of the interim

PCH dairies

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© Vaishali Paliwal

“I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was — I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.”
― Jack Kerouac

of the interim
when nothing stopped
nothing began

the roads seemed
to be playing tricks
on the runaways
the travelers
the lonely

who expected
from solo

who left cities
to come to cities
to walk through
the same bodies

who wondered sitting
by roaring seas
and tainted windows
what passed by.


Vaishali Paliwal

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