So here's my submission for the challenge hosted in memory of two profound writers of this platform who left us, Joker and Jack. @lovenotes_from_carolyn
I've recently heard some kids saying that they bullied their fellow classmates, in a rather condescending tone. Like it was similar to cracking a joke. But to be honest, I pity them for the kind of ignorance they carry.
It is often considered a sign of audacity when one bullies others. I don't know what happiness one derives from it. Is it really joy that they get or that they augment the misery that they hold. It might seem perplexing at first as to how can they, who feel good by berating others, would be full of subfusc.
Well it originates from the past of such Bullies. Either they are lovelorn, at the receiving end of violence, unsatisfied, sad, or emotionally weak. It is a common thing to experience these things as everyone goes through it at some or the other point in life. But what matters is Choice. Being a bully is not a product of all of that, it is a choice. They choose to be vile and malicious; they choose violence over soothing their sanity; they choose to compensate for their inferiority complexes and insecurities by denigrating others, physically, mentally or socially.
But my question is does this give the much required addition to such individuals. The addition of strength if one feels weak; to experience love if one is bereft of it; feel more confident if there isn't any feeling; gain popularity if they feel the need to be the centre of attraction; and so on the list goes. If they truly feel content after doing this then it is justifiable. Albeit, I don't think that is the case.
If one truly is sufficed by such acts, then there would be no chance of a repetition, or making someone else a target of this, or any scope for expansion. Sadly, that's not the case and it spirals organically into a phenomenon known as Bullying. I hope this ends. Yes it makes those victims tough, but not all. Not everyone is capable of enduring it. And most importantly not everyone deserves such treatment.
We are humans and there's a reason we are given a conscious, that we are different from other living organisms. Constructive criticism is good, as it paves way for improvisation. But demeaning someone just for the sake of it seems extremely obnoxious. Such conscious should be used to make this world a better place and not Hell.
For, Hell exists and so does Heaven. But we don't want both those extremes, just a peaceful world. Where we promote and preach Humanity above all.
The soft jazz playing in the background was extremely mellifluous. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee had spread across the café. I was sitting at the table near the window, there was a soft drizzle outside. It did amount for a perfect atmosphere. To top it up there was no one around, I was all alone. While I was reading my book, suddenly someone entered through the door. The person at once sat on the chair next to mine and asked in a breathy voice to me what the book was about. When I lifted my head to look up, I was so taken aback. It was none other than Miss Marilyn Monroe!
She sat there, with her absolutely breathtaking persona, while she lit her cigarette. What followed was a conversation I would be remembering for the rest of my life. We began with the usual exchange of greetings and salutations. She asked what I did, but I just couldn't resist all the questions clamouring in my head.
But she wanted to have a proper conversation. One wherein both of us would get to know one another. I told her about my life and my family. How I was still struggling to reach my goals and had to face numerous setbacks throughout the journey. She was utterly delighted to know all of that. She told me that whenever she'd met other artists or any of her fans, she only had to answer the cliched queries they had but since I wasn't like them, she smiled gleefully while I asked her about her life as a Hollywood Superstar.
She told me how she was a foster child. And then she did minor roles at the initial stage of her career. Especially, her part in All About Eve alongside Bette Davis. She was so intimidated by her that after the shot, she had to vomit after going to her dressing room. But she shot to fame with her successful film 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes', and then there was no looking back.
Although, she only had one disappointment that her image was only limited to being a 'Sex Symbol' and nothing else. She even studied method acting to bring authenticity to her performances but the industry was so misogynistic and sexist at that time, where women were only considered as props or a medium of lechery.
But she didn't give up, and it was with the picture 'Some Like It Hot' that she was finally acknowledged for her performance and not for her looks or body. She even earned a Golden Globe Award for the same. Often she felt that the way the people perceived her as a 'dumb blonde' and the intrusion of the gossip columnists on her private life making two of her three failed marriages highly publicized was derogatory.
She feels that her position in Hollywood was truly captured by her last film's title, 'The Misfits'. She did feel that she was a misfit, for she was the centre of constant scrutiny, spying, harsh comments, criticism, bad press, allegations, etc. The way, the press used her depression as a content for their myriad of fabricated headlines appalled her to the core.
But in the end, I told her that she was a revolutionary figure and still continues to be one. Breaking plethora of stereotypes, paving way for many, and on top of that being an icon, she was, is, and continues to be the undisputed Queen.
