(Photo taken in Patan)

The world is a ball of wool 

Drenched with the same dye

Dripping into a bottomless abyss

Of darkness- made of you and I

Everything is connected

Everything is stored

Our thoughts are getting sold 

But we're deprived of time

And attention and connection

Their meanings were taken away

to be forgotten and replaced 

with emptiness and mould 

The most personal space now exists inside a flat panel

in a thread of a question that spooks you on the internet 

People are so easily accessible but unavailable 

Are these the realities that you need to face?

To tear down the paintings your younger selves made? 

The day I realised even alphabets are man-made 

I started wondering what is originally mine?

And accepted the colour of the wool is grey

Lots of concepts around to play.