dropsofvanilla

[dropsofvanilla]

sometimes it’s really hard to let go. of friends, of family, of a partner. it’s college now and one goes through a crisis of relationships.

one of my best friends (i have only two), once sent me an instagram reel after my break up saying: “there are more people going to come who will love you.”— it didn’t make much sense then, but it does now. slowly but surely there are new pages being written (i can already see one’s page having darker ink than the others) and it feels warm.

it was just last week when there were rapid texts sent to one saying: “is she happier without me?”, “should i leave her alone?”, “maybe it was never-“ — but i distinctly remember cutting off my thought process then and there. (i’ve realized that i need the both of them too much and i’ve made peace with it; we talk so much more now and i absolutely love it)

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to her,

I’m sure you’ll read this one day, when you click on my account and go to my page, and suddenly discover this new post. When you would re-read our chats together over here and maybe hopefully smile, just as I do every single time.

You are, what I would love to call, a burst of baby breaths. Do you know what it means? (everlasting love)

I’m crying while writing this, and it’s been a long time since I’ve cried for a person. Do you know, all these months of having nothing much to do and I’ve refused to think about leaving you? I’ve refused to think about how far apart we may be, refused to think about the both of us meeting new people, refused to think about how I won’t see you often. (I’m sorry, but all this time, I wasn’t that brave to answer these questions)

You smile so prettily do you know? I find myself go quiet so many times when you’re talking and laughing and smiling, all because I’m looking at you. (There are times when I thank everything for meeting you)

All these years, and you’re my first friend who actually listened to me. The first one to somehow take all of me and make some sort of sense of it. In a way, you’re some of my most beautiful firsts. (Thank you for holding my hand)

You are, in your deepest essence for me, a home. And I truly don’t know how else to describe it, or say it even in proper sentences. But somehow you fit into me so perfectly. (I like to think that we understand each other even without words)

You once said you wanted stability in your life. I want you to know, that you offer that to other people. You offer a sense of rooting, a sense of ‘I got you’ that I know I’ll never get anywhere else. (Offering your dream, what can possibly be more spectacular than that?)

with lots of love,

akshi

[dropsofvanilla]

hey bitch

hey girlieee ;)

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Dandelions aren’t picked out by themselves. The wind is just a medium and it flows, keeps flowing, waits for none. It’s probably the dandelions right, which decide when to leave carrying their burden? They leave home.

But really, is home a where?

What if home’s a when? What if home was built upon rocks and splattered with beige with hints of green all in a second? And you realize you’ve worked too hard, you’ve spent too long (even in a second) and your hands are muddy and you can’t seem to keep the beige pristine.

“But what’s a second compared to a decade?”

“A piece of confetti”

‘Home’, you keep echoing the word, when you can’t find one around you and you selfishly search for one. The dandelions in your hair can’t seem to stay put and you’re scared to loose them and you gasp and run and trip and oh my, red blood there.

So when the grand clock’s hands seem to rest with a bleak offer of pity, you’re desperate and you welcome it.

“I’m loosing mine, I’m loosing my home”

“Where is it?”

“With them, it’s with them”

“And?”

“I can’t seem to hold it, they’re taking it away and away and I’m left in the cold and I cannot- I don’t think they want me to stay”

“Were the seconds good?”

“Beautiful”- and you’re not crying, you’re not wailing like before - “there has nothing been more poetic”

“But the house still stands.”

“It’s getting muddy” - crack in the voice - “I have to find a new one, I don’t want to lose”

“Selfish aren’t you?”

“I’m a demon, but please, please, give me a place, I can’t be threading dandelion crowns again”

So the clock gives, you take, false, cruel sympathy and your shoulders slouch with the burden.

Home isn’t a where or when.

The dandelions settle on the other’s hair.

#poetry #tumblr poetry #original poetry #poem #poets on tumblr #aesthetic quote #original writing #aesthetic poetry #quote #story #short story #original poets on tumblr #original story

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Her.

Legs dangle on the edge, Front, back, front, back, heels occasionally hitting the same crack. Her eyes skim the view in front of her and she sighs. ‘What if?’ she finds herself thinking and she can’t help but laugh. The same though, again and again and again. 