Then with a heartwarming smile, she thanked me for my comforting words and told me that she needed to leave. But I didn't want her to leave, so I tried to stop her but then the alarm clock went off and I realised it was a dream. To my utmost dismay, I sat on my bed, still having the hangover of the dream. Still wishing that it should've been a long dream as there were so many things I had to say to her and thank her too, for never giving up, inspite of being unappreciated by the world.
Over the years I've kept the memories of Those jaunty rendezvous That I now reminisce When humour seems subfusc I still embrace the lovely words Of my grandmother That keeps me intact When hindrance hollers The pristine experiences Of receiving laurels By showcasing my talent Aren't engulfed by cobwebs of past Rather are cleansed When adversities dance around me Those lovenotes from my mentors That are more than remarks Serve as resplendent allegories My perspectives and perceptions That are dear to me For the gravitas they hold in today's world The gruntle from photographs Of family outings during childhood Endear the soul, still, so bewitchingly
And the learnings That myriad of people Taught me so dearly Formed reveries of strength That I use to claw My way onto the top Every now and then When all I need is A closure
He was bereft of people Genuine ones For loyalty and love was all he wanted As that's what he dearly wanted to spread Albeit never received in return His principles were of utmost importance But the world wasn't ready for it He wanted to express That hidden voice, behind the cobwebs That encompassed it due to mind's passivity Whomsoever he told, shunned him entirely For their primitive minds weren't ready for it He wanted to break societal shackles To demolish archaic norms And address the Taboos But he was afraid of the criticism he'd receive And then one fine day he saw a door To a land of expression Where others of same sentiment resided And they welcomed him with open arms There he got a quill of magic And weaved poetries and proses Expressing all the emotions Unabashedly and unapologetically Paying no heed to abhorrence Thus making bonds of literature With fellow literary magicians Inferring that the bond became much stronger He could open up Share his thoughts and feelings Write about his deepest thoughts Whilst being unaffected by dogmatic voices Who'd pry on his ability And he received abundant love Something he never expected Shedding his pendantic attribute He became optimistic Staccato of opinions in outer world didn't matter And soon the vortex diminished Of betrayals and heartbreaks For it held no gravitas anymore His journey wasn't over yet It had started, the one that he claimed was Enroute to positivity Hence, he was relieved Breathing the fresh air Oozing out of the words His quill inked And inebriated by the response He received
I know you receive a lot of criticism on a daily basis, some from me as well but deep down I know that you do what you do to keep the lights on this platform alive. So, thank you for everything that you do.
P.S. Thank you so much for all the wishes. I'll forever be grateful for that.
Hugging my dear toys During a night full of fog I rendered a soliloquy Describing my day The jubilant moments And the gloomy ones With utmost zest Envisaging a utopian world Amidst the affable company Of my beloved toys
Filled with memories of childhood Childhood which was the best time Time that'll never come back again Again encompassing me with memories Memories that besotted me optimally
And thus I found solace Inebriated by the days of childhood When none insinuated But only befriended Best era of mankind Innocence showered abundantly And bereft is one of it When age climbs the ladder And pragmatism ruins everything
I am an abandoned building with few birds visiting me after sunset. Sometimes kids enter through the front door to search for lost cricket ball and other times subdued hues of melancholia enters through the doors of past.
I like it during monsoon, when strangers take shelter under my roof as the ferocious thunderstorms outside make it difficult to foresee the path. The initial awkwardness that soon fades as one of them tries to break the ice, after a lot of failed lame attempts.
I still remember all the exquisite ones. The contagious palpable energy that oozed out of their confabulations was indeed endearing. They spoke of adjusting to the city life and the struggles that came with it; about workloads and horrible bosses; relationships and heartbreaks; how this cold rainy weather made both of them crave for a hot cup of coffee and a bowl of delicious Maggie.
Indeed rain is beautiful; It heals one with its cacophony; Brings serenity to an overcrowded place; Offers a picturesque landscape; Makes lovers go obnoxious; And makes poets weave magic through their quills.
I often feel lost being in this stagnant solitude. I was beautiful during my days when people would congest the road to catch a glimpse of my beauty. The stark white windows, the crimson and gold that was draped all over me. With Petunias and Carnations gleaming at the entrance with their aesthetic petals. I miss those days.
