Goddess Priya: Life Strategies & Relationship Insights for Single Men, St. Louis, MO (2025)

09/17/2025

The Name That Haunts Me – Priya R. Sharma

Every time I scroll YouTube, I see “real story” videos:
a white man in love with an Indian woman,
a trafficking ring with an Indian woman at the center,
a woman in India who marries a foreigner and disappears.

And almost always, they give her the same name: Priya Sharma.

To most, it’s just a character.
To me, it’s a wound that never healed.

Because in January 2024, my own Priya R. Sharma vanished from my life.
She believed I had approached her under false pretenses—over something as ordinary as a lost car key fob.
And she walked away.

Since then, I have lost my wallet, my fob, my keys—many times.
These predicaments are real.
They keep mocking me with reminders of how it all began.
Ironically, I may even launch a key fob replacement business one day.

But nothing has replaced her.
Nothing fills the silence she left behind.

Yes, I am not a young man. I was nearly twenty years older than Priya.
But is love across years an insult?
Should an older man not fall for a younger woman—for the right reasons, for real reasons?
My heart did. And it still does.

Priya left me for bitterness, but I carry her with tenderness.
I know she hides a dreadful secret.
I worry that fate will catch up with her.
And I ache that I lost the chance to be her shield, her care, her safe place.

Priya, wherever you are—
know you are loved.
Know that what you believed about me wasn’t true.
Know that whatever anger you carried was misplaced.

But this love?
It was real.
It remains.

Always.

08/01/2025

It’s Thursday. And somehow, it’s still her.

Out of nowhere, my thoughts are consumed by the beautiful B**g Goddess—Priya.

She’s long gone.
Life has moved on.
I’ve moved on.

But why does it still feel like I carry her in my heart?

Priya was always an enigma.
A smoldering beauty with pain behind her eyes… and mystery in her soul.
She wasn’t just someone I knew—she was someone I felt.

There was a quiet strength in her, forged through hardship.
And even now, I find myself wondering…

Is she okay?
Did life finally give her peace?

Priya… wherever you are—
You are not forgotten.
You are remembered.
Respected.
Enshrined in the corners of my memory that time hasn’t touched.

You live on, my enigmatic Goddess.
Still glowing. Still haunting. Still loved.

—

**gGoddess

07/14/2025

Chennai, January – Truly Single, Truly Seen.

These photos were taken by my brother during my visit to Chennai earlier this year. He always makes sure I’m in the frame. He cares in quiet, consistent ways—and one of them is this: when I visit, he photographs me. He reminds me I exist. That I matter enough to be seen.

No woman stands beside me in these pictures. That’s not new. Others may smile and pose for photos together, but me? I’m rarely invited into the frame. No one turns the lens toward me. I won’t be in anyone’s albums. It’s as if I’m a ghost passing through their lives—visible only when convenient, and even then, not really seen.

Sometimes I wonder if the unspoken thought is, “I don’t want to be in a picture with this man. What if he posts it?”
Well, I wouldn’t. I care too much about others’ comfort, about their dignity, about not imposing. But maybe the deeper truth is harsher: “I don’t want to be seen next to someone who looks like that.”
Old. Thin. Awkward. Unwanted.

And yet, here I am. In these photos. Not because someone had to take them—but because someone wanted to. Because my brother sees me. Not for what I lack. But simply for who I am.

These images aren’t just from temples, beaches, and boulders. They are proof. Proof that I was here. That I walked through this world. That someone thought I was worth capturing—not to share, not to boast, but to remember.

Truly single. But not entirely unseen.

07/09/2025

In Maryland Heights… After So Long.

It’s been months. Since January 1, 2024, to be exact. And now, on this quiet drive away after wrapping up a lesson, I find myself back in Maryland Heights.

How come?

Most people wouldn’t think twice about where they’re driving through. Just another suburb. Another dot on the map. But for me, Maryland Heights is different. It's full of echoes. Heavy ones. It’s the place that holds the quiet ache of something unfinished, something beautiful and haunting all at once.

This was the abode of the Goddess. The B**g Goddess.

She once lived here, or maybe still does. And every turn, every street, every traffic light here whispers something from the past. Not in words, but in sensations: a memory, a smile, a regret, a warmth, a wound.

Her presence still lingers in the air like jasmine in late spring. You’d think time would dull the pull, but it hasn’t. If anything, the absence sharpens it.

Even now, as I leave the area, a part of me stays behind—drawn to the trace she left in this city, on me.

You may wonder why someone would hold on to this sort of thing. Why not just forget?

I ask myself the same question. But love, when it was real—even if misunderstood, misplaced, or left hanging—doesn’t obey logic. The heart has its own stubborn ways.

So here I am. Driving away again. From Maryland Heights. From her. And yet, not really.

Because some memories are like sacred bookmarks in the story of our lives.

