So, this is from a different pov. usually when people change, and lose a lover- in that time period, it's often labeled as 'I changed and he/she wasn't okay with me changing' which is true most of the times (I've been there) but then sometimes, when you are in this phase of changing - you yourself forget the person who loves you because of all the new flowers around you and it's partially you who lost them, and they tried but couldn't keep up with your pace for they are only humans.
Umm, quite senseless but i am trying to get back to writing. XD
Bear with it, please? I wrote this while traveling through the mountains and self-realizations so it might not make sense? Because it's a cluster of thoughts of sorts.
Blues and orange
In my room, the blue light flickers on the ceiling as my head still spins into small spirals of chaos occasionally, the noise in my head is interrupted by that of the river outside the hotel window crashing against rocks and taking with it bits and pieces of people that sit with their feet in the cold rushing water My stomach churns with the thought of the river, taking me away to the other end; the end where the sky begins, and sun goes to sleep, where the sky is not blue, neither grey
Outside my window, there is a man standing by the angry river in the darkness with nothing but a far away street light, shimmering looking at something far away in the woods and every now and then he'd nod to the wild forest that spread throughout, he'd nod as if he's talking to the trees and i wondered what is the man in orange shirt talking to the trees about
My feeble feet carried me with shaken steps towards the man where I stood beside him and followed his eyes into the forest and breathed into the silence
Somehow, in the silent night, and a familiar stranger my heart chose to find it's lost peace/piece
A stranger, who looked at me once and smiled which I didnt reciprocate and he didn't mind
// And we heard the forest sleep //
Until, the first ray of sunshine found it's way to the snowy mountain tops and the orange spread gloriously through the sky
and he left
and I stayed
until the sky was bright, and had forgotten it was ever dark
The wind was now rising so I set off to a new journey and I knew it in my heart nothing will ever be the same again; nothing ever stays the same.
//East, West, South or North makes little difference. No matter what your destination, just be sure to make every journey, a journey within. If you travel within, you’ll travel the whole wide world and beyond.// -Elif Shafak
Before you begin to write, understand- poetry is not about fancy words but rugged souls and raw feelings//
A poem begins with an awkward chuckle as restless hands shift the pen to and fro in their palms while eyes search for a reason in the darkness surrounding them; but once the ears adjust to the roars and throbs of the ocean waves and east winds, those eyes will rest upon a butterfly sitting by the field of peonies and the poem will settle on your skin naked and vulnerable with metaphors engraved within and a few veiled meanings hidden beneath the blues
A poem loses itself halfway down the page into a spiral, just like this one and when it'll be hard to spot it's purpose it will try to merge with the shades of someone else's art trying to disappear like a chameleon for cowardice lies in all of us so hold onto it and paint it with something of your own; a poem is not always clear skies, sometimes it is the myriad of colours in a sunset or all the greys in a storm but most of all, the poem is you
A poem never ends, it is simply left unheard but it is always there, waiting to be written again another evening when the hearts are in pain and art needs a rebirth without a death of it's own.
I am wearing a yellow dress today and he tells me that I look like sunshine and smell of lilacs, with my hair falling on my shoulders he slightly brushes them before tucking them behind my ear and rests his hand on my cheek. I smile, with my pale lips as if I have seen a rainbow but as I try to place my hand on his, I do not find it there. He smiles at me and I stare in his black eyes looking for answers within the stars that live beneath those lashes but slowly it turns into a void and he begins disappearing into thin air until he becomes one with the wind and leaves me there, by the window, alone with an ache in my stomach with the butterflies starting to rot and yet I long for more.
I am wearing a yellow dress today but all I see is blue and all I feel is grey.
#picturec this is how you turn a perfectly soothing picture into something sad.
We are here at the edge of December. There's something ironically warm about this month. Perhaps it's the cold air, the seasonal cheer, a new batch of hop(e)s and cheesy, melting togetherness.
It has been my yearly ritual to do one post a day, consecutively for all 31 days of December. Last year's theme was 31 letters. This year's theme, we'll know tomorrow.
I nudge you to join me in this endeavour. Pick your own kind of challenge. It doesn't necessarily have to do with writing. It doesn't have to be a big task either. Anything. But something that should make you stretch your limits, just a little extra. Try your best to stick with it and keep the streak going as long as you can. You might fall off the track, but get back up and jump right back in.
Get creative and write me a comment when you decide to join in. Let me know what would be your personal challenge. Together we can hustle and huddle through it, and step into 2022 with the right foot forward.
nobody knows, how sleeping with a toothache, would slowly give way to sleeping with an aching heart. things turn to other things, potentially worse, men turn to monsters — the monster is a liar, and, I've been lying to nobody but myself, ever since the days inside my mother's womb.
they say that it is way too late to head back for home; and, I've never cried on the bathroom floor, I've never thought of bleaching my hair blue, I've never thought of sui- monsters are liars, that's what my father used to say — monsters are liars, and, they hold my tongue whenever I think of burning our pictures in the bonfire.
spent one and a half of the summer, trying to climb the branches of a tree; the bliss wore off, the joy didn't last for long : as soon as the climb came to an end, I was scared of falling down again.
spent one and a half of the winter, on crutches : left limb in the cast, and, right one down the rabbit hole; the same hole where my mind went, and still goes whenever there is a kissing scene in a movie — help me, help me, help me.
and, out of all the things that I would do to get a good night's sleep; growing bitter to your touch was the first thing that I needed to do, however, it was the last thing that I wanted to. are you not entertained ? did you not have your part of the fun ? wasn't it too quick of you, to call it quits ? if you admitted to having fun, why would you point me to the exit sign ?
(you are always going to have your way : might as well fill out the next line, without my help).
He doesn't love me the way people love. Like staying together, going on dates or cheek kisses. Partially because we live 1500 kilometres away but partially because not once does he show me off on his socials.
I think I'm too rapt in the worldly orders of it all that sometimes my eyes cloud with judgement of the world. Of the society. And not us. But I don't think I can sustain like this. Then why do I?
Because, because, because, I'm the first one he tells about the new show he watches. I'm the first one who gets to know his grades, his new friends. Because he calls me venting about the chronicles of his neighbours' cat. Also because, he calms me when I'm most anxious. About uni, about life about anything for that matter.