It was afternoon. Her languid feet had already taken her up the terrace and with a wobble of her lips (sadness or fear?) she had bravely shifted her legs to the other side and with her back against nothing but air and with a shiver in her bones, she watched. It was her first time doing this, this sort of daring adventures she couldn’t have done until now, not alone, not with the risk of falling and falling (would that be better though?), but the now was different, the now was as unpredictable as the next rains and she caught herself thinking if he would like this. If he would sit next to her like this if she asked him, if he would have rolled his eyes at her and those damned eyes would crinkle as if he had just woken up and held her hand. ‘No, he would give a kiss before’ and honestly, that thought made her angrier. 

Monsoon replaced their autumns. In their place, autumn didn’t even exist, it was unpredictable rains with hailstones when the clouds felt like it, but no one cared. Not when the rains over here were kinder than the rest, not when the plants seemed to sing in harmony even with the droplets falling and she knew that it was devastatingly beautiful to sit on the floor, back against the open door and think, just think. 

‘Would that day ever come again?’

It was late. Sagging shoulders, aching bones, spasming muscles, sore, puffy eyes, ragged breaths and she couldn’t breathe. Nothing may have been worth it in the end, but for some reason when the bell rang clearly, loudly, she tilted her head up. She knew she’s a mess, she knew that whatever whoever may say would be met with her tongue (she would eventually apologise which is honestly a bigger pain), ‘leave me, leave, don’t come here, stop, stop, STOP’. Self-pity is a double edged sword and she learned it a long time ago but she was still met with shaking hands. ‘I’ll take that mind with mine’ Probably that was the biggest lie and the hardest truth she heard from him.

They had different stories, different characters, different voids made them (even infinities are different) and still they probably had one string to attach themselves to. It was black with gold and red threaded in, a rich colour spasm. Pretty words, pretty colours, dark meanings, dark threads, shiny eyes (which emotion is this?), shiny daggers. She knew what this was the moment the thread formed, the thread now torn and tattered in edges but still not broken. She knew that this was a case of perfection but not satisfaction, more, more, more. 

They would never end up...

It would.....

.............eventually fade........

................where would the gold go?.........

So as she sat thinking about all of this on the ledge, she knew that she could fly away, far, far away. She knew that if she searched she could bring back the gold, that no more would there be empty sentences containing the word ‘love’. 

It was afternoon. Footsteps behind her and she sucked in her breath. A hand against her shoulder and she knew he was crying, for once, just this once, he was crying, shivering, did he know what he was doing?

And then it exploded, the gold as glitter, the black as shards, the red as droplets and she didn’t know whose was whose. He’s a difficult man with the mind of tumbling galaxies and a whisper of the soul and she wondered if he would ever realize that she couldn’t give him too much. She couldn’t give him her everything and she didn’t cry. She wanted her more, she wanted her labyrinths, whatever she was entitled to. 

Everyone is sad, but it’s still afternoon. It’s still unfair. It’s still cruel and she didn’t know how to feel about it. So she simply gave her soft smile again, she kissed his knuckles and moved her legs to the other side and she wondered if she did the right thing. Here is a person whose sky has been wrangled with, whose breaths have been stolen and he still stood the test of time didn’t he? (him? his soul? his mind? or his heart?....

.....or not him at all?. ‘A facade’ and she laughs with such spite and sadness in her mind that she hopes he doesn’t hear them)

She didn’t try to wipe his tears, she didn’t say a thing, did she know what she was doing? Did he think she was going to do it? Did he think she wouldn’t stick around to see how those threads snap?

‘We’re all sad’

It was afternoon and she kissed him.

#original story #original content #what even the fuck is this #original writing #poetry #story #heartbreak #original poetry #artists on tumblr #tumblr poetry #tumblr stories #short story #short poetry #romance

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Being frazzled isn’t a nice experience. You’re thoughts are haywire and you don’t know what you want anymore. Your words come out wrong, and you make mistakes with the way you think. It’s even more disturbing if it’s during an argument, because your feelings take over too and now there’s a mental alliance formed that’s bound to take you down.

And the aftermath hurts because you’ve thought in a way you shouldn’t have, and you’ve made your point in ways that are untrue and not to be blamed. The aftermath is quite empty, it’s this grey area that has been dipped into the ocean blue, somewhere but nowhere.

But you understand where you went wrong and that’s probably the only good thing that comes out of being frazzled. Slowly that blue seeps into you and the grey paints your landscape of being known. You know you went wrong. You dip your own paint brushes into cans of paint and colour your own grey landscape but you don’t touch the blue which taught you.

You realise that you paint upon the grey because it’s the most uncertain thing, you don’t touch the blue because it’s probably the exact opposite.

