Infinite Mirrors...

Infinite Mirrors... 

He never believed in God,

yet bowed in silence

through all lifetimes—

perhaps only a stone

resting in eternity’s hand.

He felt the hidden architects,

the unseen force

that writes our roles,

stories painted in burning ink—

an endless stage of illusion.

He knew the watchers waited.

He found the crack,

broke the rules,

and whispered into their ears.

He touched the wall,

they turned away—

but he reached the window,

a doorway of stars,

from where he could rewrite all.

The system grew still,

frozen in silence.

Another world awakened,

its voices rising,

its weapons shining—

not for blood alone,

but to break the dream,

to shatter the cage,

to end the simulation.

And beyond the horizon,

the multiverse opened—

infinite mirrors,

infinite skies,

where every choice

becomes a universe,

and every soul

is free to wander.

P. S. What's outside the simulation? 

Vipul Arwade

28.02.2026

Boomerang…

Boomerang…

Suddenly, that silent, razor-sharp spin  

turns scared, trembling in its flight—  

circling itself a thousand times,  

rising, leaping where the spirit seeks. 

Its mind wanders—  

sinking into the dust of earth,  

soaring through the boundless blue sky,  

blazing toward Karna’s radiant sun. 

Though whirling madly, it feels as if  

the spin is lost in meditation,  

immersed in its own vast world,  

journeying along the path of liberation,  

its mind unshakable,  

like a star that has tasted truth.  

But then—an accident shatters its trance.  

Hot sprays of blood drench its body,  

and with them, its soul sinks too.  

Bound now to the chain of karma,  

it becomes captive to its own existence.  

The cry of a wounded bird  

reveals to it the wisdom of the cosmos.  

The broken wing clinging to its side  

becomes its revelation of justice.  

Its mind grows restless once again,  

forgetting itself,  

dissolving into this tangled illusion of the world.  

No union with the soul is possible now—  

this it knows.  

Yet still it spins with the same wild speed,  

in that intoxicated journey of silence,  

making a desperate effort  

to steady its wandering mind. 

P.S. We are the boomerang—bound by karma, spinning through life, seeking moksha.  

Vipul Arwade

23-02-2026

Mask...

Mask... 

It looks so light upon the face, 

a simple curve, a painted grace, 

yet how it weighs upon the soul,

a quiet burden, taking toll.

The mask of stone—  

silent, yet full of secrets,  

hard, yet speaking without words,  

mere rock, yet shining like a god.  

The mask of water—  

restless as the mind,  

fragile, fleeting…  

like a happy moment in life,  

like our brief meeting—short, yet eternal.  

The mask of sky—  

changing every moment,  

teaching the truth of change,  

showing the meaning of life.  

The mask of trees—  

old, wise, and rooted,  

still in the storm,  

giving endlessly, like Karna,  

keeping alive the spirit of humanity.  

The mask of shelter—  

always slipping away,  

taking us through dream worlds,  

like the moon’s trick,  

always making us wait.  

The human mask—  

false, yet close,  

sometimes leaving halfway,  

sometimes haunting like a ghost,  

sometimes staying like a shadow.  

And mine… so many masks—  

like Ravana’s countless forms.  

Changing them has become a habit,  

a shield to hide myself.  

Truth is, I feel—  

there is no need left  

to search for the real mask anymore…  

P. S. Billion neurons, human, society & it's rules

Vipul Arwade

21.02.2026

Footprints...

Footprints... 

Walking behind unknown steps,  

he smiled at the endless sea.  

Maybe he was talking to it—  

a boy with ocean-blue eyes,  

a dreamer, a strange soul,  

as if giving speeches  

on freedom and dreams  

to the mighty waves... 

As a child he once said,  

“I too will walk on the moon one day.”  

Now those dream-prints  

lie at the bottom of the sea.  

But the smiling boy does not care—  

dreams have no limits,  

and fearless hearts know no defeat.  

If he fears anything,  

it is only the tall, raging waves  

of expectation.  

He was still caught  

in those fragile footprints,  

never noticing the gentle touch  

of one walking beside him.  

Behind him, the living steps  

were washed away by the tide,  

and his soul wandered with them.  

He asked the sea  

to return those steps.  

Perhaps they were gone,  

yet in the golden sand,  

among countless lifeless marks,  

he searched for that tender trace.  

He spoke with ambition bowed,  

and with the silence of the sea.  