I wish of a time bereft of being a hermit. I want people to take shelter under me. I have abundance of love and warmth to offer. But soon they are going to tear me apart in order to make way for a new, more beautiful and a modern one.
Till then I want to look optimistic and hopeful rather than gloomy. I don't want to be known as one of the haunted ones, as they give a preposterous vibe altogether. I want them to remember me for my valiance, to have seen so many changes, witnessing winters and summers, whilst still standing high. And not just an old piece of Art that was too antique to just be better left abandoned.
Yes indeed, though! Nothing is permanent. The only thing permanent is change. Since ages all of us are aware of this popular saying. Petty are those things that we try to remember sometimes. Those nightmares, embarrassments, confrontations, fights, heartbreaks and so on the list goes, creating an unending abyss.
I often think that our mind is like a wild barren secluded land where Wanderers crave to go. They find comfort and tranquility, for there's no one else to get bothered by. And they feel alacrity dancing its way towards them.
They hate being called names or being the target of frivolous derogatory jokes, being thrown into the mud full of innuendos or being on the receiving end of severe hate. The world is a cruel place, there are various voices who feel threatened. By the innocence or charm of these Wanderers as it is a unique gift that only they possess.
But these wanderers don't care whether these voices are valiant gladiators who laugh on there misery with vindictive intentions. The Wanderers only want answers, that make this world a discrepant place. And no matter who or what stands in their way. They will find it. For it is a thing right in front of them. The only deed that is to be done is to decipher it, with the learnings from the experiences each of them had.
Alas! The answer comes levitating, brimming with divine verity. Impermanence it is!
Peace and tranquility seem like a dream to me. So ironical though, as dreams are the reason for my misery. These dreams, they don't allow me to shut my eyes as they fear their existence would never become a reality. They fear they'll be another forgotten chapter. Hence, they pound on my imagination to carve their place.
I'm tired now! Tired of dreaming. Tired of telling myself that the silver lining is just around the corner. Tired of reminding myself that the gazebo of darkness will lead me to my home, to my sunshine. Tired of pacifying myself that this too shall pass. Tired of consoling myself, for this is just a phase.
My heart wants to take control but my head won't leave the throne. I guess I gave too much power to it as now it possesses more than me. Forcing me to relinquish control over my very own body.
As a kid, dreams fascinated me. For how our imagination could construct a world of itself. Where everything goes according to our desire. Nothing to worry about at all. And in this procedure of faking a world, I lost control on the real one.
I have no idea what I want anymore. Do I want to put a smile and believe everything will be fine, or do I want to stay betwixt the cobwebs of the dark attic where I'm a prisoner currently? For I've lost track of everything. Discombobulated to the core.
If I were a tree. A tree that signified promises of perfection. Bearing the fruits of idealism and the buds of purity. What if this universe had thousands of perfect trees with apt arborescent qualities. There'd be no broken bulbs contaminating the sacred environment.
During the days of yore, trees were worshipped as a symbol of virtue. Although, it is a bit subfusc now. As the definition of perfection has taken a drastic change.
For quite a while, not showing one's weakness, being blasphemous, being obnoxious, speaking ill, bullying, indulging in partisanship and chauvinism, formed the core rainbow of discrepant perfection, as poems for the same were proudly recited.
Etching a deep wound on those who were outcasts, like those trees that were unable to bear fruits or flowers, being left forlorn for eternity. Snatching away the strings of their heartbeat.
But the fertilization of trees is different these days. As they don't boast of its fruits possessing the same definition of perfection. The days are different now. It is being comprehended that it isn't necessarily a virtue to be crowned with perfection as it is nothing but an overrated myth.
Hence, a farm or a garden that has imperfect trees or plants is considered vogue. Expressing weaknesses and exposing flaws is considered as audacity. And the same shall prevail.