You’ve danced in grey your whole life, what if it’s time to switch colours?

Blue has better shades anyway.

#poetry #quote #poem #original poetry #aesthetic words #poets corner #poets on tumblr #original work #original writing #writing #writers #writers on tumblr #colours

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a letter.

To whomsoever this may concern,

Probably no one will ever read this, probably this letter will stay on my blog until someone stumbles upon this. It’s terribly hard to bring out the other person isn’t it? And I’m not talking about the dark side or whatever, your other person may be funny, sad, difficult, angry, cruel, blissful, or all of the above. Another you that you’ve forced and thumped into the unconscious mind. For one too many, I’m a golden person, one who is always kind, who does her work, who’s humble, who’s funny and will take care of the people surrounding her and I’ve realized that while taking all of those personality quizzes I was wrong.

My greatest strength isn’t creativity, it’s kindness. It’s my biggest weakness too and probably it’ll pull me down so deep that I’ll never resurface again, because “I was just too kind”.

To the person who is reading this, someone who knows me or doesn’t know me at all, I’m sorry. Here is me unfiltered, the other person that I’ve pounded time and time again. 

I’m petty. I don’t answer to texts sometimes the moment you type it out and hit send even though I want to because you didn’t answer immediately. I use tit-for-tat one too many times and I make sure that what you did to me comes back to you in some way.

I’m selfish. About my food, about my things and the people I care about. I honestly don’t like to share.

I read too much into people. Even thought the least of their thoughts is about me, I think they’re angry or sad at me, destructive influence on myself. I think I’ve irritated a lot of people by asking too much into the situation because I can’t bare someone being down.

I’m insecure. About myself and about the people I love. Somewhere I know that probably I’ll never be enough until I meet my own expectations at least once. The thought of being run over and someone else being chosen over fills me with this unknown and bitter, horribly bitter tears and sadness. 

I project my anger and annoyance at the wrong people sometimes and probably that makes me the actual monster. They don’t deserve it do they?

I feel and cry too much when I’m with a person I’m too comfortable with, with whom I’ve spent too much time with and breathed too many words with.

Most of all, a person who gives too much importance to what others think. Whose opinions sometimes come second to what others feels and once again a self-sabotaging trait. I hate it, utterly.  Who thinks that their choice, their options aren’t worthy enough.

Ahaha, I’m already so tired after writing only so little. Just seven points but probably it’s enough for today. It’s hard facing yourself, but oh well. At the end of the day it’s still me.

I truly am sorry.

Love, A girl who thinks too much

P.S. I think I’ll listen to songs while sitting near my corner window after this.

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We've heard this sentence one too many times, 'love isn't the way they say it is'. But have we truly understood what the statement means? Be it Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, or Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities or yet more Edgar Allen Poe's Annabelle Lee, people have different interpretations of love, of bonds, of connection. 

Love isn’t the way it is. It’s not even beautiful. And you may be thinking that I’ve just gone through a horrible break up and I’ve now wrapped myself in blankets with tissue boxes all around me with me trying to pound my anger and sadness into writing. It’s quite the opposite, I’m with someone who has much of a blue-black soul and I’m very happy. So this is coming from a girl who is still loving, remember that.

It’s not beautiful, love as an emotion, love as a practice, love as a rhyme and rhythm is not a unicorn with a rainbow horn. Perhaps J.K. Rowling got it right, probably love is like Thestrals, probably love is that gentle creature which is left behind a lost whisper of a person. 

Love does not occur with a glance, it may not even occur after you’ve gone for one too many coffees, or had one too many kisses, or even if your ‘liking’ stage has gone on for half a year, love may not ‘bloom’. 

I realized I was in love in the evening, during a phone call, and probably Cupid smiled down on me when he painted a brilliant golden hour and I could hear that voice I’m so very attached to, tell me clear, a loud something I wasn’t sure of the timing for. First experiences in love and it knocked the breath out of me later. It doesn’t hit you then, it hits you hours, probably days later that, ‘oh my god, I love someone’. 

Love, I’ve come to realize, is violent. Because think about it, it’s like ripping apart the flesh from your chest and emptying your guts out. The knowledge that they are your person right now, that at this moment, they have you.

And what a devastatingly beautiful power to have.

Cupid (or Eros if you fancy the Greek name), can be sculpted as any other being with an adult body. I’m not talking about the cherub Cupid that much of us have seen in the media. I’m talking about a Cupid who I imagine has a sculpted body and face, a quiver to shoot his arrows, wavy hair that may change to his preference and magenta eyes. Yes, magenta or even ruby. I don’t think he was ever supposed to be represented as kind and sweet and as a baby. He’s the son of Venus and Mars, two powerful, magnificent gods. Is he really a child?