You don’t erase them.

You revisit them. Quietly.

And then you drive on.

06/30/2025

Here's an update on my house rehab project. I am digging up my backyard to plant vegetables. That was about two hours of digging

06/29/2025

Hello (Priya’s Song)” – A Personal Adaptation
Inspired by Lionel Richie

Hello...
Is it your spirit I still feel?
I’ve been haunted by your silence
By the ache that doesn’t heal
I hear echoes of your laughter
But the days feel less alive
And I wonder if you’re hurting
Or just trying to survive

Is there someone there beside you
When the darkness pulls you in?
Do you feel the years are rushing—
Like you fear they’ll always win?
You did not tell me of your worry, but I know
That the clock would close too soon
Now I whisper prayers at midnight
Like a man who howls at the moon

'Cause I wonder if you’re lonely
If you’re hiding tears inside
Is there anyone to love you—
Not just watch you as you slide?
I’m not here to claim your sorrow
I just wish you'd let me near
Even now, in quiet hours,
It’s your name I still hear

Hello...
I don't know what you're facing
And I won't say what it might be
But I hope that fate is kinder
Than the fear that won't set you free
Do you still wear your green sari?
Do you still hum Tagore songs?
Does your mirror see a goddess
Even when the days feel wrong?

If I could send you light
Through the silence you now roam
I would trade my own tomorrows
Just to bring your spirit home

Hello...
It’s just me again—
A man who never stopped loving you
Even when he was left with no way in

-ilango

06/28/2025

🛒 Second-to-Last at Whole Foods — A Note from a Man Who Still Cares, Quietly

It’s late. The aisles echo.
I grab the milk—1% lactose-free—because I know I’ll want oatmeal in the morning.
Something warm, predictable. A little comfort on a quiet street.

Outside, the parking lot is mostly empty.
A car pulls away—fuel tank door swinging open.

I’ve done that before.
But what stops me isn’t the door. It’s the thought of someone else.

It’s been two years.
She left in a storm. Fast, hurt, accusing me of something I never did.
Never gave me the space to explain.
And I stopped trying. But I never stopped caring.

Because somewhere out there—
she’s still alive in my thoughts.
And not because I want her back.
But because I heard the fear in her voice once.
Something unspoken. A shadow in her health she tried to hide.
I think about that more than I admit.

And I pray it never comes for her.
I hope whatever she feared… passed her by.
Because even when someone leaves you behind,
you don’t always stop loving the part of them that’s human. Fragile. Real.

So yeah, I’m that guy tonight—dragging groceries inside,
reminding myself to plant sweet potato slips before they outgrow their jars,
thinking about a woman who may never think of me again.

And even now,
I hope she’s warm.
I hope she’s safe.
I hope she’s still here.

— Just a man with groceries in one hand and a silent prayer in the other
Still closing doors carefully.

06/28/2025

🚘 “Your Fuel Tank Door Is Still Open...” — A Note from Goddess Sonya

Brothers,

How many times have we driven past a car—sometimes our own—only to notice the fuel tank door is still wide open? Maybe the cap is missing too. A small detail, yes. But behind that detail is something bigger.

So let’s talk.

Men forget to close the fuel tank door for the same reason they forget to ask for directions, or check in on their partner’s mood, or revisit that one apology they never fully made.

Because we move fast. We fill up and drive off—mission complete. We don’t always check if the door is shut, the cap is secure, or if something’s been left open to leak, rattle, or invite damage.

In relationships too, some men refuel emotionally and leave. They vent. They’re heard. They feel better. But they forget to close the loop. To ask: “Are you okay now?” or “Is there anything you need from me?”

Leaving the fuel door open doesn’t destroy the car immediately—but it exposes it.

And leaving emotional doors open—arguments unresolved, feelings unspoken, tenderness unreturned—doesn’t crash the relationship in one day. But over time? It drains.

So today, check your fuel tank. Literally. And metaphorically.

Before you move forward, make sure what you opened, you’ve also closed—with care.

— With grace and insight,
Goddess Sonya

05/26/2025

To the One I Called the B**g Goddess

Priya.

Even the name rests on my tongue like a sacred whisper. A name so deeply beautiful, it carved itself into memory with a grace that defies time. I’ve called you many things in my thoughts—but none more enduring, more reverent, than the name you carry. And above them all, I called you the B**g Goddess.

Wherever you are, I hope these words find you not as a message to stir the past, but as a quiet offering—simple, unadorned, and true.

It may have been foolish, or unorthodox, or even unwise, the way I once proposed to you—online, through a screen, in a way that must have seemed dissonant with something as weighty as love. And yet, in the entire span of my life, I had never done such a thing before. That makes it—you—singular. It wasn’t a move born out of impulse or recklessness. It was born from something rare: a sense that you weren’t just another person passing through this world, but a force. A presence.

