theleafthatfelloff
Write, Smile, Repeat
Pretty much everything that spells happiness and solitude
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It's my 3 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳
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to love... that stays
and by stay; believe me i don't ask for the company to last forever. when is ask for it to stay, i don't want it to turn into a commitment, neither do i ask for it to be around always.
i ask for it to linger..
/to stay around in my thoughts, the way the stars although faraway and twinkle in the skies, the way the sun loves the moon, not together yet lets it shine in utmost glory..
/to last somewhere deep in my eyes, the way the old ship lies at the bottom of the sea, not on the surface, where everyone gets to see it; rather flash itself once in a while, when my tears stir up, reminiscing the good we shared
/to lay itself in the aroma of the coffee I drink everyday, in the sheets we once used, in the whiff of the first rain, in the crunch of the first fallen leaf, in the savor of the freshly baked cookies on wintry mornings
/ to linger in my skin; the touches that make me yearn for more; in the comfort of my blanket, like his hugs were; in my heart, where i can keep it safe and unadulterated, far from anyone's lust, envy or infatuation
/ to dawdle in the pages of my books; at the edges of my window sill, where we hung out from dusk to dawn; in the crevices of the couch where we sat cross legged, laughing and giggling to life
/ alas, to loiter in my memories, my laughter, my strength, my poise and may be in our hearts and souls... to remind us that its love ...the kind of love that stays <3
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to fortune
Holding yourself high, almost everywhere, gets tiring after a time. It makes you want to fall, just fall off from some high cliff and let go off everything that you have held on to.
Suddenly, everything feels like it is choking you, like it is closing up on you and you have no out. The chest feels like a vacuum filled vessel, like it holds nothing and yet holds a lot; the eyes feel like the tired ocean, like it reaches the shore and yet pulls itself before it wets our feet; the breath feels like a cyclone, like it spirals out to provide relief and yet it sucks in all the energy, leaving us tired.
Then, some day, you have just propped yourself high with a meager stick you could find, and you realize that your hand is no more empty, it feels heavy, but it has a touch that wants you to stay. You realize that, whatever you propped yourself up with has been slowly taken off and kept aside; instead now, a hug has held you close and supported your ever so tired back and aching shoulders. You realize that, you are breath is slowly normalizing, it is liberating and yet very soothing. You realize that your cheeks have gone red, and your eyes are finally opening up, they are slowly letting their guard down and that heavy feeling in your chest is ever so slightly light, but it feels a million times peaceful.
You realize that you have company, you have someone who wants you and trusts you. You realize you have a hand to hold, a smile to live for, a pair of eyes to fall for, a heart beat to tune yourself to and a soul to feel for. You realize, you found yourself, with the help of someone and now; you realize, you have pieced yourself stronger and better than before, and that you are complete with you and them.
On some day again, you will feel the same detachment and you will realise that you are piecing up again; this time even better, because either, they are still here, or they left you with memories of you that make you better.
And yet, you sit, writing and raising a toast, to some fortunate moments, where you had a shoulder to lie on and a hand to hold, and probably millions worth of memories to live by.
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mood
i agree ! many a days, anything brown, anything fading, anything pastel, probably anything that is close to vintage ancient is always mood.
long sleeves of warm and fuzzy woolens clenched at the palm; an old vinyl lying crossed on the gramophone; dusty panes with a lazy beam shining through it; randomly lit windows of a building; all these little things are mood.
a half read book, lying on the rug, in front of the fireplace; a steaming hot cup of coffee; the whiff of freshly baked goodies; the smile on a strangers face, for a reason unknown to us; that one tear in the eye, when a touch. that was lost for long, returns; the little skip of a beat, when you finally learn that trick you were trying to; the smoothly flowing ink through the pen, while you gaze at it as you keep writing in curves; all these are mood.
the streetlights that you see from your window; the vintage telephone in your grandpa's trunk; the freely galloping horse; the lazy cat, lazily basking in the afternoon sunlight; the distant sound of a brook; the little brooch aunt sylvia gave your mother, that lies carelessly in her drawer; the slightly stained and old mirror in your grandma's room; the old sticker behind the cupboard, you had put up there, years ago; writing an entire piece in small case; all of it is mood.
the heart beating fast as we are reminded of the ones we love; the goosebumps we get when we suddenly hear a song, we haven't heard in ages; the ache in our heart, when a favorite character in our favorite novel has died the 100th time, that we have read it; the random glance at the mirror and a small grin at the amazing person we have become; us; and again and forever i will say, is mood.
