chaiNboli

"There is only one really serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide"  ~Albert Camus Taipei Suicide Story — a whisper caught between neon lights and silent streets,  where two broken souls tread softly on the edges of their own darkness. She speaks in quiet fragments, words heavy with the weight of worlds unseen, he listens — hoping, always hoping — that the fragile thread of her hope will hold, even as it trembles, even as it frays. We think she will come back, that laughter will return to fill empty rooms, but the silence stretches — an ocean too vast to cross. The city breathes around them — cold, indifferent, a labyrinth of lonely faces and unheard cries. Between their silences, between their words, lies the fragile, flickering light of hope — so delicate, it feels like glass in the palm of a trembling hand. This is not a story of despair alone — it is a story of holding on, of the quiet battles fought behind smiles, of love that tries to reach through shadows, an...

  "Christmas Carol" (2022, Korean) is a film which is like an unfinished wound. And Park Jinyoung? He’s the blizzard that breaks you silently. He plays twin brothers—Wol-woo, who dies, and Il-woo, who chooses to die differently. With fists.  With rage. And with a grief that grows like mold inside closed rooms. The story is brutal. The violence, unflinching. But what stayed with me wasn't the punches. It was a line.  Quiet. Tired. Shivering. ; " Fool, I really hate it when he says the same thing over and over again.  I want to hear it now" That’s where I broke. Not during the beatings. Not during the revenge. But here, in this gentle confession from a boy who thought he hated the noise— only to realise it was love, disguised as repetition. This is not a film about vengeance. It is a letter to everyone who lost someone, and only realised what they had when it became the echo of a habit... It is about love that was never soft, but always present. Love that annoyed...

Some films don’t scream.They breathe. Softly. Like someone lying next to you who doesn’t dare touch you. “Decision to Leave” wasn’t a thriller to me. It was a letter never sent.A wave that crashed but never reached the shore. I watched Seo-rae fold her silences like laundry. Every movement quiet, every word a disguise. And yet—every glance, a plea: “See me. Even if you don’t believe me.” And Hae-jun— he didn’t fall from a mountain.He dissolved, little by little, like a man walking into the sea,telling himself it’s just water. The film didn’t ask me to watch. It asked me to listen. To sighs. To footsteps. To hunger that never became desire.What kind of love is this? One that doesn’t kiss, but watches.Doesn’t hold, but follows from a distance. Doesn’t beg, but leaves quietly, hoping to be remembered...The kind that hides in plain sight. The kind that tells you,“You’re better off without me,” but still checks if you’ve eaten... A Scene I’ll Never Forget: (And perhaps, never forgive) Seo-r...

 "Mila hoon ab joh tum se Hai dil ko mere kasam se  Sukoon mila, sukoon mila.." Peace didn’t come crashing in. it came gently, In the way Mingyu laughs with his whole face, in the way Seungkwan’s voice quivers with truth, in the way Scoups carries the weight of love like a leader who never stops being a brother. it came in Woozi’s melodies, Hoshi’s fire, Jeonghan’s softness that hides steel. The stillness inside me moved. The walls began to breathe. There’s something sacred about the way you love us, the way you never perform love — you live it. You remind me that even in a world that rushes, slowness can be power. softness can be strength. and loyalty — that old, quiet kind — still matters. This is not a thank-you note. It’s a heart placed gently at your feet. "Jab se judaa tujh se jiya, chain-o-qaraar dil ko mila… jab bhi rahoon sang tere, bhoolun har gham, shikwa, gila…" When your songs play, the world pauses its cruelty. The griefs unburden themselves. Yhe compl...

 Sudeep Palanad doesn’t ask you to listen — he invites you to be there. To feel the breath between notes, The spaces where the unspoken lives. .. Charulatha is not a song that bursts into the room. It’s the quiet unfolding of a story you almost forgot you were living.This song is a dance of shadow and light : where beauty is not bright, but fragile. Where strength lies not in the shout, but in the silence that follows.. "Athirezha mukile nin sajalamam maru karayil Adruvan vithumbhi ninno Patichitam oru mounam?..." - it’s like a whisper pressed gently against the soul. The wetness of your eyes, like rain lingering on the horizon, just before the dawn. It’s fragile, tender, and deeply intimate — a moment caught between tears and hope.  As the silent breath before a long-awaited confession, the unspoken weight of all the emotions that words can’t hold. The song lingers, like a cold breath caught on your skin. It doesn’t rush to say goodbye. It doesn’t ask for return. It simply i...

 There are songs that sing to the world, and there are songs that simply wait with you — quietly, like a shadow that smells faintly of rain. Konji Konji Vilikkunna is the latter. Vismayathumbathu was always an odd, quiet film. A romance soaked in spirit and sorrow. But this song — this song — is where it all slows down. No ghosts here, just the sound of a girl waiting. Or a memory calling someone back from forgetting. The artist doesn't compose; he whispers. The song feels like it came from behind a closed curtain, from a room that holds someone’s perfume and unsaid things. Each note floats like a sigh. The strings don’t swell — they shiver.  And sometimes, when I play this song, the curtains move — just slightly — though no wind comes in. Maybe he remembers. Maybe the song remembers for him.... "Nee illenkil, nin ormakal illenkil, swapnangalillate aakum.." If you're not there, if even your memories fade, my dreams will fall silent too. There are certain lines that do...