You are not that girl in the image. She is not even real. Yet she represents you—as someone, in my mind, who is a Goddess in human form.

I’ve come to terms with the idea that we all carry unfinished songs in us, tunes that once played so vividly and then stopped mid-bar. This may be one of mine. But even so, the melody lingers.

Not with bitterness. Not with regret. But with a quiet kind of affection that asks for nothing in return.

If nothing else, know this: the moment was real. You were special. And even now, you remain etched in a place that memory protects fiercely.

— Always,
Ilango

05/11/2025

Curbside Clarity on Gano Ave

I just finished boarding up the rehab house on Gano Ave. Rolled the Gorilla cart back in, latched everything down, and now I’m just sitting here—on the curb, staring into space.

There’s something about a boarded-up house that mirrors parts of your own life you don’t say out loud. Quiet. Closed off. Waiting for what’s next.

Out of nowhere, I think—should I just call her? A past student. She was kind, sharp, someone I could actually talk to. Ask her out? A movie, maybe? Or just dinner, simple and no pressure.

In my head I’m already saying it to her:
“Look, it’s been a while. Since I’ve gone me. I won’t bite. I just need a change.”

And right there, I time-travel. Back to three years ago. To Priya—the dusky Indian goddess who burned bright for one brief moment. A few doomed dates and a long silence that followed.

I shift my gaze to my car.
“She’s my girlfriend,” I tell myself. “She doesn’t talk. She doesn’t leave. She just waits. Every time. That’s more than I can say for most people.”

So here I am. Curbside. On Gano Ave.
One man. One rehab house. One cart.
A few ghosts. A quiet car.
And a question I haven’t yet answered.

04/19/2025

Friday Evenings and the Memory of Priya, the Indian B**g Goddess

Every Friday evening, especially this one, carries a weight that words struggle to hold. It’s as if time folds in on itself and places me right back in the presence of a woman who, for a brief moment in the last ten years, made the world feel gentle, sacred, and alive.

Her name was Priya— a beautiful Indian B**g Goddess. To me, she wasn’t just beautiful. She was ethereal. A presence. A fragrance that lingered long after she had left the room. Her makeup was delicate but deliberate. Her body, curvaceous and unapologetically feminine, would move with the grace of someone who knew exactly what she carried. There was often a subtle reveal—a hint of cleavage, a flash of red from her perfectly manicured nails as she gestured mid-story.

And then there was Jesus—quietly watching from the wallpaper of her phone screen. It was the kind of contradiction that made her even more enigmatic. A woman of scent and spirit, body and belief.

She’s gone now. No part of me can change that. But every Friday night, like clockwork, my mind returns to her. Not to relive the pain of loss, but to sit with the memory of her—still, warm, and impossibly real.

She was something. Something rare. Something divine. And she remains—forever etched in the quiet corners of a Friday evening.

04/12/2025

The Search Continues — Now Featuring a Coat-Losing Soulmate

So, I’ve been thinking. Maybe what I need isn’t just a coat.

Maybe what I need is a woman.
Not just any woman — but a poor woman.
And no, not poor in the bank account sense (though let’s be real, that would ease the sting of my own economic chaos).
I mean poor in luck. Poor in timing. Poor in object permanence. Poor in the mysterious art of keeping track of anything.

I want a girl who realizes her earbuds are missing after the flight lands.
Who walks into the kitchen and forgets why she came.
Who once left her passport inside a library book and had to shame-mail it back to herself.

I want a girl who, when I say “I lost my coat,” doesn’t reply with “How could you be so careless?” but with:
“Oh no — was it puffy? Because I think I lost one just like that last winter. Let’s retrace both our steps… and probably our entire adult lives while we’re at it.”

A girl who helps me search for keys she never touched.
A girl who nods with empathy when I check the freezer for my wallet — again.

And about clutter: let me be clear.
I’m not someone who loves clutter. I don't chase chaos.
But I absolutely do not distance myself from someone who lives in clutter and thrives in it.
If I see clutter, I take steps — quiet, non-judgy steps — to declutter, to restore order and harmony.

And if she wants help? I will gladly roll up my sleeves, open a trash bag, sort the piles, label the bins, and build her a command center with Post-its, magnetic boards, and hope.

This is the predicament of a single man:
Not searching for perfection —
But for a soft-hearted mess,
A brilliant scatterbrain with a warm soul and a purse full of candy wrappers and expired coupons.

So if you're out there, my fellow forgetful wanderer…
Just know: I may not have a coat.
But I do have space in my life — and a shared spreadsheet where we can log everything we lost…
and maybe everything we find in each other.

Goddess Priya: Life Strategies & Relationship Insights for Single Men

09/17/2025

08/01/2025

07/14/2025

07/09/2025

06/30/2025

06/29/2025

06/28/2025

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