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wrinkled, withered, superficial
Sometimes, nothing is enough. Putting in all the efforts, caring for all the needs, looking out for all the harm; it is just never enough. I realised, lately, I am one of those people.
There is an incessant need in me; to please people, to not lose people, to not get into fights, to get done with any kind of emotional banter as soon as possible; which I realise, stems from my personality to avoid any kind of close proximity with people, or more like from the want to be like a layer of oil floating over water, no attachments, no inclusions and yet to be there. When people reciprocate whatever I do, it does make me happy, but it always feel like either I deserve it or I totally don’t, moreover that I can never make peace with things happening beautifully in my life.
I realise I am this person, who pushes people away when I tend to get closer to them and then end up calling them toxic, when at the end of the day, it was I who made life miserable for me and them. I realise I am nothing but plastic and that there is no way, I can ever break down, into a simpler version. I feel, I understand, I love... I do everything, but I realise that it is all just very superficial. I can never make it genuine.
I realise, I just cannot do anything in its own profound meaning. I understand and accept that I can never be real, and this will never do justice to any relation I stay in. It could be true, that my peers find me endearing, likeable; but then what else is a people pleaser like. Quite a few people, in fact in their first guess, find me a people pleaser and tried to stay at bay; but no, I had to break into them, get them to like me, and yet prove their initial judgement true.
I realise that having words and the ability to express at my disposal, only makes it easy for me to people please and apparently all I have ever done is exploit this. Writing letters that are long, poetries that mean the world, giving speeches that are filled with love, cheer and life... doing all of these without actually involving myself into all of it is not very difficult for me. I realise though, that, for people with whom I come across in such a manner, I might grow quite close to and when I break myself off from them it might pain them in a way only God knows.
On days, like these, I question myself, why, for what, why the self pity, why make people like me, why then, when they have liked me, why do I leave them suddenly and why do I grow distant...
I guess that it is because nothing is ever enough for me to work my way into growing. I guess it is like giving water, nutrients, soil, warmth, sunlight and all that is necessary for growth, to a seed that is dead for long, dried, broken somewhere, which will never yield any fruit. It will only bury itself under all the care, love and affection, which continues to pile on it, because it never bothered to let it soak within.
I realise, it will be all withered, wilted and superficial... always
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to links and bonds
Chains, locks, threads, tapes, jails, strings, glue... all forms of attachments. The worst and the best though, is the one between that of two hearts, two souls, two minds... may be two lives.
The time, the emotions we possess, the ability to think and relate works wonders in how the attachments change for us.
On some days they seem like the little intricate threadwork on a shawl that wraps around a shivering heart and gives it the warm it needs. On some days they resemble little tapes and the blobs of glue on the artwork of a 10 year old's craft work; all messy, but worth the effort of holding onto the childish aims of the heart and the wannabe mature decisive brain. On some days they hold the image of a prisoner in locks and chains, struggling and writhing for freedom, with the frail cry to live again.
The most confusing ones though, are the string like attachments. Like, the string attached to the kite, it lets the kite fly high and away from the flyer and sometimes close to the bearer, sometimes limiting the flight of the kite and sometimes grazing the flyer's fingers.
It would help both, the flyer, if he lets the kite go and the kite if it doesn't tug a lot. The kite flies high up while he ends up with no wounds. But is that worth all of it ? Is it really okay, if the kite keeps flying high and gets lost and torn, or may be the flyer never decides to fly another kite, because losing this one made it hard for him ?
Did the attachment hurt either of them ? Questions come crashing and answers don't follow. The pangs of pain and separation keep hitting and the embarrassment of owning to this weakness, drives one crazy, probably distant.
