tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-446111929082302022026-07-23T21:45:40.870+05:30A Mellow FellowKrishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.comBlogger155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-3422458030478269412026-07-09T02:43:41.888+05:302026-07-09T02:43:41.888+05:30

I kept small gods in quiet rooms  With lamps I never let die  I fed them songs and sleepless hours  And called their hunger mine  I bowed before the borrowed flame  And mistook warmth for light  I wore devotion like a chain  And called the burden right  But morning came without a choir  No thunder split the sky  Just dust upon the altar stones &

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-67354380507534968282026-06-01T03:08:43.639+05:302026-06-01T03:08:43.639+05:30

Royal Challengers Bengaluru have done it again.Back-to-back.I have supported this franchise since 2008. Not casually. Not as pleasant background entertainment. The kind of support that has physiological consequences. The kind where the eighteenth over of a close game is genuinely not good for you.For nearly two decades, RCB losing was almost cosmological in its consistency. We did not merely fail

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-62594444894066895862026-04-30T16:25:00.002+05:302026-04-30T22:43:37.394+05:30

“I think I’m left-leaning,” said Lefty. Righty didn’t respond immediately. He preferred to take a second—just enough to make his answers feel considered. He had been doing this for approximately four billion years. “Interesting,” he said at last. “Because I’m fairly certain I’m right-leaning.” “How do you know?” Righty paused again. “It’s just where I find myself,” he said. “Feels correct.”

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-45903843297327666852026-04-11T02:08:00.000+05:302026-04-11T02:08:05.280+05:30

Don’t step into my tangled mind, I am the whisper of your sin, A shadow dressed in borrowed time, I pull you softly deeper in. I blur the edges of your sight, A fleeting dream you chase in vain, I dress decay in golden light, And turn your joy to quiet pain. I’m just a thought you made too real, A story spun you can’t undo, I fade the truths you once could feel, And make a maze surrounding you.

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-45604508239384966042026-04-07T16:43:00.002+05:302026-04-07T16:48:36.154+05:30

Eleanor Marsh arrived in Jerusalem on a Tuesday in October 1969 with a press credential from The Observer, a medium-weight notebook, and the quiet confidence of a twenty-three year old who has just talked her editor into sending her somewhere he did not particularly want to send anyone. The editor had said: Jerusalem. Fine. Write something about the city. Something accessible. Perhaps a sidebar

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-64878332723284195372026-04-07T03:17:00.000+05:302026-04-07T03:17:13.766+05:30

There is a scent that has no single name. Perfumers reach for it and find themselves using two words where one should be enough. Warm and resinous, they say. Woody with sweetness underneath. Like incense left in a room after the burning has stopped. Sandalwood comes close, but sandalwood is too clean, too finished. Something floral is the other half of it, not the brightness of fresh flowers but

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-67184276545722119642026-03-31T23:41:00.004+05:302026-03-31T23:41:33.047+05:30

Seventeen hundred years have passed since a man named Jacob wrestled a stranger at the ford of the Jabbok and came out the other side with a limp and a name he could not have taken for himself. And five hundred and forty years from this night a beautiful young woman with a carnelian pendant warm against her chest will be widowed in a city called Mecca that this garden has never heard of, carrying

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-45353059605598377722026-03-29T05:18:00.008+05:302026-03-29T20:02:45.351+05:30

The year is 586 BCE.Eleven hundred years have passed since a man named Jacob crossed the river Jabbok before dawn with a new name and a limp he would carry for the rest of his life. His twelve sons became twelve tribes. The tribes became a nation. The nation built a city on a hill in the land Abraham walked into from Ur, and on the highest point of that hill they built a Temple, and inside the

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-43272489168166969002026-03-28T18:08:00.005+05:302026-03-29T20:02:36.149+05:30

Two thousand years before Aminah was born, a woman ran between two hills with nothing but her legs and a “yes” she could not prove.The city that grew from that running does not think about this very often. It is too busy.Mecca in 570 CE does not need your admiration but it will accept it. It has been accepting admiration from strangers for longer than most civilisations have existed and it wears

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-90701348722453113532026-03-27T03:39:00.010+05:302026-03-27T13:58:27.318+05:30

The man comes out of the dark without warning.No footsteps. No voice. Just hands, finding his throat and his robe simultaneously, and then the ground is gone and Jacob hits the riverbank face first and the taste of blood and mud is immediate. Jacob senses the specific taste copper and earth and the cold of the River Jabbok soaking through his clothes.His first thought is Esau sent him.Four

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-13621317856478123712026-03-25T03:55:00.002+05:302026-03-25T03:55:07.042+05:30

They have been arriving for three days.From the south, the incense tribes, their camels loaded with frankincense and myrrh from the Dhofar coast, the resin still sharp in the air around them even after weeks of travel. From the north, the copper traders, their animals bearing the particular grey-green dust of the Sinai mines on their hides and their clothing. From the east, the desert clans, the

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-68248807372515754552026-03-24T22:28:00.002+05:302026-03-24T22:28:26.121+05:30

The journey home takes four days.The caravan moves at the pace that experience has taught them. Not slow. Not the frantic pace of men with urgent business ahead of them. The pace of people who understand that the desert punishes urgency and rewards patience. They stop when the sun reaches its worst, the handlers erecting the shade structures with the efficiency of men who have done it a thousand

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-44428219771981063102026-03-23T14:25:00.001+05:302026-03-23T19:11:37.557+05:30

The cave is cool.After the heat of the journey that is the first thing he notices. The way the stone holds a different air inside it. Older air. The kind that has not moved in a long time and does not intend to.His father is already wrapped. The women have done that. There is nothing left for the sons except to be present, which is its own kind of work.Isaac stands across the cave from him.They

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-31516769930318352142026-03-21T12:35:00.002+05:302026-03-22T12:57:17.980+05:30

The desert does not announce itself.It begins slowly.The ground thins. The grass gives way to dust. The air changes first, though it is hard to say how. It becomes lighter, as if it has forgotten something. Sound carries differently. Distance stretches.Hagar notices these things before she names them.She has always noticed.It is the first thing a servant learns. Not the tasks. Not the routines.