 I am longing for death.  Forever longing for it.When people around me crave to live, do everything to have a life, I could never understand it. I could never understand the meaning of their desire. I always wanted to die… slowly, painlessly, and alone. Over time, my death instinct  became an inexorable habitual thought. The yearning to merge into an infinite darkness is there, always. The swelling torment I can't put into words. There was nothing, until him, that could dilute my urge to die. I used to think I can hold on a little, until he disappeared. I was obsessed to wither completely.  Look at me now. I think I have died, when he left. What a metaphor, the old cliché, you may think. I can declare this without embarrassment, but I can't express it. It is really so heavy to be afforded by my vocabulary, thoughts, and consciousness... Many moons ago, I listened passively to Nee Mattume by T.M. Krishna. And yesterday night, like a little miracle, it came back to me...

 You are the tree and the woodcutter. You raise the axe with trembling grace, mark your own bark with devotion— a lover’s wound, a betrayal rehearsed. You put holes on yourself in search of a home for yourself. Each hollow echoes louder than the last, as if emptiness could echo back a name. Like a bullet, small and deadly, with its metallic tongue— you speak in fragments. Not words, but fractures of longing sharp enough to lodge in bone. Thus, you became a god living in margins. You watched hands strangling you and blamed your breath for its resilience. Your half lungs wore the mark of a traitor then. You saw boots crushing you and blamed your blood for making them dirty. You then tried to  scrub and clean them. Like the divorced feather of a pigeon, you flew down: an aesthetic suicide. No fanfare. No grand entrance.  Just soft descent. You melt like an unused birthday candle recycled into a crayon— pressed against paper, you drew sunsets you’ll never see. You move like t...

Grief is the heartless heir of night looking into my eyes,  while like a pomegranate am losing red pearls of life. But it is my ancestry. The pain. The grainy prism of my dreams have enough documents to prove it. Look, I have the same eyes too. Look, My hands are tied, My throat is waitcapitor capital punishment. My heart is a dead amorphous candidate. The war is still going on. There are no more  errors to make. There are no trimesters of hope. There is nothing. Here, I am burning  And they take it for warmth.

 In loving memory of M who lost her life because of unknown or unrevealed reasons. She died in silence with her nails painted in black, her favourite colour. Doctors are yet to confirm if it was choking on metaphors that caused the death or hanging on decisions. M lived among flowers, books, stories and music. M was an ardent Ali sethi fan that she had Ranjish hi sahi pasted on her fourth heart valve. She lived to listen to people since she couldn't articulate her words effortlessly. But infront of people who gifted her a courage and easiness, she felt confident. She felt blessed for all their kindness and she will never forget it, as per her letters found in one of her pockets.With them she holded the hands of grief gently and laughed without care. Her hands have clutched things that wounded her, her mouth were filled with words that strangled her. So she rarely let herself breathe unapologetically. Yet she tried. She was a wind chime that served as a window for others and she wa...

 You shouldn't keep your memories  in your front pocket,   because it may become  so comfortable  sitting so close  to your heartbeat,  which can cause attachment issues  that are not worth romanticising. Don't keep them in  the back pocket of your navy jeans,  for there is a chance of  them getting crushed,  when you sink  into the batroom tiles,  tackling it's spinal cord,  which can cause wounds  that no microscope can find. Your memory loves  to welcome your lovers  with a tragedy,  like the cleft of a skin  waiting to be tortured. It contracts your diaphragm,  that you turn into  a cold blooded amphibian   crawling through enchanted forests. It burns you into an elastic band,  with initials covering it  and sometimes you try  to wipe them off, but fail. It is chronic disease  which is equated with autumn  where skies are caked  w...

 My melancholy is a god resting in a rusted shrine, afraid of recognition— it feels the gravity of its own weight. It yearns for a siren to sing it out of wreckage, yet gleams in the glow of pseudo-courage. Its watermelon womb kills hope without mercy, standing alone in the middle of the road— trying to turn it into a finishing line. It curls among little mango suns, whispering, Call me. Hold me. Soften me. But comfort is a misted hallucination. It slips through rabbit holes with a parentage no one remembers. It is a song tired of weeping over dead reflexes— so weary, even love feels like winter, where the snowball chooses to melt and die. It is the tea stain ruining a perfect white tablecloth— a patient with shivering hands. It conceives a sorry existence, because it must endure, no matter what. It is heaven’s seed: a pomegranate— bleeding, sweet, lost.

In my dreams I am a room without doors. You enter through the window— a thief who steals nothing but my name. You hold it gently, a bird in midair: throat closed, hollow, small. You draw out my pain, spit it on the walls— and everything turns red. Like a satellite erupting, birthing a galaxy for good. Like a paperfly drifting through a summer nap. Your fingers: a bruise blooming in the darkness of my chest. Your eyes: lanterns in the rain, leading cobwebbed prayers to God. But— will God ever forgive me? I don’t tell you that drowning has no smoke, that burning gives no warning. We should be corals: alive, yet already gone.