Its weird, these attachments, the build and break !! They hold and lose !! Some days though they do actually link and bond.
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a brew for the day
The large window in my room remains shut these days. The bougainvillea grows along the wall and has now burdened the fence below it. The fazed, yellowed, peeling wall looked aesthetically beautiful, now that the pink and red flowers added a blush to it. The afternoon sun, painted the wall a beautiful chrome and it shone in its modesty.
I haven’t opened the window for days. ‘‘We got it painted blue (aquamarine), only so she would get up from the bed, walk to it and open it wide. Only so that she smiles !!’’; I hear voices of mum and dad from down the hallway. They whisper, but the silence in my mind makes everything so loud, that I drown myself even further.
I can’t bear to see the white curtains fluttering, because of the draft that comes from the little opening in the window. I gaze across my room, listening to songs, my mum believes I love. I stare at my room, seeing everything in a certain haze, like there are clouds floating in here.
The sun sets and I know it, the chirping birds tell me about it. The sky is starry and I know it, the little shiny line on my white curtain screams it out loud. The rain is about to come, my mum’s rush to take the clothes off the line tells me. The autumn’s here, the aroma of the maple leaves fill the air and boast about it to me. The snow has fallen, I know because the excited children in the neighbourhood howl about it whilst building their snowman. I hear its the new year, the thundering fireworks fill me with terror. I hear and know seasons coming in and out.
Mum brews coffee just the way I like, only to make me come running ; dad plays the guitar and makes the deliberate mistakes, just so I would get up and correct him. I see them make these little tries to bring me back to myself.
I on the other hand, look from the corner of my room, for I have no strength or material to make my parents believe that I exist. I see, mum has brought back my books, those she had given away to my cousins, so that I would sit and arrange them in the shelf; I see dad left the bougainvillea overgrown, so that I would arrange them back.
I just hope, they had seen me, early enough, to recognize that I had lost all my urges, months ago. I just hope dad had made these deliberate guitar mistakes and taken me to the therapist. I just hope, mom had read my blogs, instead of reading my diary entries and talked to me sanely about what I was going through.
I see them talking to each other like mad chaps, expecting me to get back; only if they had heard me talking to myself in silence, putting myself to sleep with tears in my eyes, only if they had stopped quarreling for once and come close and made me the brew for the day, the one they make now, drink as if I am still alive and then pour my share into the bougainvillea, once its gone cold.
I just wished they had read the little scrawls I had made on the corner of my bed... instead of reading the suicide note, that lay next to the scribbles !!
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to lost touches and wandered gazes
Words speak, but silences mean. The silences are usually filled with glances and gazes that utter volumes, with held hands and hugs that convey emotions.
It is weird, how on some days the same pair of eyes and the same hugs that once spelled care, love, affection would start spelling distance, hatred and boredom. There are days when we spot stories in the eyes of someone, with deep delving secrets and long lost touches. There is just a lot that the eyes speak about. There are days when some eyes smile a lot but twinkle quite less, not because the dreams have succumbed to a storm the world has to offer, but because the dreams are shattered by the big blows reality bestowed on them.
There are days when some hugs mean the world to us, hold us close and make us want to hold onto the moment tight, to never lose again. Alas, these moments, just like the sand from the beach, the tighter they are held, the quicker they are to lose. There are days, when some held hands mean nothing more than 2 skins touching each other, held together for the sake of it. There are days when the hugs feel like peeling of the skin and the touch they levied upon us, not because we have ceased finding meanings in them.
There are days when the eyes are filled with brimming tears, but they daren’t blink because they don’t have the strength now, to let the last of them go. For these tears, they are the only ones that refuse to leave. The tears hold onto the eyes, because even they have nowhere to go, they have nowhere to find meaning now. There are days when the eyes, they feign acquaintance, when actually, deep down there is a touch of strangeness to the line of vision. When they look into yours, you know, they have known you, you have seen dreams with those eyes, you have knitted your feelings with them; and now all you want to know is that they would someday like to share another dream with you, probably look at you and still shine their eyes like they use to when they saw you at the end of the road, still have the same warmth they had when they heard from you.