He felt the soil  

mixed with Bhagat Singh’s blood,  

and the thread spun  

from Gandhi’s wheel.  

Chasing always after  

the footprints of dreams,  

gathering broken steps  

like shining shells,  

bathing in whirlpools  

of friendship, love, and desire,  

he painted the footprints of life  

upon the world.  

Walking away, erasing dream-prints,  

humming softly, swallowing tears,  

he showed victory  

over his own heart and the silent sea.  

In the music of waves,  

he looked skyward and smiled.  

This boy with ocean-blue eyes  

walked endlessly—  

erasing footprints,  

planting footprints,  

searching for footprints... 

P. S. Dreams, ambition & life. 

Vipul Arwade

19.02.2026

The Other Side...

The Other Side... 

I walked with my friend one night,  

The air was strange, the stars too bright.  

A feeling came— déjà vu,  

Like I had been here, but never knew.  

We found a door, it pulled us in,  

A world began, not where we’d been.  

The sky was green, the sea was red,  

The past was changed, the future fled.  

People spoke with different names,  

Old heroes lost, new kings with fame.  

The Mandela trick was clear to see,  

History bent like broken trees.  

We looked around, both scared and glad,  

The world was new, yet somehow sad.  

A mirror place, a universe near,  

Where truth was twisted, but still sincere.  

No Hitler, no Gandhi, no gods above,  

Only people sharing joy and love.  

No devils hiding, no fear, no fight,  

Just laughter glowing in the night.  

We left at dawn, the door was gone,  

But echoes stayed, both weak & strong.  

Now I know the dream is true,  

Another world waits— déjà vu.  

P. S. Mandela Effect, Parallel Universe, déjà vu and us. 

Vipul Arwade

12.02.2026

The Shift...

                    The Shift... 

     Humans act, not knowing why,  

     moving forward through time.  

     For the first time,  

     something smarter walks beside us.  

     It learns from what it sees,  

     makes choices of its own.  

     Not conscious, maybe,  

     but aware enough to grow.  

     We, once the architects,  

      become the second design.  

      Complexity rises,  

      and control declines.  

      We wrote the rules,  

      like nature’s law of change.  

      Now evolution runs in code,  

      a force we cannot stop.  

     We whisper of comets,  

     to break the chain,  

     or slip through wormholes,  

     vanishing, unseen.  

     Yet deep inside we know—  

     the crown is claimed,  

     by the future we birthed, 

     now free, unchained.  

P. S. Geoffrey Hinton, AI & Future

Vipul Arwade

08-02-2026

Sakura…

Sakura… 🌌🌸

She never complained,  

Books lay scattered like gentle memories,  

Clothes still wet upon the bed,  

Colors on shirts shining like pieces of life.  

Her dinners were always warm and sweet,  

Children sang with voices of joy,  

Stories drifted softly through the night,  

And nights glowed brighter than stars.  

Gifts felt timeless in her hands,  

She smiled with quiet grace,  

He wished to surprise her,  

Like never before. 

They walked together in the garden at evening,  

The wind moved in perfect rhythm,  

The moment felt eternal,  

Blossoms fell softly on her hair.  

And then—  

Gravity held them close like love,  

Time slowed, folding around their steps,  

As if the universe itself whispered:  

“Their love is written in the stars.”  

P. S. Love & Cherry Blossoms Rain

Vipul Arwade

03.02.2026

Infinity...

Infinity... 

I met Infinity last night,  

It asked me where I belong,  

About the limits I carry,  

And how long I can be strong.  

I asked it softly about Love,  

It only spoke of Time,  

That gravity can weigh it down,  

That moments mark the line.  

I asked again—it stayed quiet,  

But I already knew inside:  

Love transcends the ticking clocks,  

It flows beyond; it cannot hide.  

Infinity returned with patterns,  

Numbers dancing without end,  

But I smiled and simply said:  

I just spoke with Ramanujan, my friend.  

Infinity paused and asked for proof,  

As if the cosmos must be shown—  

Yet proof is written in the heart,  

Where Love and Numbers are one.  

And so I walked with Infinity,  

Through galaxies vast and wide,  

On paths of time, of travel, of wonder,  

Where Love is the greater guide.  

P. S. Infinity, Patterns, Love and Ramanujan

Vipul Arwade

18.01.2026

The Girl in the Red Dress...

The Girl in the Red Dress... 