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-51889324742137544862026-03-20T23:52:00.000+05:302026-03-22T12:57:21.311+05:30

The tent is still.Not silent. Never silent in a camp like this, where there is always something, fabric shifting, a vessel settling, the faint sounds of people moving through their evening outside. But still in the way that matters. Still enough that a thought can grow without being interrupted.Sarah sits with her hands in her lap.She is the wife of Abraham. Not a small thing, in this world or

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-9410346828031651192026-03-20T03:22:00.000+05:302026-03-22T12:57:24.768+05:30

The fire is low. Not dying. Just breathing.The two boys sit on the same side of it, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch. Ishmael is older by seven years, nearly a man now, with his mother’s Egyptian darkness and his father’s watchful eyes. Isaac is still small enough to seem improbable, as if the world made him on a dare. He arrived late, born to parents who had stopped expecting him,

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-11450378025781320032026-02-25T02:31:00.002+05:302026-02-25T02:31:31.359+05:30

Each night fear comes I dread the night My heart beats fast I wait for light Cold sweat on skin My breath feels tight I lie so still I fear the night Pulse starts to race No rest in sight I watch the dark I want the light Fear of death near Thoughts grip me tight Yet I am here Alive this night Afraid to sleep Afraid to wake Time moves so slow Till dawn can break Then soft sun comes Warm,

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-30355147862729727462025-11-25T00:11:13.802+05:302025-11-25T00:11:44.498+05:30

The stars exhale their dying plea, As time folds in —come fall in me. I’m the end of the line where the patterns blur, Where order trembles and dreams deter, From a spark in the void to a dying stir, Every song you love, I make unsure. Heat creeps slow, it don’t rewind, Every system breaks in its own design, You can run from fate, but you run in me, I’m the ghost in time —I’m  Entropy.

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-62169069746408389412025-11-09T03:46:00.002+05:302025-11-09T03:46:18.539+05:30

It’s clear, so plain,Your words drift again,The echoes fall flat,And silence hums in pain!You seek new light,New hobbies in sight,Old rhythms grow thin,As dawn steals the night.I linger, still near,Though fading, I hear,The pulse of our talk,Now lost in the clear .Routines weave the soul,Patterns take their toll,Between choice and chance, We forget who’s in control. _uacct = "UA-4103817-1";

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-17141721817608185372025-10-30T10:22:00.006+05:302025-10-30T10:26:13.372+05:30

I may not shine like the stars above, But yet so full of quiet love. As you walk with those who light the sky, I’ll love you still, from where I lie. I may not speak in silver tones, But truth still hums within my bones. You’ll find your gangs, their laughter loud, I’ll love you soft, beyond the crowd. I may not climb where dreamers fly, But I still wish to see you high. The world will cheer

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-60916866841684472822025-10-10T00:47:00.007+05:302025-10-10T00:47:54.716+05:30

Dear Steve Whenever I just think of towers I hear the wind Relearn its song Somewhere the clock just lost its powers When nights just felt Really long What are those faint lines on the shadows, A chair still waits, The tools still lie, Silence just hums beyond the meadows, Of work well done, Of reasons why. What are those clouds that paint the skies, They break, they burn, Then form again, The

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-86677664500417196082025-09-26T03:47:00.025+05:302025-09-29T14:38:49.400+05:30

Remember the daysWe used to layUnderneath the sunThose days are doneNow you see a raceAll over my faceI just keep runningWithout a clueI just keep runningWhat else can I do?Even on a breakBy the seaside bayThinking I’m freeBut my mind will not stayMessages arrive(on my phone)(And the) race gets aliveI just keep runningWithout a clueI just keep runningI’m stuck in a loopI try to find a reason,A

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-16662033087491561112025-09-02T15:16:00.001+05:302025-09-02T15:16:22.172+05:30

A candle’s brief flame, A star’s endless light— Both born of one source, Both bound in the finite. We call it free will, Yet rivers yield to the sea. The cosmos favors the probable, Not the bold, nor the free. Waves still break as empires fall, Lightning fades yet leaves its scar. Prayers take root beyond our call, Kingdoms vanish, silent, far. A maze of hidden doors, Each cause unlocks

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-56192676550193213272025-08-31T02:48:00.007+05:302025-08-31T02:49:24.569+05:30

The sky is wide and near A whisper says “don’t try” Another voice says “fly” Both are true, I hear The ground is firm and deep It pulls me close to stay It asks if I’ll obey Or if my wings will leap A seed must break to grow The soil will press it down The roots may almost drown Yet strength is born in slow The doubt becomes my guide It tests if dreams can last It questions every past And

Krishna Prashanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07143781832961641468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44611192908230202.post-74923167355769944302025-08-30T04:03:00.002+05:302025-08-30T04:03:45.734+05:30

If freedom were so free, Why does it feel like chains? When all imagining expires, Only truth remains. Stories that keep us going, But fall like a house of cards. Identities crumble to rubble, Constraints under the shards. If every moment was caused, And every cause birthed more, In a woven web of pathways, No event stands alone. It’s true there’s not much time left, And yet so much to know.

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