Touches fade and gazes wander and then the eyes and the hugs are left in a sudden stillness, with emptiness and yet filled with remorse, sadness, wounds and of all questions.
#love#eyes#sadness#23<3#feels#sunsets#selfmuse#blog#writer#happiness#hugs for everyone#heartbeats#trust
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to busy cities and peace
Cars honking, street vendors yelling, people talking amongst each other, the quick and noisy trains and buses, wailing sirens of the police cars and ambulances, loud pop songs played at the half shut bars and pubs, dogs barking along the streets and if all of that was less, the pitter-pattering of the rain on the gravel to add to it.
The street lights flickering from yellow and white, the eerie headlights of the cars and buses, the neon signs outside the street vendors’ stalls, the lights from the mobile phones of all the people, the billboards and the display boards on the street advertising in bright and bold hues of red and yellow, the disco ball lights outside the already enlightened bars and pubs, the lights in the adjoining park and the lights below the monument in the centre of the city, the twinkling lights of the aeroplane high up in the sky and if all of that wasn’t enough, the startling lightning at the horizon somewhere far off.
Noisy and bright, much of an eyesore and an ear-biter ain’t it ?
Nah !! I beg to differ. Ask me, and I will tell you, there is peace in the otherwise incessantly busy city. Come, join me and I will show you the aesthetic the haphazard city has.
There is questioning in the blaring horns of the cars, they carry a plea of someone who wants to rush home; of someone who is hungry and wishes to go have some delicious food someone lovingly cooked for them; of someone whose pet is waiting for them to return and smother them with licks and hugs; of someone who has no one to return to, but just wishes that he/she gets moving from this little jam and fall asleep on their couch, with an ache that reminds them of someone’s arms or someone’s cuddles; of someone who just wishes that they could get somewhere quick enough.
There is a soothing effect to the flickering yellow white street lights, at least they make one look up and realise that its time, its time they have walked slowly along those very lanes, its time they have checked their phones to see if they missed a call or two from someone they call home, its time they have looked out for that little guitar hanging in the instrument store on the next street, by the very lamp post opposite the bus stop, its time they have stopped to think of things.
There is the sound of love and care in the sound of ambulances and police cars, some rushing to the hospital carrying somebody else’s loved ones, not because they get paid, but someone relies on them to save them; some rushing to a scene to take hold of some ousted person and drive him to the
There is warmth in the billboards' and street stalls' lights. The light of accomplishment and fulfillment, from seeing someone excel in something they invested in and are doing well with; from seeing someone eat to their heart's content and put out that gleaming smile on their face; from seeing someone earn money they worked hard for; from seeing that the exhibition in the city is still open; from seeing that the antique piece she wanted to gift her father is still out for sale; from seeing the twinkle in the eyes of the toddler after he got his large balloon and cotton candy.
There is the sound of love brewing and hearts breaking, and all of it over the sound of the peppy songs playing in the bars and pubs. The sound in the little looks shooting across the bar, from that young boy who wants to ask the girl in the corner out; from that serene woman holding her whiskey high reminiscing some days she spent with the girl she loved in her 20's, grooving to the music there; from that old uncle who sits at the same stool for the last 20 years brooding over life and scribbling onto the little pocket notebook he has in his pocket. The sound in the tinkling of the glasses; as a raised toast for someone who is making a new venture, as the tapping of the glass at the drinks' table demanding a refill to lose themselves into their emotions, as she slammed the glasses on the table, because she couldn't take the rejection. The sound in the silence, with which he stares into the crowd dancing in the centre, with which she fiddles with her glass, because she didn't speak in time, with which they look into each other's eyes because they finally accomplished their huge dream.
There is a lot of light and sound in the busy city. But I guarantee you, break it down and there lies the peace and the aesthetic. The pitter-patter of the rain and the thundering high up in the sky, the whooshing of the aeroplanes and their little lights you see from below, the dogs on the street and the lights at the monument have their own aesthetic, huge enough to not fit into words.
