Miraquill
The shadows that are
on the next page
from the previous chapter
make me realize that
in any case
I'll have a part of you
left inside me
until the end
of either the book
or me.
©nachiketa
nachiketa
www.medium.com/@NachiketaVadera
18, footballer, avid reader and movie goer. I love words. ig: nachiketa_vadera
Grid View
List View
Reposts
-
-
nachiketa
187w
Acceptance
The prime goal of an individual, from the beginning of time, is to be immortal.
From a young age, humans have come to accept the notion of their death as inevitability. Even if we do not wish to die, we understand that death comes to all in the end. Of course, that isn't to say that we will just roll over and die quietly. Perhaps that is why we humans are so innovative, because we understand our lives move far too fast. We never settle down or stand still, always find ways to move forward, to create a legacy so that when the time comes for us, we are granted a peculiar form of immortality.
Immortality through remembrance.
©nachiketa -
In this movement
And for all movements
Just you and me
The two of us
And the stories
Around us.
In this life
And for all lives to come
Just the two of us
And the stars
Above us.
©nachiketa -
At the first ray of moonlight
he goes out for a swim
in the river that fades away
like the figment of his dreams.
He starts to swim upstream
to find out where the river starts
only to find himself
lost in his beloveds heart.
He looks around everywhere
eyes darting to every corner
simply to find her nowhere
no even at the bottom of her heart.
And so day after day
he goes back up the stream
only to find out that
she is nowhere to be seen.
Hence, for an eternity
he tried to sought her out
but never thought to look for her
inside his own dammed heart.
©nachiketa -
Sometimes life has a filter over it
Mundane things
like long car rides or
lazy days on the beach
Seem to become important
Songs and scents will ignite
the memories years later
and maybe
I won't remember every tiny detail
But I will remember how I felt
Absolutely content.
©nachiketa -
If people
were named
after places
I would call
you home
and no matter
where or how
lost I was,
I'd always
find my way
back to you.
©nachiketa -
nachiketa
197w
You lie on your bed
staring at the ceiling
crying because your heart aches
Never before have you felt
the beating of your heart
in your chest
in your fingers
Everything feels slow
and serene and beautiful
Because you fell
Because you can't understand emotions
Because your brain knows it's stupid
Because you know from the stories
That what you feel is love
But your heart refuses to believe it
And so you lie
Crying
Wishing that you had love
But not understanding heartbreak.
©nachiketa -
nachiketa
232w
Read More
To every woman out there.
Special thanks to @she_writes for giving me a chance to collaborate with her again this year. Aishwarya, you are a true inspiration.
#WomensDay #2018
@writersnetwork @readwriteunite @shrry_hurryHERo
Have you seen this movie
that stars a woman as the lead,
portrayed as a silent fighter
a truly fierce role indeed.
Tears roll down her cheek
for most of her part
but she doesn't complain a bit
just steels up her weary heart.
She collects her tears
and stores them in different jars,
labeled often as 'My Struggles'
that set up an entirely different bar.
She hopes that if someone sees them
they would feel her pain
and free her from this jail
but her tries predominantly go in vain.
For the world just sees her skin
and some of her body parts,
but most fail to see her soul
where the jars are falling apart.
We have all seen this movie
aptly named 'HER Life',
which never wins any awards
but still gives out frights.
We better give it some credit now
and God knows it's long overdue,
for no matter how strong the lead is
everyone needs a supporting cast.
©nachiketa
In collaboration with: Aishwarya Roy (@she_writes) -
love is this lacework in my veins
i cannot unravel with my own hands,
i need yours around mine during these twenty-two degree
afternoons to unpick every thread,
need your hands to weave themselves
into my veins.
your fingers reach for me,
they are tangled in my nerves and
i cannot pick them apart because you
have become part of me.
these gossamer threads can no longer
hold crumpled tissues and eyes cried red and swollen,
they only want to hold what they never can but always have,
these strands of wild longing coalescing in wind and braid,
your warmth around the back of my neck where
even the morning chill cannot reach.
i feel nothing and yet everything when you are not here,
i cry myself to sleep,
keep open army knives on standby,
and draw more crescent moons
in tired palms that
want to taste yours.
