About me, my writing and my poetry

In the Vaiṣṇava tradition, poets like Vyasa or Valmiki are revered not only for the truths they revealed, but for the poetic depth through which they expressed them. I hold this model in high esteem: the ability to say something profound in a way that is both rich in meaning and open to interpretation, without becoming mystifying or sectarian.

Personally, I struggle with poetry that demands too much deciphering —even when it comes from literary giants like Neruda or Rimbaud. When reading feels like decoding, the pleasure of meaning often disappears. That is why I seldom read such poetry. I prefer when the poetic expression is delicious and accessible, yet still layered and resonant.

I know my own writing sometimes leans toward complexity, not to impress or obscure, but because I try to express nuances and truths that are hard to pin down in plain terms. Still, I do not want to exclude anyone. I do not write for the masses, but neither do I write for the elite. I write for those who are willing to listen, and I want their effort to be met with meaning, not confusion.

In fact, I will say it again: the beneficiaries of my writing are the walls of my room. 

Having written and published this note on my blog, I’m reminded that I once read The Glass Bead Game by Nobel Prize laureate Hermann Hesse, as well as another novel in the same spirit, but much more accessible —and just as powerful: Narcissus and Goldmund. There's no doubt this has been an influence on me, so deeply was I marked by those readings. Or, is it simply a coincidence? ■

I’m a solitary writer, a seeker of truth who walks against the current —not out of posture, but by nature. I write without echoes, without feedback, without likes. And yet, I keep going. I dig into the deep layers of human memory, forgotten traditions, and ancient philosophies. I’m not trying to please —I’m trying to understand. To say what deserves to be said, even if no one is listening.

My thinking is neither academic nor opportunistic. It’s shaped by personal effort, demanding readings, and long silences. I stand where others have long gone quiet: in the margins, where memory refuses to die, and where words don’t wait for applause to exist.

I have no audience —or almost none. But I carry on. I take notes, I meditate, I translate, I garden. I answer today’s world with fragments of yesterday —from Vedic India to Borges, from the Renaissance to the Sufis. My writings rarely find readers? Maybe. But they stand nonetheless. And that’s enough.