The city has loads of dreams and stories, care to open that chapter and it will seem less polluted, less adulterated and less dirty from what it looks like now.
As for me, I am the little leaf fallen in the midst of city, that came from some 'dim' and 'peaceful' town, floated on the pavement and now looks at the city from that girl's diary, in the shelf, that overlooks the window onto the road and into the city, sending wishes to busy cities and its peace.
#cities#travel#long reads#blog#writer#evening#paris#23<3#feels#life#peace#writerbrain#blogpost#foryou
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to walks
There is always a thin line between imagination and reality and that accounts for a dream-like reality. To me, that little place always felt oddly yet beautifully cold, with some music playing faintly, with a dainty yellowish orange glow like the one mid-street, with a hand to hold and a shoulder to lean on, with footsteps to match to and silences that put just everything into its place.
Silences are beautiful, but to have them shared, just puts away all the little insecurities one carries. It just feels like all could be right and nothing would ever fade. I do gaze at the interlock of the bricks, as I continue to walk down, it seems like a never ending pattern, with intricate meaning to me; pfft, I agree it could mean nothing to someone. But then, here I am, finding meaning in the smallest of the things. I do get asked, if I try and find the meaning ? Oh surely not, certain things just come to us in a way we never expect and that they aren’t found or looked for, they happen, slowly and ethereally.
There is a lot of dynamic in stillness, it washes over you with a wave of itself. The lake could be still, but its aura isn’t; there are passersby walking, the lamp flickering, the little fish moving around, the dogs running past, the air ... the air plainly existing. It just comes across the mind that all of it could be fallen in love with, its the mindset that one needs.
The loneliest of the songs could feel fulfilling and the evenings would feel special, the air would feel liberating and the mind would find its peace. The walks... they throw me off in a way nothing can. They make me want to raise a toast to them, those that happen in a hurry, those where you walk half fast and half slow, those where you walk trying to match footsteps with, those where you sniff the air to feel the scent of happiness, those where you walk alone and those... where you walk ... together and collected...
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I crouch and turn myself into a small bundle, with my knees to my chest. The only bit of comfort I receive from my own existence. I am happy. I am happy to have loved sadness. I know it sounds weird, but I suppose, that’s how my little brain works.
I have begun to fall in love with the sinking feeling in my heart, with the feeling of tearing up and holding them in, with the feeling of something breaking to pieces in my heart, with the feeling of... of not being happy. I realized, I feel dry when I am happy. I do feel overwhelmed and yet I feel empty. I know I am in love.
To everyone I am a normal person. Normal, because I laugh... Normal because I smile... Normal because I do the daily chores non-chalantly... whilst, all I want anyone to deem me normal for is... for being melancholic.... for being sad.... for enjoying the gloom... for waiting eagerly for the doom. I crave that kind of normalness. To my dismay, all people really want to see, is a smile plastered on my face, irrespective of whether I have put it on by a action of muscles or whether it is there because that’s how I feel like.
I feel like I have outgrown the need for happiness, its more like people around me need it more for me than I do. They push for me to be happy, strive to make me feel loved and tell me that I deserve being happy. It all just feels abnormal to me.
I really find it okay to feel worthless, to feel like I could be the last person alive with some body else and yet I wouldn’t be chosen, to feel the pangs of sorrow deep down, to feel alone in a huge crowd. I really find it okay to go on a long drive or a long train ride and unknowingly enough fall off a cliff or fall down a valley and see people laughing at me from a distance. It feels okay to not feel good when someone talks beautifully about me. Its all about my brain normalizing the fact that I am in love... in love with the idea of dilemma, which brings in sorrow and puts up that sick smile, which is adored by one and all.
To people, my thoughts might be a higher degree of self-sabotage, but to me they are of utmost necessity, equivalent of Oxygen to let me live. I find it beautiful to be broken, not because its an old saying, but because it appeals to me in different ways.
