bhaskar saikia

The world, life and everything around us — from the way rain rolls off a leaf, to the way a child’s laughter fills a room, to the deep silence of a cave — all carry a kind of rhythm, beauty, and meaning that isn’t always logical, but always deeply felt.

I’ve come to believe that life doesn’t have to be grand or dramatic to be profound. Sometimes, it’s the smallest of moments — a falling leaf, a passing thought, an encounter with a stranger, the sound of your own breath when you’re alone — that reveal the intricate, mysterious pattern of existence. Like a poem, life doesn’t shout its meaning. It simply is — waiting, patiently, for someone to notice.

I never had a name for it until now, but this is how I’ve always lived. This is the poetry of existence. My days unfold in quiet observation — through the way I care for plants, wander through unfamiliar places, write about dreams, study amphibians and even ponder the rise of AI. Each experience, each thought, feels like another line in the long, unwritten poem that existence offers.

It’s a way of seeing, more than anything. And once you begin to see life like this, even the most ordinary days feel like pages of poetry.