The Magician & The Musician


“There are times when the truth can only show you an illusion.” 
(Lionel Suggs)

Music is the purest form of magic. Magic is the deepest essence of music. The romance between the two is legendary. While music is our refuge, magic becomes our resurrection. There is no flow sleeker than music and no law stronger than magic. Both have survived the rise and decline of countless civilizations… both are unbound by time and space, or atoms and cells… both defining life and existence, uniquely and fervently.


The truest lie is magic, the loudest silence is music.
A magician and a musician, both estranged by destiny and separated by distance, feel connected to each other through the invocation of their respective spells – magic and music. A series of Haikus and two cinematically emotive instrumentals attempting to create such an atmosphere of invocation:

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Whispers at Moonrise


“Heaven, envious of our joys, is waxen pale;
And when we whisper, then the stars fall down
To be partakers of our honey talk.”
(Christopher Marlowe, Dido, Queen of Carthage)

Some words are never spoken, but felt. Some feelings are never sensed, until stirred.

One cannot measure the mutual affection of two human beings by the number of words they exchange, but by the number of whispers they share. If whispers were the lyrics, silence was the music… making time spent together a melody that could be replayed over and over without getting stale.

The heart is not an organ, but a whisper in your soul. Two lovers, from two different realms of time, exchange glimpses of each other, through silent songs at every moonrise. A series of Haikus and two soulful tunes fictionalising a surreal romance:

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In Search of a Requiem


“What we seek is some kind of compensation for what we put up with.”
(Haruki Murakami)

Tune into this calm instrumental and hope you enjoy the narrative that follows:

“So, Mr… tell me what’s wrong?”

“What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong. I…”

“Then why are you here?”

“Well… because I have nowhere else to go.”

“Umm, that comes under my definition of something being wrong.”

“I guess you’re right then.”

“So we are at the beginning again. You are here at… 6 o’clock in the morning, at a mental hospital, correct?”

“Wow! It’s six already? Jeez!”

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Lost in Rhythm


“Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment.
There is no why.”
(Kurt Vonnegut)

Time and Life, whether you want it or not, have a way of going in circles. Ideally, you’d want it to be a linear path—you’d always know where you were going, you’d always be able to move on and leave everything else behind. Instead, you always find yourself where you had begun. You forget things you try to remember. You remember things you’d rather forget. The most frightening thing about memory is that it leaves no choice. It has mastered an incomprehensible art of forgetting. It erases, it smudges, and it fills in the blank spaces with details that don’t exist.

But however you remember it—or choose to remember it—the past is the foundation that holds your life in place. Without its support, you’d have nothing for guidance. What defines you isn’t “where you’re going”, but “where you’ve been”. There are things that will never change, things you will carry along always.

Time is an equal opportunity employer. Rich people can’t buy more hours. Scientists can’t invent new minutes. And you can’t save time to spend it on another day. What you perceive as precious is not ‘time’, but the one point that is ‘out of time’: the Now. The more you are focused on time—past and future—the more you miss the Now, the most precious thing there is.

Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decrease, regrets mount. Time is such a waste of time to think about, because the longer you reflect on it, the more of it you lose. Yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream. So, flow with the rhythm and start counting how many Now’s you’ve collected and preserved yet!

Owing to some liminal displacement, my thoughts got a bit carried away. Hence, this poetic outcome:

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The Naked Somnambulist


“What hath night to do with sleep?”
(John Milton, ‘Paradise Lost’)

The world rests in the night. Trees, mountains, fields and faces are released from the prison of shape and the burden of exposure. Each thing creeps back into its own nature within the shelter of the dark. Darkness is the ancient womb. Night-time is womb-time. Our souls come out to play with nightfall. The darkness absolves everything; the struggle for identity and impression fades away.

But for some, night-time is the time for a surreal adventure, it is the moment of surrender to the darkest dreams, it is the hallway to purge the thoughts of a life known long before.

A poem portraying a sleepwalker’s journey through the portals and vaults of his past life:

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