I laugh at what I once was.... sad... but not in love with the emotion. I then craved for someone to shake be by my shoulders and make me cry, to get me to ease... I then wanted to be heard and given an outlet to, without being made to feel silly... I then wanted for once to talk my mind out, without being made to realize that my sadness wasn’t even legitimate... i wanted...
Meh, It doesn’t matter what that old kid wanted... this one sure knows,,, that none come when reached out too,,,, that all silent screams cannot be translated into tears just so anyone would get it.... that all nights aren’t meant for a shoulder to lean on... that love isn’t always holding on to someone... This one does know that... it lives until it has done its job, that it will be rewarded with a hug, one that is filled with understanding, empathy, love and for once, the most it deterred from.. with warmth.
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finding..
It feels like for the past few days, my brain has been buffering. I am at loss of words, of thoughts, of feelings. It feels like I am living underwater where I have my own little sunken boat for a bench and an overgrown mushroom for a shelter. All I hear, all I experience seems completely vague, like its all happening at an unclear pace and I am unable to comprehend it... again... I might be disinterested too. I don't feel like I exist in the mortal world. In the daylight, I am tortured by never ending questions about my existence and my very worthlessness; by the time the sun sets, I am bothered my own helplessness at certain points in life, when its almost night, I rediscover myself. I smile, laugh, talk, but of all I think a lot. I slowly fall asleep and I wake up blank. I am so used to listening to my own mind raising questions at an unbearable decibel, that I tune into it like my daily radio and live life like a machine. Funnily enough, even they get to reboot and enjoy a factory reset; what I live through is a constant circle of sleep, eat, self loath, feel a bit here and there and ... and yeah sleep. I see people happy, enjoying lives despite their problems and all of it because they choose to... I am confused now; is happiness a choice or a mere burst of serotonin in my brain ? I agree that one can cultivate happiness by genuinely being in the moment and living it like nothing else; but the fact there will be nothing else, sucks out the serotonin from my brain. I feel like I have lost the human touch I once had, not because I am exposed to some odd thoughts and petty issues, but I guess, because I built myself so. Writing this little piece of blog (shit), it comes to my understanding, how much it involves one single pronoun, I. And yet I find myself worthless at times, even when all I write about is me.
Meh. There are not many moments that bring out the urge to live, seeing the setting sun, the flying birds, the crawling insects... Nothing makes me do that. Its just the basic duties I have towards my people, that has kept me going, with the hope that they come to an end quickly and I am done with thing.
I am still finding... finding ways to escape from things that might hurt me later; finding reasons to give, to stop beautiful things from coming into my life; finding happiness to give to everyone; finding memories to gift everyone to let them know that I did stand a place in their lives; finding... finding reasons to live... because these days I am lost. Lost and monotonous...
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to turning back
I live my life in a cinematic bubble and hence, I see things happening in slow motion, dramatic close ups; with a happy and sad background music playing. I spot things, that for some odd reason make me live my cinematic moment.
As I drove my car ahead, pulling away from the parking,after I had dropped someone there forever. I glanced at my side mirror and saw things go away, while I read, “Objects appearing in the mirror are closer in real life”. Some old Kishore Kumar songs playing on the radio and the late afternoon sky, transported me to my haven of thoughts.
I glanced at everything that I left back as I drove further and I pulled my car over at the side of the road near the corniche. I looked into my side mirror and suddenly I saw faces... not those that walked on the pavement, those that had once stomped out of my life. I stared deeper into the side view mirror, praying to find those moments replayed in it.
I feel like my brain had shelves to store my memories in little cassettes and played, paused and re-winded each of them. Some when I wrote, some when I sang, some when I stared emptily into side mirrors. I wanted to see those little memories in the little boketto moments I had in life.
A sudden turning back does remind us of many times, those that we thought we have healed from, those that we never thought we would heal from, those that we thought would never matter and those that we thought would always matter. It feels like looking at the coast side with the footprints of someone from the window of our little cottage. These footprints are either washed away, or are further into the sand and await a high tide to wash them off.
