is flat and another says it is approximately spherical, we can compare those claims with something outside their individual judgment. One corresponds better to what can be observed. But factual accuracy and value are not the same thing. A false belief might hold a community together. A true belief might destabilize it. That does not make the false belief true. It only means truth itself does not automatically carry some cosmic value. Someone has to value truth for truth to matter to them.

Even philosophy itself is not exempt from this. Whatever philosophy I hold comes from a brain shaped by biology, culture, language, experience and historical circumstance. I do not think that automatically makes the philosophy false. It only means its origin gives it no special authority. Some claims can be compared against observation. Others cannot.

This is probably why I am suspicious of philosophies that end with salvation. Buddhism, for example, has many observations about attachment, craving and suffering that I find deeply interesting. But I get stuck when the argument moves toward liberation from suffering as the privileged destination. Why? If an organism dislikes suffering, of course it may try to reduce it. But that explains the organism. It does not explain why non-suffering is philosophically higher.

My own idea of liberation is almost the opposite. I think of liberation as accepting what is before demanding that it become something else. Pain can be pain. Joy can be joy. Attachment can be attachment. Fear can be fear. But even here I am not saying everyone should accept everything. That would immediately turn acceptance into another hierarchy. Someone may resist. Someone may revolt. Someone may remain attached. Someone may live through a comforting illusion. Someone may seek truth even when truth hurts them. These are different ways an organism can respond to its conditions.

Acceptance does not mean passivity either. If I accept that my hand is burning, I will probably pull it away. The act of pulling it away is part of what is. If people accept that they are oppressed and then revolt, the revolt is also part of what is. The movement toward what "ought to be" never actually leaves what is. It is simply something humans do inside reality.

I also do not believe in free will in the strong sense. I do not see a separate chooser standing outside the brain deciding what the brain will do. Options appear because of everything that has happened to that brain: biology, memory, habits, trauma, education, culture, present conditions. Training can create a longer space between impulse and action. It can allow the brain to generate more alternatives and inhibit some responses. We can call that "more freedom" if we want. But the process is still conditioned. Randomness would not solve the problem either. A random decision would not suddenly become more mine simply because it was unpredictable.

This also changes how I think about identity. We give a body a name and treat it as one person across decades, but that person is constantly changing. Biology changes. Memories change. values change. Ideas are absorbed, transformed and discarded. A person at sixty can be psychologically very different from the person at twenty. Society may still treat them as the same legal person because society needs continuity. That is functional. It does not prove there is some permanent metaphysical self underneath all the changes.

Meaning works similarly. I used to think "nothing has meaning" sounded depressing. Now I wonder whether the heavier burden is believing that everything must have meaning. There is a difference between saying, "nothing has meaning," and saying, "nothing has to have meaning." The first sounds like something has been taken away. The second can feel like something has been put down. That does not mean meaninglessness is objectively liberating either. Someone may experience it as despair. Someone else may experience it as relief. Another may not care. Again, the relationship matters.

Maybe this sounds like "whatever happens, happens." In one sense, yes. But I do not think that means inquiry is useless. To know that something may not matter in some ultimate sense, you still have to understand what it is. Otherwise you are not arriving at indifference through understanding; you are simply ignoring it. Sometimes philosophy adds information. Sometimes it removes unnecessary weight.

You can study morality and conclude that morality still functions without cosmic authority. You can study meaning and conclude that existence may not require meaning. You can study liberation and wonder whether existence ever needed saving in the first place. So I do not think "nothing matters." Things matter everywhere. Children matter to parents. Political systems matter to citizens. Food matters to a hungry person. A relationship matters to the people inside it. An asteroid matters to a species it destroys. What I doubt is that anything simply matters in itself, without some relation in which that mattering exists.

Maybe there is some objective hierarchy beyond human comprehension. I have no way of knowing that. If there is, I cannot pretend I have access to it. What I can see is that humans value, judge, love, hate, build moral systems, destroy them, seek meaning, reject meaning, suffer, create philosophies and then argue about which philosophy everyone else ought to follow.

And all of that is still part of what is.

i am sleeping 8hrs daily without any trouble. I was insomniac since grade 8 and since last 1month i have been sleeping peacefully totallyyy peacefully there was a time when even benzos werent enough

Dear Daisy,

Thank you for meeting me. Thank you for that evening, that movie, and for being the brightest part of a room full of strangers.

I still remember the first moment. You standing on the ladder, your long silky hair falling over your black dress, with that little red spider you had knitted resting against you. I could see the patience in every stitch, the quiet care you had put into making something just to belong to that night. Then there were the two shades of lipstick, bright enough to make the room feel a little different. Some people walk into a room. Others change it just by being there. You did.

And your voice Daisy, thank you for letting me hear it. I think I had been waiting for it without even knowing I was. Every time I looked over at you in the dark theater, James Blunt kept playing in my head: “My life is brilliant, my love is pure. I saw an angel, of that I’m sure.” You were completely lost in the movie, sitting with your legs up on the seat, never trying to impress anyone. That made the whole theater feel smaller, warmer, almost like the rest of the world had stepped outside for a while. When you laughed and brought your hands near your face, I caught myself wishing the moment would stay exactly as it was. I know August 5 was probably just another day to you. But somehow, it became one of the days I’ll always carry with me.

I never thought much about daisies before. I walked past them my whole life without really seeing them. Now I think I’ll notice them everywhere by the roadside, in gardens, or growing where no one expects them. Every time I do, I’ll think of your smile. It’s strange how meeting one person can make an ordinary flower feel like it has been waiting to mean something.