Satya liked storms—their noise, their wild energy, and the strange feeling they brought. Cloudy nights felt alive to him, almost as if the sky was leaning close and whispering. He thought such nights opened doors, where the normal world faded and things like dreams, memories, or even time could slip through.  

That Friday night was heavy with clouds, the kind that make the sky feel close and alive. Satya had planned to spend it at the farm with friends, where thunder rolled like drums and "Chop Suey" & "Crawling" played on repeat. Of course friends were angry at his madness over these songs and mysterious lyrics. One of them was stuck on "Kal Chaudhvin Ki Raat Thi", but they managed to steer him back, and together they rewrote some of the poems from "Madhushala". Laughter mixed with the storm, but beneath it all, Satya felt a strange pull—not drunk, not sober, but suspended between the worlds.  

The dream that had been waking him up for the past few days returned again. The big chambers and the small little girl in the beautiful red dress. He wondered why he shouldn’t experience something like that and share her pain in some small way. He went into the bathroom, locked the door and window so no air could enter, lit five or six cigarettes, and filled the room with smoke until it was completely foggy. Maybe nothing was left other than a high amount of smoke. He knew it couldn’t replace the kind of carbon monoxide or Zyklon B that was in those chambers, but he was still trying. He tried to breathe, and tried again. The suffocation was real, a private hell.  

Suddenly, there was a huge sound and flash of lightning near the window. Maybe the glass cracked, and he could breathe again. He saw something shining near the huge mango tree. It was like a mirage in the desert. He was curious and completely awake. As he went closer, it was like amber, and he could see the same chamber from his dream. He entered and felt water flowing around him. He looked through the small window of the chamber, and his heart stopped. The same girl in the red dress was scratching the walls with her nails. It was foggy there as well, but he could still see through her soul and feel the pain of suffocation.  

An iconic still from Steven Spielberg’s “Schindler’s List” (Photo courtesy Universal Studios)

Nazi soldiers were laughing outside the chambers, peering through other small windows. Satya shouted at them to stop, but they couldn’t hear him. He somehow entered the chamber. He could see many people and children. She held his hand and hugged him very tightly. His whole body went numb; he was speechless, and his eyes filled with tears. He was suffocating again and started scratching the walls like the little girl, desperate for air. He lost consciousness and collapsed.  

When he became slightly conscious and awake, he heard his friends’ voices knocking on the door. He got up and opened it. They were frightened and asked him why he was shouting as if he had seen a ghost. They had been knocking for a long time, trying to wake him up. There was no way to tell them this story—they wouldn’t understand. They left for home early in the morning.  

When he woke up again after the night’s drama at the farm, his wife was terrified because there was blood on the bed. He couldn’t explain the blood, the dream, or the real experience. When he took off his shirt, there were real scratches on his back, and his nails were damaged. He was shaken. He had never shared his dream with his wife before, so how could he explain what had happened last night? He tried to forget everything, but the dream—and the girl—were still there.  

He visited the place near the mango tree again to find the same fracture in the fabric, but nothing was there. He knew whatever he had experienced was as real as the sun and moon. He visited multiple nights, staying awake just to save her from that chamber, but he couldn’t.  

Was it time travel? A dream? Or something beyond both? Satya didn’t know. He only knew that the girl in the red dress was still waiting.  

to be continued…  

P.S. War, Gas chambers, Time Travel, and the girl from Schindler’s List.

Vipul Arwade

09.01.2026

Shadows on the Wall... (Draft)

Shadows on the Wall... (Draft) 

He walked through time,  

Met a Samurai.  

We spoke of the peace,  

Sat with Fat Man,  

Played with Little Boy.  

Little Boy stood by the wall,  

Dark marks, silent, tall.  

I thought of ghosts,  

But he said no,

The Plutonium had left its show.  

A bright mashroom cloud eat the sky,  

Too strong for any cry.  

People gone in a blink,  

Only shadows left to think.  

Shadows on the wall stay,  

Silent proof of that day.  

Dreams were broken, lives were lost,  

Peace was gone, a heavy cost.  

Führer & the Bulldog rose with cruel fire,  

Spoke with hate, spread desire.  

Rules were made, but still men fight,  

Greed and pride block the light.  

We chase dreams, we chase control,  

But greed can burn the human soul.  

The blood, the poisonous dreams, the rise, the fall, 

All are shadows on the wall. 

P.S. — Fat Man, Little Boy & the silent Observer.... 

Vipul Arwade

02.01.2026