SUKOON MILA FT. SEVENTEEN

 "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 complaints fall away.
You remind me that I’m allowed to feel —
loudly, quietly, imperfectly.
I may never meet you, (Oh I will, manifesting)
but in the quiet between your lyrics,
i have met myself.
And even though people may never understand this —
even though they laugh and say,
“It’s just another K-pop group,”
or call me “just another stupid girl”
who loves too deeply,
who dreams too wildly —
I will still be thankful.
Always.
Thank you for being my safe place.
For the days you feel lost,
may this letter find you.
May it remind you that somewhere,
a girl with ink-stained fingers 
found sukoon in your storm...

To S.Coups’ quiet strength, 
Jeonghan’s mischief, 
Woozi’s brilliance,
Mingyu’s warmth, 
DK’s sunshine, 
Wonwoo’s depth, 
Seungkwan’s emotion, 
Vernon’s cool honesty, 
The8’s grace, 
Jun’s mystery, 
Joshua’s gentleness, 
Hoshi’s spark, 
and Dino’s fire —
Thank you for being my sukoon...

Forever a carat...

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

 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...
Read more

THE BOOK OF SETHI

PROLOGUE: THE FIRST TIME GRIEF SANG I don’t remember the first time I heard Ali Sethi. I remember what I lost when I did. Something inside me— the part that kept sorrow folded beneath my tongue— opened its eyes. It wasn’t music. It was recognition. A voice that didn’t arrive like thunder, but like memory—slow, precise, mercifully cruel. It sang in the key of ache I inherited but never named. This is not about songs. It’s about the ruins they left glowing. It begins, always, with silence. And then: Ali. 1 TO THE VOICE THAT ARRIVED BEFORE STORM Some nights, I don’t know if it’s rain, or your voice pressing its forehead against my window. Ali, you don’t sing— you stitch. Each word, a needle pulling centuries through my skin. I keep your ragas in my wrists— they flutter when grief walks in, asking for tea and permission to stay. Who gave you the right to know what longing sounds like before I could name it? Who taught your throat to echo the ache I buried beneath my mother tongue? Sometime...
Read more
If love is peeling oranges, then  God is the transcultural smell  residing inside crescent of fingernails. Consuming prayers,  a bead of fragility in hands,  he tells you that : In love we are blind,  In love we are far sighted. His delicate crockeries inside  a filthy broken sink is  his metaphor for us. The way he scrub them is his synonym for violent love  and antonym for soft grief. Once in a while, the shards of his anger  turns me into a silent film  suffocating under city lights. Then you change into a morning  with mourning , Into a ship torn under monsoons, Into a broken concave mirror, Into a prime number in solitude, Into a black hole singing opera. Still we exchange kisses with words  inside  the holes on our throat.  God chain smoking in his evening gown interrupt us with a question,  What is your religion? This is when a love letter switch into  a propaganda poem  written by plum faced ang...
Read more