I think I already know how this story ends. This letter will probably stay hidden, like the one Peter Parker wrote for MJ after she forgot him the one he never gave her. Maybe that’s where some letters belong. So this one will stay between the pages of my notebook, beside the playlist I made for you, as quiet proof that, for one evening, the world felt a little kinder.

And if our paths ever cross again even for a moment, even by accident I hope I get to hear your voice once more. I hope I get to see what color you decide to knit next.

Wherever life takes you, I hope you keep laughing like that. I hope it gives you a thousand movies worth getting lost in. And if I ever learn to knit, I’ll make something red. Not because anyone else will understand why, but because, on an ordinary evening in August, someone sat across from me, patient and bright, and made the whole world feel a little more carefully made.

Thank you for August 5. I’ll carry it with me for a long, long time.

Yours,

My pant fit loose today
I have to poke a new hole
In the belt
It feels so hard to do
Because it’s not a hole
I am poking
Months of early mornings
Sweat drying on my skin
Breath rising and falling
But i survived
My hand shivers as I poke
Very tough
Even though it’s synthetic leather
The surface cracks open slowly
And I see my reflection
In a small metal tip
I saw a long stretch mark
A pale line crossing my skin
Holding the memory
Of everything I endured
It looks ugly
But it’s the proof
Of the fight I fought
Not with anyone
With myself
I just can’t remove it
It will stay with me forever
As a token of appreciation
Given by myself

म

म—

पदकको तौल जोखेर

कविको मसीमा

पोतिने भावना,

प्रकाशकको चेकले मात्तिएका

शब्दहरूले

भरिने किताब,

'मसला'को स्वाद नपुगेर

पत्रकारले

रद्दीमा फ्याँक्ने यथार्थ,

म—

अभिनेताको शुल्क

तिर्न नसक्दा

मञ्चबाट

खेदिने चरित्र,

घरमा थपिने तल्लाहरूको

भार बोक्न

छानिने

व्यथाको गीत,

निर्माताको बोसो बढाउन

चलचित्र बनाइने

गरिबको कहानी,

म—

शब्दकोशका मोटा पानाहरूमा

स्थान ओगट्न

अक्षम शब्द,

हो म,

निरर्थकताको अन्धकारमा

आफूले आफूलाई

चिथोरिरहने अस्तित्व!

म—

सत्ताको सिँढीमा

खुड्किलो बन्न

उचालिने

अन्धो विरोध,

अलकत्राले पुरिने

आन्दोलनको

कलिलो र तातो रगत,

चरुवाको लाठीको

इशारामा

खोरभित्र

पस्ने-निस्कने भेडा,

म—

टर्चको प्रकाशलाई

मुन्टो

कहिल्यै नउघारी

पछ्याउने बिरालो,

सिमानाका खम्बाहरूमा

मुत्दै हिँड्ने

गल्लीको भुस्याहा कुकुर,

रक्सीको गिलासमा

भोटको मसी पखाल्ने

भेलबिहीन खहरे,

म—

रगत पिउने देवताहरूको

तृप्ति मेट्न

शिर काटिने भाकल,

हो म,

सेनापतिहरूले बुनेको चक्रव्यूहमा

बलि चढ्ने

बफादार अभिमन्यु!

म—

गुरुको कोर्राका

नीला डाम

तिघ्रामा बोकी हिँड्ने विद्यार्थी,

पिताको बहीखातामा

हिसाब राखिने

लेन-देनको रसिद,

आमाको न्यानो पछ्यौरीबाट

बेदखल गरिने

अवैध भ्रूण,

म—

सिलौटा र लोहोरोको

किचाईमा

गिदीको सौदा गरिने बुहारी,

वर्षाले ओस्याएपछि

आगो नटिप्ने

चिताको दाउरा,

प्वाँख नउम्रँदै

उडान भर्न धकेलिने

साङ्लोले बाँधिएको बचेरा,

म—

हिलोमा जरा नबस्दै

फूल नफुलेर

उखालिने बिरुवा,

हो म,

चमक खिएर

मोल गुमाएपछि

कबाडीमा बेचिने गहना।

म—

शकुनीको छलमा

दाउ बनेर

नाङ्गिन

सुम्पिएकी द्रौपदी,

परम्पराको हत्कडीलाई

चुपचाप

स्वीकार गरेकी गान्धारी,

भक्षकको शिकार बनेर

जंगलमा फालिएको

रगताम्मे लाश,

म—

रंग उतारिएर

आश्चर्य गुमाएको

ध्यान नखिच्ने इन्द्रेणी,

प्रकट घाममा

छाया बिहीन भएर

कुचलिएको आकार,

कोमलताको आभासको

तृष्णाले

व्याकुल बनेको स्पर्श,

म—

कुमालेको कल्पनामा

समर्पित भएर

भविष्य खोसिएको माटो,

हो म,

मन्दिएको मस्तिष्कमा

'म को' भन्ने प्रश्नको

उत्तरहीन बेचैनी!

आऊ,
हामी प्रेम गरौँ--
शब्दभन्दा गहिरो,
मौनताभन्दा विशाल!
जहाँ,
स्वयम्‌लाई बिर्सेर
हामी केवल “हुनु”मा बाँचौँ,
न कुनै नाम, न कुनै रूप--
केवल शुद्ध उपस्थिति!
न कुनै सीमा, न कुनै काल,
न त आरम्भ, न अन्त्य--
केवल तिमी र म,
समयहीनताको अनन्त यात्रामा…!!