The Art of Insignificance


There’s a night

That lies somewhere between awakening and


Yourself to imminence of vertigo

There’s that song

That plays itself in the premises of our heads

And chambers of our hearts

But just never seem to break through the lips

And give itself the soul of sound and life of melodies

There are lingering maladies

That unravels when we are too close to ourselves

When we see ourselves

Not in the light of day

But under the shadow of a moonlit sky

There is always that balcony

That becomes an abode to a body

Whose purpose is never quintessentially defined

Whose meanings are unknown

To its own devices

And it is when

The body loses its weight

The baggage of apprehensions, insecurities and fate

And becomes a piece

In the mosaic of what I shall call

The art of insignificance


There’s that knowledge in unlearning

That character in that movie

That suits us better

So much so that our identities become identical

And our details; insignificant

There’s that runaway traveller

Whose chances of ever coming across the same companions again

Becomes the story

That seems more relatable than

The ones that transpire during our happenings

There’s that joy spreading, self insulting rookie

Whose rawness is like a freedom we never had

Freedom of acceptance

So we feel happy for the one that could escape

From all these invisible shackles

There’s that night

The most insignificant of them all

Whose art and performance

Hits us like a bullet in the head

The stillness of the things that drag us all along

The shadows of the brisk nightlights

That shyly put some yellow and some red

To what could have been a dark affair

The emptiness of the streets

That exposes the trail of our own walking

And the travesty of beauty

That the world embraces in its consciousness

But seems to escape it

When the ignored presence of night

Paints that beauty in our dreams


I’m a man

A being of stature, purpose, character and identity

A bearer of values and responsibilities

But what a being

I see myself becoming into

When I’m disillusioned by nothingness

When I’m adopted by emptiness

Only to be orphaned to my deeply hidden wants

Or laid on the lap of desires

That I never thought ever existed beyond remorse and regrets

There’s a time

When all the noises seem inaudible

And the silence becomes a sermon we thrived for

It’s often in the art of insignificance

Where we find the significance of being insignificant

For if fortune is hidden in the most unexpected of treasures

Ask yourself

Where else would they hide it?



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