//Imperfection is the invisible trance with echos of obscured cacophony//
A juxtaposition is created When happiness and sadness Cross paths Clutching each other's arms Smitten by the scent Of past reveries As accusations fly For both are guilty Of tempting their respective hosts Malice is nowhere to be found Since intentions are pure They only want emotions To be the prime factors Pertinent parameters are calculated Thinking about pristine saudade When a bond of love is formed A forbidden fantasy it is Some are regarded as noble And some as sinners Out of those who fall into the abyss Of this never ending cycle Their steps speaking volumes Creating a story out of everything Time is a scarcity But the moment is to be lived Sadness kisses happiness As blasphemy is the last thing both want Their affair will never last Hence it is not to take place Albeit why should they care about it Intoxicated are both As the only thing that matters to them Is that very moment That they'll hold onto For eternity Embracing it For they left a part of themselves In that memory That will then be categorised as Both happy and sad
I wish there was a vintage rustic telephone booth wherein we could just blurt out all our deepest and darkest secrets. Relieving us from this dangling sword above our head that once coercively prohibited us from letting the words flow from our mouth.
Most of us have this annoying habit of blabbering things just in order to please our audience. To orchestrate a fake mellifluous rendition of lies, for the truth might upset them and we'd be left forlorn. That is what we fear, loneliness.
We sing the same lullaby to pacify our inner selves, sleeping, not peacefully, but with a sense of caution. Wishing that there was some kind of elixir that'd help us relinquish this nugatory habit of ours. But even though such potion is right there in front of us, we incline more towards ignoring it not because we are audacious enough to endure the setbacks, but the cowardly ruler inside our mind refuses to bow down and still please the people who don't even care.
Sometimes I feel like shouting at the top of my voice and let go every chest of drawers that I'd locked all this time, not fearing this feeling of being alone. I want to tell them that hope feels like a phone call to an ex-lover. That sunshine tastes like liberty as I've released those inner demons to a yonder land where iridescent unicorns heal them with alacrity. And moonlight smells like the sweat of a passionate lover who allows you to hover with ebullience during the daytime and protects you in the night showering the scintillating mangata amidst sheer darkness onto the sea of your feelings. Giving a fair chance to those unheard voices inside you.
Speak out! Dial the numbers of your past and call Anxiety. Telling her that she's more of a muse. Catch-up with those quixotic Nightmares who tried their best to haunt you in a retrospectively daunting journey. Laugh your heart out reminiscing the jaunty rendezvous with Humiliation who never left an opportunity to pull your leg making everyone else laugh, and sometimes you too. There are a myriad of compadres in the pool of your past, waiting for their turn to meet you again. Perpetually reminding you about their existence. Proclaim them as the pearls of your present. As they are the reason for the construction of the current You.
Never let them take a detour. Keep them close, as a souvenir of the journey that you've had. Enameling them onto the blank spots of your broken crown. Let it be broken, for perfect crowns never stay for too long as the novelty fades. But the ones that are broken have the opportunity to mend its cracks.
Thus, ensuring a sesquipedalian longevity. Ironically so.
If I could only stick the broken stems together that once supported the foundation of my life and obstruct a tedious process of the dying of summer and letting the cold and dark winter take away my sanity through its creepy grasp.
To face the fatalities, I cut down all the thorns. As they often hurt the ones who wanted to bloom by my side. Thus, I was left vulnerable, without my armour.
How foolish of me to think that detachment could help me cope up with the nosedive I was experiencing. When a flower is left forlorn, segregated from the fragrance of fellow buds, it is an arduous task to survive. To be away from the pack, all alone.
To stride into the cerulean caelum being inebriated by the azure, one feels blessed. Watching the silhouettes of orphic hues. The journey comes to a halt when the melancholic grey encompasses the sky. One suffers a nosedive. And it hits hard.
There aren't any dew drops that kiss you every morning, a zephyr that helps you relinquish the pain, and the dear petrichor that brings peace and serenity. All one has are the scissors of vanquish. Cutting every pulchritudinous memory that once made you feel valiant.
The beginning and the end of a nosedive is in our hands. The power to manipulate it rests with none, but us. To give it a proper ending, or to not give it an ending. Leaving various blanks to fill, according to one's desires. Or to forget that there ever was a nosedive.
//I regarded it as if it had happened years before, or as if it had happened to someone else, or as if I had only heard of it, or as if I had only forgotten about it// The Castle (Franz Kafka).
Bestowing one the power to change everything. And to look beyond the horizons of self-doubt and the cimmerian sky. Towards a yonder land where one is about to bloom, among fellow buds. With just the apt avidity.
eireneThis post has my heart! You know the whole 26 years of my life got reflected in this single post. I agree to each and every line that you have written. It felt as if you spoke my heart out. So much overwhelmed that I am, i wish I could save this post. I read it thrice and propose to read it everyday. ❤️
the_speccy_outsider@eirene Happy to know that you resonated with it. I guess it is the story of most of us. Falling down and then standing up again to face the hurdles. Thanks a lot for the read and words!
