Fall sneaked so cunningly into this town, on the cobblestone streets, in the sycamore parks, in the wild withering heaths. The air's been chilly; excited children giggle when they see their breath freeze and draw on the foggy windows. Pockets full of tangerine leaves and a sour sunlight washing the fog off the crowded streets. Yet there's been a sadness floating around, making this season an unjustifiable contradiction. Maybe Autumn is that kid who has the sweetest smile and knows things which you didn't in your childhood.
The cinnabar leaves on ground persuade you to write thousands of proses on paper in candlelight. Beauty dripping from a tragic silence. Unheard stories finding their way home. Autumn's been an innocent muse.
Bodies tucked inside tweed coats, following the footprints on cold cobblestones. Hoping for a new love, searching for some true warmth. But the slate-grey sky softly kills the bright light within you. Autumn's been delicately cruel.
A walk in that sycamore park, where lies a picture of this golden age. Paths and benches covered in titian leaves, crisp wind tries to fly away your muffler. The smell of cinnamon pie coming from bakery, makes you drool. Autumn's been a bittersweet emotion.
Between the fallen maple leaves, lies your fallen kingdom. And you choose to stare at the ground, where your pride and faith is shattered, through your blurry eyes. Each wrinkle on your face reminds you of every pain you've faced in a lifetime. Autumn's been a ruthless taker.
The mild mizzle leaves droplets stuck on your window-glass. Just like tears leave salt & scars on your cheeks. And you lie alone with your memories and broken heart so you can cry another cup of heartbreak poems. Autumn's been the kind of heartbreak that you can't get enough of.
The florist's shops are brimming with the scent of rosemaries and peace. The doors and windows are foggy, and a golden sunlight is flickering on the streets outside. You feel like September's sinking in your blood. Autumn's been an ephemeral enchantment.
The blackbird sits on the oak tree branch, singing a melody of hope written ages ago by the hands of an undying faith. The bourbon roses are dying in your yard, and you feel everything withering away. Autumn's been a cold brook of dried emotions.
You feel like you're losing every single piece of your soul, like leaves trees can't hold back how hard they try. The pieces of your art start losing colours till they are just ashes, and you find your body painted in a different shade of you, and somehow that's everything you ever needed. Autumn's been a wineglass full of cliches and changing art.
The fog's been soaking the sere field, while a bluemoon is marked on the sky, like bloodstain on a white rose. The smell of wine is lingering over your lips, and you're feeling lonely. Autumn's been a secret tone of blue.
For a moment you feel like you know everything, and you realise the time's slipping away so you write a long epistle to yourself. By the end of fall, you promise to leave everything behind. And in its last words Autumn whispers, "I'm the beautiful ghost who haunts this withering lullaby."
Sooo the tracklist is out now. The first track will be released soon. :')
And I'd be doing a livestream, I mean a QA kinda thing related to album, here on mirakee, at 9 p.m. tonight. You are welcome to come and ask any question related to this album if you are curious to find out. We'll have fun on a pre album party celebration. ☕
Hello fellow mirakeens! How you all are doing? I've been on a break and I've been missing this place so much. So I was wondering to take a surprise gift with me when I return. No, it's not a new challenge (nor the results of previous challenge, unfortunately) but something that I've never done before, or maybe something that no one has ever done before.
As we all know, it's fall season right now. Though fall or autumn doesn't affect the scapes of India much, so usually, we don't get to see or realise the beauty autumn holds. I've always felt a bittersweet connection of mine with it, it's been my favorite season. So, this thing which I'm presenting you is based on autumn. To be more precise, autumn in France.
It's always been like my dream to make an album of my own, though I don't know how to play any instrument, so I could never do that. One day I was listening to folklore (by Queen Taylor Swift) and my mind was buzzing with thoughts. Suddenly I had this idea like "I know I can't make a song album. But I do can write proses pretty well (ig so), what if I make a prose album of mine. No one has ever done that!"
Gradually, I decided to work seriously upon this idea, I decided tracks and their plot. It's been like my dream come true. I wrote the whole thing down for a month, I made many changes and worked so hard for writing each track (and also teasing my friends on hangouts).
So the final thing is like this: The whole album is based on France, where different tracks narrate stories of different people, who have nothing to do with each other's life and are connected by only single thing, autumn. They have their own perspective towards fall and have their own complications. It's different than just a story compilation because there's a theme that lies in all the tracks, which makes it more than a story compilation, just like a music album. And it does not only contain fictional stories, it has some personal experiences of mine, things that I saw, things that I learnt. So that makes it more special for me. Several music artists inspired me to pen this down, though I've been mostly inspired by Taylor's music, so you'll find a lot of resemblance from folklore.
It's called "of coffee stains & French wine". For there's a bittersweetness that flows through the whole album, and the words taste just as coffee and wine in an abstract way.
I've decided to release the full tracklist on 19th Oct. (6 p.m. per IST), and from then, I'll start posting tracks one by one. Till then, there are loads of teasers on the way. So tightly hold on to your seats, this might be mirakee's biggest era or fest, if you people like and support this wholeheartedly.
