I've heard a lot about you since my childhood. I've heard your serene beauty is capable of healing my doleful heart and the fears it carries since ages. I've heard the sun shines brighter for you than anywhere else. I've heard that your night sky carries an extra constellation called 'hope'. I've heard that grass on your skin is greener and tender just like your pure soul. I've heard that you embrace everyone's flaws.
I've heard your air carries a spectrum of joy reflected through the eyes of humans residing upon you. I've heard your fragrance is better than the sweetest flowers I've ever cherished. I've heard water in your brooks flows like metaphors in a Shakespeare's sonnet. I've heard your golden sunrises and scarlet sunsets are uniquely mystical.
I've heard the seasons change differently for you. I've heard your winters are as white as the pages of my new journal and yearn for someone to paint them. I've heard your spring is calm and the cuckoo bird sings unnatural melodies for you. I've heard your summers overflow with scorching heat but the young love blooming in your lap is pious. I've heard the fall makes all the creatures want to spend the entire eternity in your unspoiled beauteous abode.
I wish to memorize every inch of you thence write infinite poesies for you.
'What comfort do we find in silence?' I think as I lay my head on the old, creaky wooden floor of my room. I gaze at the ceiling and hear the melancholic whirring of the ill rotating fan. The dim light of the dying candle flame suddenly catches my attention but I let it die anyway. I hear the dogs barking in a distance as if they don't like this silence like I do. Silence is dark and carries the sound of the clock striking every second to make me realize that my life is decaying slowly, I am decaying slowly. The empty pages of my notebook start fluttering as the wind whispers in their ears. But the overthinking poet in me is silent. My words are silent thence my poetries empty. But this is comfortable, the silence, the darkness, the emptiness because it reminds me of how I belong to no one but myself, of how this world is just a stage and I'm a puppet, a lonesome poetic puppet. A spider climbs upon my chest, I think about how innocent it is to climb upon me and die. I think about how one day I'll be dead and only silence will visit me on my grave. Silence is not just comfortable, it's the friend who'll stick around till after eternity.
Life- a short word but a long journey filled with beginnings and ends. It's beautiful how we start with merely two cells which keep growing till we die.
/ how you start doesn't signify when you start does and be careful into what you may grow/
I still remember science class of 8th grade when our teacher taught us about the process of metamorphosis in which a caterpillar emerges out of an egg and it's life ends and gives a butterfly wings to fly.
/ don't worry about what end might be, work towards future by dedicating your body and soul to the present /
Everyday dusk arrives to mark the end of the day but it is followed by the dawn announcing the beginning of a new one. Our life is divided into small units- childhood, teenage, adulthood and old age to tell us that every moment is a new chance to make our existence remarkable till we cease to exist.
/ in the vast race of human life, you're a survivor, you're a winner, you're the universe /
A writer dies, leaving behind his legacy in the form of words he wrote all his life and they start breathing, louder than he ever did. As the songwriter John Lennon wrote " If it's not okay, it's not the end", it's never just an end, the beginning always traces it's steps.
/ end and beginning are corollary to one another, if you're born of out of a broken egg, maybe because you're meant to fly with feather /
You had those kind of feelings for her, the kind that I had for you, the kind that seems beautiful like fluttering butterflies in my garden, the kind that lays you bare and resurrects your heart into a lover, the kind that makes you write poetries at three AM with beguiling metaphors and melodies, the kind that makes you apologize even if it's not your fault, the kind that makes you brave and you wear your heart on sleeves, the kind that completely purifies your soul and senses, the kind that makes you patient and gentle as a human, the kind that makes you want to believe in magic and it's powers, the kind that is the reason about all the poetries ever written, the kind that I'd call love but it's really just another form of pain, but eventually it's the kind that's totally dangerous, the kind that hurts you and destroys you, the kind that makes you want to scream and die, the kind that has a consequence called 'heartbreak'.