Credit: Caricature by AI

I tried Facebook for a while, it barely felt like a book of faces. Instagram? A carnival with no exits. A glittering madhouse where everyone performs and no one listens. I’m stepping off the stage. No more curated chaos, no more algorithms mistaking noise for relevance.
If anyone truly cares for words, not selfies, not spectacle, not the currency of attention, not the agony of misunderstood words, you’ll find my work here. I choose page over platform. Silence over circus.

J. Mann

The Age of Likes, Love & Literary Longing
(Candid Confession)

Between 2006 and 2016, I found a sanctuary on the internet, Facebook. My words had wings. I was young, published, and totally in love with Poetry. There was something sacred in how people responded, not to my face, but to my voice. Each poem felt like a conversation. Each post, a heartbeat. I felt seen, understood and validated. But as time passed, something shifted. The words, the ones forged from my marrow, began to lose their weight under the glare of curated beauty. And when the echo of admiration becomes more about how you look than what you say… it leaves a hollow space behind the applause. So, I stepped back.

I sought newer spaces. Quieter corners. Where the point was to connect, not perform. And yes, I found kindred spirits, souls who opened their hearts, and sometimes even their homes, reminding me that love, truth, and art still matter. That being still matters. But alongside the grace, came a growing ache. I saw the mimicry, the replication of style without soul. I saw people string together borrowed profundities, not from a place of feeling, but for the sake of impact.

I am, and have always been, a people person. A giver. A believer in the quiet, healing magic of friendships. I speak with emojis, not as embellishments, but as the language of the feeling heart. I love loud. I hurt deep. I write because I must, not to impress, but to express.

Lately, as I watched the miniseries 'Adolescence', something stirred. It wasn't just a story of youth, it was a mirror. A raw, honest reflection of the masks we wear, even as adults. The longing to belong. The need to be seen. The fear of irrelevance. And how, in that desperate search for validation, we sometimes lose the most precious part of ourselves, our authenticity. And I’m not just speaking of social media. I’m speaking of society. Of those who deliver grand speeches but falter in basic human decency. Of those who measure success through noise, and failure through silence. Of those who judge what makes a good teacher, a good parent, a good human, based on checklists they never question.

Even professional platforms aren’t immune. Places once meant for sharing knowledge are slowly becoming theatres of self-congratulation, curated perfection, and hollow applause.

So I ask, where are we headed?
What are we truly chasing?
And at what cost?

At the end of the day, we are not here to impress algorithms. We are here to connect, with humans. And humans deserve grace. Politeness is not passé. Kindness is not a hashtag. Courtesy is not dead. These are not soft virtues. They are the bones of a decent world.

Robin Williams asked in 'Dead Poets Society', “So what will your verse be?”
Mine? It will always rise from the quiet places, rooted in truth, humility, and soul.

And if you're still here, reading this, thank you. This is my hand on my heart. I honour you.

As his hand drew near,
A fluttering anticipation stirred within me,
A blend of fear and fascination,
A dance between wonder and doubt.
Would his touch turn my skin to gleaming gold?
Or would it grace me with warmth and ardor, untold?
Envisioning the glint of gold upon my flesh,
An intoxicating thrill courses through every vein.
Yet, a delicate trepidation tugs at my heartstrings,
For love and desire extend beyond material gain.
I ponder, would he marvel at the radiant transformation?
Or yearn for the tender caress of skin, divine?
In this fleeting moment, a clash of emotions erupts,
Between the longing to be held and the fear of being caressed.
For, with a single touch, the world could shimmer in gold,
And the passion that once blossomed might grow cold.
Yet, amidst this conundrum, there unfolds a tale,
Of love’s intricacies and the resilience of the human heart.
With bated breath, I might welcome his touch,
To explore unknown realms, with hope and fear clearly defined,
A fleeting enchantment, a wager of hearts and minds,
As our love endures the trial of Midas’ touch, rapacious and refined.

She grows her wings in stillness- wider, stronger, unbreakable. She rises like an eagle, untethered by the weight of the world, soaring beyond expectations, beyond the skies, beyond limits meant to contain her. She is not just flesh, not just a face, not the cracks they think define her. She is the fire that refuses to dim, the relentless star that commands the night- radiant, untamed, unstoppable.

Who dares to question her light? No one.

She is her own muse, her own masterpiece, her own revolution. She spins her own stories, bows to no permission, bends for no approval. She can love, create, wander, rebuild, burn it all down and rise again. She is not yours to claim. If you never held her hand in the storm, if you never stood guard when the world turned against her, you do not deserve her. Love is not whispered promises- it is sacrifice, it is unwavering presence. And if you never gave that, step aside.

Because she will continue to dare. Every single day.

​Whenever my journey in the hallowed halls of the IB is broached, the inevitable question arises, flitting about like a socially awkward butterfly at a summer garden party. The subsequent conversation often seems like a scene stolen from 'Waiting for Godot': "So, you’ll move on to bigger roles?" "No." "Why ever not?" "Still waiting for Godot.” Ah, the classic deflection! This persistent query, looming like the proverbial sword of Damocles, often springs from the lips of some well-meaning HR savant who believes they've stumbled upon the hidden depths of my talents. How gracious of them!