©nachiketa -
nachiketa
237w
There's a flame still burning between them
It's very faint
Almost invisible
But they do still care for one another
She's holding back to protect her heart
He'll do anything to move on
Yet neither of them will fully let go
Maybe they are supposed to
Maybe they aren't
But the fire is still burning
Dwindling down
Waiting for someone
To add kindling
Or pour water on it all.
©nachiketa
-
she_writes
232w
Read More"It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally."
-Maya Angelou.
To all my lovely ladies out there.
Happy Women's day! ♥
A post quite close to my heart. For it speaks of me. It speaks of us. Of the beautiful mess we all are. ��
Special thanks to @nachiketa for inspiring me so much, that I came up with this post. Check out his lovely piece written on the occasion of Women's Day, too. ❤
#womensday#2018
@readwriteunite @mirakee @writersnetwork @mirakee_reposter @writersofmirakee #MirakeeWorld #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #reposter#podShe
36-24-36.
A perfectly carved hourglass body,
Like that of two-dimensional photoshopped models,
Gracing any billboard or magazine cover.
Lips carefully tinted red.
Skin fair and flawless.
Wearing a form fitting dress
Of lacy hot pink.
Well, she has none.
She, is a mess, of burning chaos.
She stumbles on stars,
And wears the prettiest scars.
She has every freckle you hate,
And every scar you feel ashamed of.
She collapses,
And crumbles,
Marking not her destruction,
But her birth.
She wears her flaws,
Like a pair of
6 inch high stilettos.
They hurt,
But she'd make the pain look beautiful.
A perfectly put together mess she is.
She is synonymous for war.
Her hair reeks
Of rebellious streaks.
There's ash
Caked beneath her fingernails.
She is war.
There's no army more fierce than womanhood.
No breastplate more unfathomable than a woman's love.
She is a woman. With a notepad.
Scribbling battles onto paper.
Her brown skin matches with your favourite coffee.
She talks about stars and the night sky,
And gets high on liquid sunsets.
You take trips down her body,
And talk about the shape of her lips,
The outline of her clavicle,
But do you see beyond?
Her pupils dilate seeing racing cars.
Her earthy eyes
Hold all wilderness.
She unhooks the bra,
And bites her bare lips.
Her overwhelming presence
Sends chills down your spine,
Trickling all the way down
Into your deep waters,
And make tides rise.
She isn't intimidating.
But you're intimidated.
There's a difference.
She is a girl,
Not made of sugar, spice
And everything nice,
But with pieces of light, love,
History, stars- glued together with
Touches, smells, music and words.
A girl
Made of love,
And every fracture caused by
The lack of it.
But because of them,
She doubts her own liberation.
Questions her own limitations.
She dresses herself up in their guilt,
And pretend that it looks
Rather good on her.
Her opinions are like that old satin dress,
In a dark corner of your wardrobe.
Wrinkled, so far gone.
Never talked about.
Skinned knees,
Broken heels.
She wears a little-black-dress,
And tells that the bruises on her skin
Are because she slipped and fell.
Her voice is like music under a summer breeze,
Almost lost against the noise
Of the Monday morning traffic.
An outsider in her own country,
She seeks justice from a woman
Who wears a blindfold,
And turns a blind eye.
But she slays her own dragons,
And walks through fire.
She burns in stamps and labels, and
Her whole body goes up like a pyre.
She isn't just strong enough to withstand the storm.
She IS the storm.
She's art,
That doesn't need metaphors or abstract lines.
She is war,
Mess,
Madness,
And everything chaotic you see.
She has been you.
She has been me.
-Aishwarya Roy.
