What Ik journal means to write your heart out agar life k kachara maslay journal m likhrhy to bhai tm p Allah hi hafiz hai better h apnay journal ko more like a kch bh bkwas jaga banao ta k overthinking s nijaat milay
Wn bhai muaazratkhwan hyn aap s but apunko ese hi likhnay ka sooj rha aajkl. Aap lagay rhye , bahut achay s apna kaam krrhy aajkl . (Zara pod ka matlab miraquill chacha ko explain krdynga lgta h wo bhool gy hyn)
October arrived early this morning, A superstar in gucci gold robes, Whispering sweet promises of a full stacked granary before the Sun's nightly slumber. My thoughts wander towards the empyrean, a flamboyant enchantress dressed in cobalt blue, she floats and sings the bashing Sun a serenade, I think I feel the tip of my ears burning. The birds, in jubilation, breaks into a chorus of hallelujahs, a tune that sets my heart racing. It is morning like this Peace finds me, beneath the wizened tree in sweet repose, when the Earth's a tranquil mother, waking to the sound of her children's laughter. She smells of damp soil and rosemary thyme, a concoction my nostrils in acceptance sniffs to. And so I sit in awe, tasting the bliss of solitude on my tongue's tip while the lone leaf the old tree clings to, dreams of a spring that was promised to him.
A coat of nut can expound the last fallen leaf of my nonage as it 'sounds' of an unknown destruction when collided some people's guffaws with its edges and sides but the hard hindrance I once constructed on the tip of my chin now goffered into a garth of dead chrysanthemums
My maternal grandfather always oven-baked my birthday cakes at 350°F that 'smell' of chocolate and vanilla seldom awe-inspired me, But today when I baked some mournful mornings of monsoon at this temperature they smouldered and when I 'touched' their texture a morningstar of despondency shone in the pit of my stomach
At the 14th cuckoo of my life's alarm clock a folded bag of fabrics sewed with thorns of roses the tooth fairy kept under my pillow I wilted as I 'sighted' my physique turned like ripen mango pulpy and plump an anxiety and fear started to live as residents of my heart the menstrual trauma with each day getting harassed from winds of affliction and dominance I started to sleep on the couch of insomniac ephialtes
Darkness marauded my life when heartbreaks carved an address board of my extant with minuscule alphabets 'a bedlam of poetry' two termites nibbled my mouth and I 'tasted' smoke not of cigars or magmas but of dust later to know death was the only fire which quenched off my thirst of trust by knocking at my door daily when even every line of my palms betrayed me it crowned me with headstone and bouquet of hyacinths and I lived the hour of death with tranquility.