He’s dangerously beautiful, one wrong move may subject to harm from his tips, his wings are too bright, but it’s those eyes that would probably scare us the most, to scorch us from the inside out but most of all to mock us: “you’re under me now, so how will you both turn out?”

Love, is magenta and ruby like his eyes, dangerous like his arrows and too bright like his wings. And one too many times, we’re shot with the wrong one. I hope that whoever is reading this, probably just probably, you’ve been shot by the right arrow or you’ll bleed from the right one in the future.

After all, time is relative to beings like him, maybe I’ll anger him today to mock him instead.

Somewhere I hear him laugh.

#article #writers on tumblr #poetry #poem #poets on tumblr #aesthetic words #original poem #original work #love #quote #author #authencity

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Braids

I don't think I ever wanted it like baby breaths.

Those uneven strands now braided unevenly with scarred, gentle fingers that have wiped too many tears.

As white clovers are tucked in between tresses, it was as if time itself was decorated.

That late afternoon, nothing wilted. 

#poetry #quote #poem #original poetry #poets on tumblr #aesthetic words #love #original quote #aesthetic quote #love poem

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Lacrimation

And it’s subtle. Beautiful even at some point. It’s the way your thoughts start governing reactions in you, when no more is it just your mind and emotions but the yourself as a whole. Different people view it, enact it, perform it and perceive it in a million different directions. But you see, those glands that start reacting, the brain which starts whirring, those limbs and the muscles in them begin to slack and the heart that pumps an unnaturally amount more don’t care.

The breathing becomes erratic, jaws slacken, pupils dilate, hands shake, your chest tightens and it hurts hurts hurts, your mind starts aching, a thousand words rush past you of how to comprehend what to comprehend, your knees slightly shake, they hit the bed and you completely collapse, that familiar fetal position, and you almost laugh because even then you worry about what to do with those fingers of yours.

Then it comes, the sting, burn, the convulsions and if you’re lucky, open lips and no sound.

But this is just one way right?

7.8 billion perspectives to a single act and yet still, our human body is merciless in the manner that it sends out the same chemicals, signals and hormones, the glands pump out the same liquid, our hearts still accelerate, our limbs still go slack.

It’s the same process.

A reminder that, it’s all the same.

#poetry #poem #quote #poets on tumblr #original poetry #aesthetic words #original quote #aesthetic quote #musings #thoughts #poems on tumblr #original #poets corner

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It’s like those fading afternoons. She’s sprawled across the bed, sheets folded neat, strips of gold painting her face and arms from the blinds. There’s a bang and someone’s footsteps climbing the wooden stairs. The doors open and he slips inside, she gets up.

He holds out her coffee and sitting next to her, they hear each other out in all those different ways. Soon the empty coffee cups end up on the floor with bodies entwined between bedsheets and he smiles and tries to convey the gravity of those impossible feelings to her and she softly smiles back. 

Acceptance.

There are times when they can’t breathe, can’t believe what’s come to be. But it’s these lazy afternoons and stale coffee breaths that remind them again and again that yes. 

That he will always bring her late afternoon coffees and she would always be waiting.

The afternoon fades into that blinding golden hour.

For them, literally and figuratively. 

#poetry #original poetry #poem #original poem #poet #poets corner #tumblr poetry #love poem #love poetry #aesthetic words #poetry on tumblr #poetry on love #poetsofficial #original work #asaxtooru #artists on tumblr

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morning lanterns.

It’s soft. It’s barely a whisper among the other words, But its meaning is deafening. It pulls you into the incessant thoughts of a conflicted hurricane, disguised as a drizzle.

She’s a floating lantern, Dazzling among an empty sky, A light she breathed. The stars fall with a pathetic grace, As she dances with the subtle touches of the trails she leaves behind.

Her amber chars and burns. With the ghostly touches of her hands, Her breaths capture your senses, And we either wither away, Or our flowers bloom even among the sparks. There is no in-between.

What she has, what she keeps, What she thrives in, We never can capture it with our flimsy fingers, But she’s continuous.

Fading in and fading out, Like the rays of a watered morning.

Our morning is a mess, Sometimes fleeting, Dangerously beautiful, But her true touches are the most free, They fan over your torn skin, And leave you breathless.

