walking over wet grass

At what point in life do we feel it's safe to say it's sorted. You know, we are good for life, life can't get any better. And that is the point you have achieved it all. Everything you will ever need and want is there, at arm's length.

Loved ones *touchwood* sitting all around, with the smile of content and giggle of secrets shared. 

Corporate slavery, doesn't seem so abysmal, opposite in fact. Where, at what age, is it all golden. 

Questions fill up my anyway cluttered head.   

I take off my slippers and stepped barefeet on the dewdropped grass. I lay there staring at the glaring moonlight in my face.   

I'm 23. And I'm golden. As I can be.  

I tilt my head. The dew shimmers in agreement.

Wanderlust.

I've lived my life in phases. To write a book, I'd write one of so many flavors and stories. 

~The night strung together, and the stars, so distant in the skies shiver, blue, twinkling. Slowly, the wind turned in my favour. It turns again, and sings softly in my ears. The magic recreates itself. Tonight, I held her in my arms. Close, not tight. Stroking the shadow of the eyes, not distant. The infinite starlit sky danced overhead in the harmony. 
And the morning came on in its ultimate glory, flawless.

Treading a subdued kiss on life, and it takes the path it was always meant to. My soul is content to have finally lost those whitened nights. Its autumn outside my window now. Unspoken heaven of golden leaves and the smug fog at dusk. 

"Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.
Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms,

These are the last lines I will write for her.

I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her."

Shifting Aisle.

Someone should write a book where the main character slowly falls in love with the reader.

I'm someone- Wanderlust. 

Faceless Strangers.

We all have that dream. The one with our faceless stranger. At one time or another, that dream about you and her. That dream you so distinctly remember and yet, her face seems faded into your memories. This dream so symbolic, so intimidating. So tantalizingly mystical. Hidden, repressed, crooning in your dream about how each of us have that side we don't show- sometimes even ourselves. Living deep within, you'll find this faceless stranger.

This probably means more than I thought it would. Stories of untold smiles, unsaid tears, held back words; and a faceless stranger.

Its something so simple, so plain. That thought of meeting someone today. Randomly, think of the innumerable lives you touched today. What if you missed your perfect dream out there in the crowd.

~Maybe he sees her again. Maybe he doesn't.




"In the story's faceless lair."
-raw. emotional. me.

Windchimes.

I hear the wind ring the bells and chimes outside the window. Here, where the sunshine falls on the bordering clouds, is where I'm sitting writing today. 
Did you forget me already? So soon, is it. Or are you actually anticipating, wearing your heart on sleeve. That would be nice to hear once in a while rather than you seeing mine. Isn't it gloomy outside, or was that yesterday. I was still at this window looking down the path leading me out of here, anywhere. 
It mustn't have been really long, has it. Must be though. Changes show otherwise. 

~Its a long winding road,
Winds around me engulf the sound of the chimes.
I seek the path ahead- i think long;
leave me at the shore,
that day, that time..
I'd travel to another land.

That's the dream knit.. in the time being.

It's where I see the sunshine envelope rain and wind banners passing through life.

photo credits: SK.

Sand in my shoes.

I searched till the corners of the world, to look for you. But here you were, all along, right next to me. Ever since I learned my first steps.

I'd run to you, playing around that pillar. You always healed those wounds when I'd topple over the pebbles on the road. My first rhymes and the tales, of fairies and fables, you taught me word by word.
I'm growing up now. I play a different beat. I sing a disparate song. You stand by, defining my differential unconventionally for my ownself. You're still the personification of the pillar I need to run about to make a day.
I'm growing up now. You take steps forward with me.
Giving this and that, and all those unsaid dreams wings, keeping me grounded, I'd have been confused but makes sense with you. It's not all dreams and wishes and plans, but also a mixture of do's and don'ts, the links, the aim, the feelings, with just the adequate amount of pinch of reality.
I've learned, to walk with my head held high, no matter the destruction to mask. Your words, your presence, 'you' motivate that. 'You' inspire that. I see myself driven to be half as inspiring.
I'm growing up now. When I have, I hope to be able to scuffling through a lot of sand.

Ps. There are a million 'I's and 'You's out there. From me, it's to all those pillars in my life making it all possible. Life isn't a fairy tale, so we get these few for just the close resemblance. We fight, we throttle each other at times. We go out for decent dinners, we also sometimes are close enough to burning a place down. A child, a friend, a sister, a brother, a companion; they're in so many roles around you. Take a moment. Feel happy.
Pick up that phone, make that overdue call.

Boondein.

I heard that wave splashing off the shore today. Again.
Stepping right out of my clockwork, speckled across the face, were those driblets. Like heartbeats, the sounds of the slight piano paddles waddling through, the spatter of the cars passing by, carrying us over the winds till where those tiny droplets reside.

It's your calling.

Querencia.

Did you say it.

‘I love you.’

‘I don’t ever want to live without you.’

‘You changed my life.’

Did you say it?

~Make a plan. Set a goal. Work towards it. But every now and then, look around. Drink it in.

Because, this is it. It might all be gone tomorrow.

choices. chances. changes. 

Sculptures.

'Weathering the endless storms
 for rare glimpses of magic
each winter 

is both,
a blessing and a curse I relish.'

phoenix

Kairos.

I make it a point to always give a lot of thought to the title of anything. It's what defines what's going to come next, what it is going to be about. In that moment, you must know what i'm talking about, what i'm referring to, where i'm leading to, where to i wish to head. But that's me.
So, this comes in here. This is the fleeting rightness of time and space that create the opportune atmosphere, the perfect moment of actions, movement and words. This is where my world turns into ours. This is the place shared in the furious course of life.

How many times would you open a book, a page, with something in mind? Where you know what to expect, where you already have the start and an end to something made up. How many times would you blindly step into the dark? Or take that one step yet ahead on the cliff? Would you?

Look around. See. Understand. Listen. Hear. Sounds, lights, people, shades, patterns. Notice. Grasp. Capture. Save it.
Think, how many of these are willing to take that sealed road ahead?

Dive into the ocean. Breathe.
Dig into the snow. Feel the chill down your spine.
Step out in the rain. Smile at the offer of a shared roof.
Plan. Breakthrough.
Jump off a cliff. Skip a heartbeat.

Watch life through the lens.
'Be the dark side of the lens.'

eyes of a wayfarer.