I'm not even sure if this is gonna work out, for this is such a crazy experiment of mine. I won't blame you if don't like this. At times I thought I'm just embarrassing myself. But still, I enjoyed writing it and it's been my dream, so no one can stop me from releasing this album now.
This one has folklore (Taylor Swift) kinda vibes. :3
ᴘᴀᴘᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴄᴀɴᴅʟᴇʟɪɢʜᴛ
i'm sitting inside these four walls, soaking my mind in peace. the woodland of emotions, that has grown right within my mind is growing dense by every passing moment.
chaos keeps clutching my life, like dust covers the attic floor, like cliches linger in poems written on crumpled papers. but right now, i blow the chaos away. for i've realised life is ephemeral. and i want to live it. i don't want to fix my every problem. i don't want my every question answered. not anymore.
i found peace in changing things. in the wildness of a pouring rain. my life is cracking like glass, yet i pick the pieces to keep em forever and stare at em, as though they are the shards of mirror of erised. and it feels like i'm floating in a concoction of bittersweet gaiety.
i've written thousands of letters, to my unknown lover. sitting in the candlelight of hope. and i've smelt ecstasy, in sepia papers and gold foils.
i've felt love in the wind and dandelions, seen enigmas dance barefeet in the winter fog from my window, and heard peace sing slowly from behind the clouds alongwith a chorus of stars on a rainy night.
i'm a lost poet, and i've perceived silence, dripping slowly inside my saltbox house. silence sounds like the letters from my unknown lover, like a great saga painted out of blanks and pauses, like flames burning an unseen art.
and my world's been vintage. just like other poets'. i live inside my world. i die inside my world. till my dream breaks and i find myself in a tedious crowd, in the monotonous reality. just like other poets.
People said poets are strange; they see colours which others don't, they say how silence sounds like. And their overthinking minds are a mess and exaggerate & complicate their own lives. But I always wondered, why a poet smiles when he sees his muse for the first time, why their eyes shine like nameless constellations when they daydream.
I never knew until I found myself drowning in blues. A moment through misery & mystery, escaping to all the beauty I had overlooked. The feelings clattering inside the eyes of a person who's seen love, their sun-tanned faces and lips forever curved, like petals.
I knew I was a poet, too, when I tasted happiness in the summer zephyr, when I felt the warmth of a chandelier light, when I saw solitude playing hide 'n seek in the trees.
The world was never the same. I was never the same. One moment ago everything is beautiful, the next moment everything is haunting, just like love. Like I saw love in everything. And just like a lovestruck poet I saw pictures with cracks and bittersweetness bleeding from them, I saw ephemeral feelings come & go from my mind at night, like a rainbow coloured merry-go-round.
The way a child savours his frozen lemon ice-cream. It melts on his tongue and he tastes it. Even when the ice melts away he still tastes the flavour smeared on his lips, lingering. It's same with happiness.
The way empty liquor bottles float in a pool. Shimmering glass with no label "addictive" stuck on it. Carrying the secrets and intoxication of a drinker's mind. That's same with sad proses and songs.
Nothing hides from a poet's eyes. And that's the thing wrong with poets. They are a mosaic of blessings and curses.
And I want to live in the beautiful side of world. Lie on the moss green grounds and feel the light on my eyelids. Watch the butterflies sing summer folklores. See the sun go down and witness the lakes become a pool of honey.
I want to stare at the carefree clouds disappear slowly from an orange-blue sky, before I close my eyes forever.
So.. I know it wasn't planned, but yeah here's As(h)tray-II. For those who haven't read my previous post, it'd be better if you read the previous one before reading this, but still it's alright even if you don't.
ᴏꜰ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ ʟɪᴇꜱ & ꜱɴᴏᴡ ᴡᴏᴏᴅꜱ
I'm leaving this town, trailing my footprints on the snow, like memories easy to forget, like moments which fade under mizzling snow. 'Cause right now I'm reckless, I don't care if I go astray. These woods would take me to where I belong, to nowhere.
As the ivory snow covers the ground, like white-lies settle down on my city of life, I choose to stare up at the grey, sunless sky. These aspen trees stand on the snow, a little pale against the winter landscape, with trunks wearing black strokes as of a Japanese painting.
I search for happiness, in the cadence of winds looking for home, in the soggy laurels dying alone. I let the bittersweet hallelujah sink in my cold skin.
I feel the pain I carried all the way from my hometown paint scars on my shoulders, and all I want to do is throw it off a cliffside. I feel the scent of the snow numb my nose. I feel like I don't want to feel anything at all, so all I want to do is drown in a chambré river of rosé.
The way November promised me of heaths of wisteria blooms, and gave me a vandalizing snowstorm, shattered the rest of my hope. I should've known winter's a hoax, like a picture of moon in the mirror on a new moon night, like a flicker of love in my lover's eyes.
Maybe I'll wander in the unknown for a while, for my lifeless town of life never felt like home. I'll wait for summer to bring me back a blissful song, till then I'll be astray under cloudy storms singing sad tunes.
Okay so I have noticed reach (not the likes and reposts, it's the genuine read I am talking about) is appalling these days. Mine is still fine but some astonishing writers aren't being read at all. So I have decided to take a writing break, to write less and read more. To be precise, to explore more.