I had a knack for reading and therefore was able to express my thoughts and perceptions in words. Something that sounds easy but isn't. Used to post my opinions on various topics and that's when some of my teachers, peers and relatives thought I could be a writer. I would laugh my heart out at the mention of this thought. Me? A writer? I don't think I've faced enough heartbreaks to be one.
I used to think that being a writer or a poet one needs to have that deep pain or psyche. Otherwise whatever you compose might be mundane and not seem effective.
But I thank my cousin sister! Who told me about this platform. She was the one who encouraged me to post my writeups. And since there was nothing better to do during lockdown, I thought I should give this a try. And Thank God, I did! For I realised, it's not always about the pain, or the love, or the romance. There are a staccato of topics one can write on. And all this happened because of a gem that came into my life, Mirakee.
Where I found various budding writers/ poets. Some established ones and then there were some who just gave me jaw-dropping moments, as not only was I able to feel those words but they touched my heart, going deep inside creating a humongous impact.
Today I want to thank each and every writer/ poet whose work I read or who read and appreciated my work. It made me realise I had the potential and most importantly I had that psyche, not of all the pain, but of resonance. From The Peasant to Beautiful Mornings, I have cherished each and every moment and I plan on doing that as long as possible. I'm glad that I don't have a monotonous way of writing and that I do have the ability to take on diverse topics and I want to do so taking inspiration from my fellow Mirakeens.
//And then I found an elixir Mirakee it was Devouring it I became divine Making me etch the words Writer/ Poet Pristinely on my heart//
Mirakee! I can't thank you enough for giving me my gift in advance. And I will wait for more of them. Writersnetwork! you truly are a gem. Reading and appreciating a plethora of posts everyday is not a joke. And you do that with so much dignity and elan. Carolyn Ma'am! You are the most purest soul I've met here. Your kindness for fellow artists is something that I want to imbibe. And we miss you a lot, please come back! And to my constants, thank you so very much for being the amazing humans that you all are and I wish to make more such friends from here on.
A book For me Is not just An inanimate object I rather consider it As a companion Imparting wisdom Through the stories Of Women and Men Revelatory, glorious, fiesty Or vulnerable, volatile, anarchic
Helping me To escape reality And open doors To unknown locations Showering meteors Of poetic verses Teaching me magic or fighting Providing me clandestine insights In order to decipher The meaning Not of the words But those blanks or spaces In between them For those are the primary notions An author wants The reader To feel
Sometimes, I feel like Hope is a classic novel with clichéd words, which I'm tired of reading over and over again. But am I really tired though? As I still yearn to open that novel when fear, anxiety or self-doubt are at their pestilential best.
Reading Hope is a rigmarole, yet I'm intoxicated by its magic. It does its work with precision. I've doubted it several times, denigrated its existence, thought of it as a ludicrous belief that makes a person go berserk, if not acquired. But one can't acquire hope, its unattainable. It can only be embraced, nurtured and felt.
I truly believe that we are the authors of the epistolary of Hope. Some make it an antagonist, some show it in a good light. For others it is just a supporting or minor character but very few show it as the protagonist. They fear that they'll be judged of the predicament they created, for Hope is rambunctious and not many can handle its volatility. It can give you false beliefs and you may never be able to show fortitude. Then one will always say how garrulous the affair of Hope is.
But no! I want Hope to be my protagonist with a picaresque story containing a conjunction of clichéd words. It is the only stagnant feeling that I have had with me over the years. A belief, a faith, a place of worship and complaints. Hope never left me forlorn. It is still pristine, etched into my heart and mind. I may still write a sesquipedalian piece about Hope, inebriated in its beauty. With chapters elucidating my relationship with it. And after I finish it, I'll be sipping coffee, reminiscing the experience. Yet again, giving it a read, but this time it'll be my very own creation.
As Hope is The only light that shines during sheer darkness, The only ray of sunshine after the dawn, The only optimism in a pessimistic world, The only constant around a host of backstabbers, And the only genuine feeling amidst all the forcibly fake ones.