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winter before sunshowers.

There’s a certain type of sadness when the known becomes the unknown. When you can no longer recognize the stones you thread on and the streets you navigate. When you simply can’t remember the sweetness of oranges that used to burst in your mouth.

(They don’t burst anymore; the juices simply flow.)

That sadness is the most lonely one. It’s funny how we can’t remember the happy breaths we leave but vividly relive that wrenching pain in our chest as we draw our legs together, desperately trying to hide.

That type of sadness when the baby breath’s have long started to wilt and turn brown and the known no more give you new ones. (The old ones cry. You can’t seem to water them anymore.)

But it feels terribly lonely when you find yourself alone in the very garden they built with you, except you’re the only one listening to the birds. (They seem to be mocking you, or is that pity?)

There’s the type of sadness that makes your fingers tremble and your joints ache and that lump, that damned lump, refuses to leave your throat. But this type of sadness, it makes you believe you were at fault, and I guess it’s the worst because it leaves you angry and lonely. (That rage dwindles down into trembling words later.)

It’s the type of loneliness where even the mere three orchids that lie on your window sill start looking outside the window rather at looking at you. It’s the type of loneliness when the orchids refuse your sunlight and water but depend on each other. (They leave you behind and you wonder if you should plant them elsewhere, to make sure they’re happy. How devastatingly selfless you are. You’re a devil to yourself.)

You curl up between sheets and clothes with desperate coffee warming your winter and you can’t help but crave for a summer sunshower. Anything, anything, to stop the stuttering in your breaths and prickles in your eyes. Anything to turn your life upside down again.  

The doorbell rings, it’s jarring. You get up on a whim. Padded footsteps. The door. Would you open it?

You see a sunflower outside. (or is it someone else?)

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this is just beautiful. honestly.

[ inherent romanticism of living forever ]

imagine being the subject of someones poetry,

their fingers entangled, writing you down so you live forever ;

those eyes so fiery Oscar Wilde would cry ;

the lust for life that consumes you whole ;

the way you do poetical justice by letting your passion both construct and destroy you ;

imagine,

the intrinsic romanticism blotted down on paper, so you’ll live forever ;

                                                                                           - s.a.

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Their Condensed Droplets.

What first made him look at her, think of her as his equal, truly see her with respect wasn’t any of the cliched moments of seeing her smile or laugh. It was that fire in her eyes when she told him the words he wanted to hear desperately.

“You’re enough. For them, for me. So please, please look at your flowers too.”

I think he woke up after that. That raging wave upon wave of insecurities that crashed against his surface, that submerged his rational thoughts, that kept washing up even at night. Somehow, he could now keep it at bay.

And probably I thought of her as a witch.

Wielding those powerful thoughts and words.

Many look up to him but they simply don’t realize that underneath all those droplets of tears from laughter, there’s a raging storm. They celebrate him for all those flowers they see in his mirror, but she was different, always different.

Cruel, unforgiving, she broke apart that mirror, all those glass shards leaving red behind. And it was never easy for her, and I felt almost sorry. He isn’t a simple poem that you can decode, he’s all those harsh meanings disguised as subtle words, and with those amber eyes filled with anger, with understanding, those flames crashed against those waves.

And I don’t know who won.

Steam. That was it. Pearly white, taunting, alluring; condensing around them.

I wonder if he ever forgave her for stepping upon his beach. Something he had to hide for the past seventeen years or so, now suddenly gone. Like the prideful man he is, annoying and obnoxious, I wonder if he ever thought about how she rendered everything useless.

And left him bare.

For the world to see.

I asked him about it later on in the years and he answered with eyes not of a measly hunter...

“It hasn’t stopped. Her fire and my water. But I guess somewhere along the line, we couldn’t tell apart anymore, whose fire and whose waves it was. But that steam...it’s always constant isn’t it? It brings me back to that moment again and again when she gave me something to truly fight for.

And if sometimes I have to clear up that steam just to see her, I would. If I have to allow her to smother me completely, left bare, I would.

Because whatever I had before didn’t work right? Then for her, just for her, I have to build something new. And that’s okay, more than okay.”

...it was the eyes of a King, finally reclaiming that throne.

-Iwaizumi Hajime about Tooru and Asa

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#april #april aesthetic #quote #poetry #poem #credits to writer #if you know who it is let me know #aesthetic quotes #aesthetic poetry

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iwaizumi: *likes/reblogs/follows/queues 100 more reblogs*