Upbringing can't be confined just to the virtues and lessons or observations one grasps from their parents or other family members; it's the environment that one grows up in as a whole that broadly influences their way of seeing and receiving things. It comprises of the neighbourhood, school, friends, extended family, social media and possibly anything that has the potential to alter their manner of thinking. Two of the most important aspects regarding that are feeling confident and reception of love. Now, I would want to address them solely because I feel they've been the bane of my everyday, basic living. All problems that arise have their source and synonymise with the deficiency of the aforementioned character qualities.
As a child, I was always called out for the things that I couldn't do, more than appreciation for things that I could. "Belief" is a strong word, and before you could be a wayward teen who doesn't care about people a lot, all you do is be concerned about how they look at you and your aspirations lie in their praises. Whenever I fell, what I craved wasn't the strength to get up, I knew I always had it, what I always looked forward to and never found was the motivation to get back on my feet. That contributed to my passiveness and uneagerness to do anything, ranging from the fair and the unfair indiscriminately. Backing your ability when all claim otherwise is disheartening, and further makes you question the genuineness of everything you do, you doubt your skills and you doubt the very process. And then, even if anyone contradicts you to fill you up with confidence, it's a useless pill that you can't swallow, ironically. Low self-esteem, worthlessness, anxiety, and whatnot, just because someone didn't tell us to carry on fearlessly.
The most apparent trait of an unloved person is that they'd always be on a quest for love and when they'll have it they'd not know what to do with it. You know all the time we're such attention seekers. And when we get the love and fervour, all of it fills you with a weird and funny feeling. Sometimes it looks fake, sometimes too overwhelming, but most of the times it's just a clumsy reaction. When we're kids, whatever our parents do for us is considered their act of love and we're supposed to assume from it that we're loved. My father had these passive ways of making me feel loved and wanted and he has them yet. After this, direct conveyance of love makes it hard to be received and mostly leaves us deprived of it because it looks like a put-up job and some sort of propaganda.
We've never had a fair amount of mixture in our plates; criticised more than appreciated, expected more before taught about how to carry the burden. Now you'd tell me this is life and this is how it's supposed to be and I'd say we can change it. It's not necessary to "harden up" always and not applicable to everyone. All we need is openness and patience to see how one moulds himself, instead of trying to impose things. We can only be our best versions when we're not robbed of the privilege to look for the things that make us complete. And before you could say I can't change anything, I assure you, I already did.
Golden. Brown. The autumn shades paint my entire city, as much as I am painted with them with scintillas of silver all around. I remember the day, when the first stroke of brown was brushed down on my soul.
//A bright, sunny day and I was hopping from the pink blossoms to the azure sky, from the whitest cloud to the evergreen valley, from the shimmering grass to the corner of the river capital. My pen twirled over, fast enough to weave a new poem about my favourite summer. I found my shirt stained with fresh mud, as I write about the last raindrops overlapping the ones being absorbed. Flowing through the slope, they would finally find a corner to abode their extant in filling their dry voids.
The dusk escaped through the disarrayed clouds and the moon glided above, clearly, without any shade hindering it. Venting the canopy of the grey clouds, the moonlight sprinkled its essence. The leaves danced along the moonlit zephyr, while I was busy composing the next song they will jingle upon. And, I came to a halt when I saw the branches getting rid of the leaves offshore. The moon light was not really enough for me to cognize their colour but I could feel them brown, and dry. Nights passed, with me sitting beside the same window, watching the once-green trees bare and black. I didn't cry, didn't smile either.
The Breeze this winter feels a bit drier, squirting through the window sill making the hazy glass damp against the all aged walls of my abode, it calls me with the deep notes reciting "you" and "us", which are audible merely to my ears and I being the same lethargic soul, hear that heartbreaking resonance echoing deep within the circumference of my head.
Like a feuillemort leaf tired of putting on the weight of being happy green covers itself with deep scars gifted to her by age, I try to suppress my tears behind this weather of winter, dripping few drops when falling from the edges of pine when kisses the earth beneath them they out in all their might as if this was the only choice their heart had ever made, the choice of meeting the one which completed them
Looking at the meeting I ask just one question to the air around me, when will the time come that I will caress those pink edges of lips with mine, when will I cover them with the few this season has gifted me with?
This season keeps me reminding of the linking we have in between, through the old school pages of my rusted diary, I try to give back the time we spent together in each other's company as one single soul with a smile on your face and a blushing red hue on mine.
Leaves of fall, leave with fall, but leave a thousand carcasses behind; rotting, crushed under heavy steps of passers-by; an autumn leaf faces a fate, of an old man, who gazes his friends all bury into eternal slumbers and waits for the next west-wind to blow him away; autumn has her way of throwing things away, getting rid of everything to bring it all together, from the leaves to the melancholy of the season; and while you'd be grieving for those that parted from you, all the tokens of autumn that went astray, another one will meet the same fate, and soon enough there'd be winter's promises scattered as snowflakes all around the grey roads; but you'd never know all of it, except a little sadness for a falling leaf, and your inability to catch it in your palms.