But, you see, when faced with such interrogations, I usually lean into a sly grin and gracefully sidestep. For I've chosen to remain, by design, entrenched in the world of literature. Not because I'm oblivious to promotions, but because, in the very marrow of my being, I'm a poet. I dance to the unsung rhythm of silence and savor the secretive murmurs of the fall leaves.

Sure, administrative roles offer a bird's-eye view, perhaps even a plush chair and a swankier office. But can they compare to the sheer enchantment of seeing a young mind utterly smitten by a sonnet or a story? The classroom, for me, is akin to a live theatre where Shakespeare's musings coalesce with a teen's daydream. My raison d'être is not merely to recite literary classics, but to mold the very souls who, I hope, will one day pen them.

*Well, as they say, the proof is in the pudding! And oh boy, have my students whipped up a decadent dessert! Here, feast your eyes on the culinary... I mean, poetic masterpieces these future Shakespeares have whipped up in the kitchen... err, classroom. Bon appétit... or should I say, happy reading!

I recently found myself marveling at the independent shenanigans of my friend's tabby. As it confidently knocked a coaster off the table, I turned to her and mused, "Ever wonder why your cat doesn’t need a kitty boss overseeing its mischief?" She gave me a puzzled look, but think about it! Cats, like many of today's workers, seem to have figured out that traditional leadership is pawsitively outdated. While some of us can't even manage to match our socks in the morning, the contemporary American workspace is all about embracing our inner feline autonomy. And if research is to be believed, hierarchy in companies is becoming as redundant as that cat-themed 2020 calendar still hanging on your wall or for that matter, matching socks!

Hold onto your mismatched socks, folks, because according to studies in the USA, an increasing number of companies are doing away with the classic boss-subordinate structure. Maybe they figured out that the coffee fetched by interns tastes the same as the one fetched by, well, anyone else. Or perhaps they've just acknowledged the infinite wisdom of the age-old proverb: too many chiefs, not enough Indians.

Remember the time when being called "bossy" was almost a compliment? Now, it's more like: "Hey bossy pants, where's your team?" Answer: "Who needs one when I have ME?"

Jokes apart, the shift underscores a bigger movement: empowerment! Recognizing that each individual has the potential to inspire, manage, and innovate on their own terms. No hovering supervisor required. The future of work might just look like a flat, open playground instead of a pyramid. It's time to become your own inspiration, be your own leader. And, maybe, just maybe, get yourself matching socks. If you're into that kind of thing.

While, I sit back and admire my mismatched 'floral' socks, may the forests of democracy flourish! Here's to leading myself with a hint of tabby flair!

​Jaspreet Mann

I read some lines you had written  somewhere(I shouldn’t have)
and somewhere in the misplaced lines
a continent of pain drowns in islands of sorrow
you become a boy of borrowed mishappenings
a door ajar, airborne towards a non existent light,
in between life, your self created turmoil, your will as transparent as your vice
I think of you thinking of yourself as Lyon, circumnavigating hellfire
and flashing streaks of momentary genius
in hard fried microwaved eggs
one after the other,
you hold bowls of sunny sides up, send me photographs of video games
you play, holding night in the devil’s workshop.
I sit, miles away enveloped in groping darkness
and, I wonder, how much madness is too much madness,
if my sadness oscillates between your mood swings
what is it to have freedom and to be free
in moments when I am thinking of you and perhaps, you are thinking of me.
Your ordinariness is not light
it's not the luminosity of Christ
it’s the tale of a forgotten child-
a child you wish to forget, but it does not leave you behind
You wrote the idiot made you cry (I shouldn’t have read that)
in that one line you opened almanacs of your grief
pain stained windows, filled with shades of gray and blue,
open and shut in the monsoon rain with a sound only the broken make
“And all of this, all this life abroad, and this Europe of yours is a fantasy…”
I feel the words sear through my heart
and as my fragile nerves make meaning of your heartbreaks
I find you clutching Myshkin in a tight embrace.
© Jaspreet Mann

Today I read Nazim Hikmet,
After so many months of waiting, believing, wandering, retreating
​I looked with astonishment at the
words that jumped from the Prague- Berlin train
looking at me in the eye
and making a point in their unique way
that they were here to stay.

So, I meet strangers in the street
they look at me and I look at them
a 'how are you?' lurking in our eyes
we want to say the same things
the commonality of disaster
envelops our fragile beings
it rains, it stops, it rains again
we move behind closed doors
our hearts navigating secret stories
we live like strangers finding meaning
in the destiny of uncertainty
the cold clock looks on, unimpressed
its arms stretched forever into eternity
the longer I stand, the smaller I get
fading into oblivious indignity
and like some old song that comes to mind
I ask myself 'how are you?'
the silence is deafening
How am I? How should I be?
I am not sure if I have
ever been able to answer that question
convincingly.
© Jaspreet Mann, How are you? (2020)