It feels like smelling a familiar scent, that remind us of someone or something, sadly they are so far off that all we have in our hands, is cling to the smell. It feels like being wrapped in a blanket and suddenly remembering a particular sentence from the lullaby we heard years ago and we crave to sleep to the tune of it, for the sleep it brought was often peaceful.
I sat in my car, sipping onto my glass of tea, realizing it had turned a weird cold and I came back to my senses, the side mirror had turned a pinkish hue. It was time for the sunset and for the first time I drove my car in reverse along the side lane and rushed back to where I had dropped the person. I took him into my passenger seat and there we were... Rediscovering us... drinking a toast (tea) to turning back....
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all ends suddenly
There are times, when we suddenly stop, abruptly. When we dance heartily, hum to a tune of a favourite memory, flip through the pages of an album... and we stop without us realising, mostly staring into nothingness.
This abrupt stop is what takes my heart away. A sudden stop makes everything so different, putting lives into a frenzy and yet brings an odd stillness. I stop sometimes, abruptly; some days when I spot someone who resembles a lost soul, on others when I hear an old song that once made me smile, on many when I pass some roads, on some when I stumble upon pieces of my poetry, but have none to recite to.
Loss is quite abrupt too. It never comes with a warning, and crashes onto us like it expected us to know of it. Many a days, one loses family, friends, love and what not... But there are some, when one loses himself/herself. Realises that he has become vacant, with a steely look of death in the eye.
The worst part is that this loss happens and occurs not once but quite a few times in an entire lifetime. It leaves one so broken, with wounds so deep, those that the tears of phoenix too can't heal. It could only take the strength of the Phoenix to pull this man out of the dungeons of his own mind.
Loss isn't what makes one lose their senses, the abruptness of it does. It is so unexpected, that the impact of it shatters the person. It makes one beg for what they deserve, even making them settle for that which they don't. A sudden blow to closed wounds could make them hurt, and that's what one moment of abrupt loss does; it rewinds the mix tape of all that the soul once endured.
Could things be anymore complicated than the euphoria of the prettiest moments and the emptiness of the most abrupt good byes, hitting together at the same time ?
Well yes, all ends suddenly, but the heat to the mind is of the need for a completion, to the story, everyone has in there, waiting to materialize some day.
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Only if someone dared to love !!! The unpleasant man knew, he wasn’t the best she deserved, but he knew, he could try !!!
Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to his wife Véra (1924), Letters to Véra (ed. Brian Boyd & trans. Olga Voronin)
[Text ID: “I know that I am a very boring and unpleasant man, drowned in literature…But I love you.”]
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to nights and darknesses
I lay there... entwining the folds of the curtains in my little fingers and gazing up at the ceiling. I lay there... in my most comfortable pajamas and pair of warm socks, my legs propped up on the headboard and barely grazing the cold wall. I lay... beside the window, on my bed, tucked in the cosiest quilt that ever was and my pillow under my neck and another on my tummy.
I was thankful.... thankful, for the perfect jam my neighbour played, which sounded ethereally peaceful, now that I heard it all muffled through the walls. I was thankful... thankful, for the twilight outside the window, which I barely even glanced at, but which gave my little room its heavenly glow. I was thankful... thankful for the little gust of wind that came through the window and lightly brushed the curtains against my cheek, reminding me of some lost times. I was thankful... um.. just thankful
I drowned in grief... because the night would soon fall and I would be left alone. It wasn’t the darkness that instilled fear within me, it was the similarity the darkness and I shared. I drowned in sorrow.... because the twilight would go away and the beautiful glow would fade. I drowned in sorrow.... because the curtain that brushed against my face, now held back and refused to budge and caress me.
It was time. The room now was eerily dark and the fairy lights were switched off. I continued gazing at the ceiling and not once did I look out of my window. The night set in and the room grew colder than it was. I lowered my legs and buried them deep within my quilt. It was the only movement I made that evening. I knew I had to get up and switch on the lights, cook up something to quench the earthly desire of hunger. I knew I had to get up and shut the window, to keep myself from cold. I did want to turn around clutch my pillow and sob quietly. But, then there are certain things that one wants to do and one is supposed to do.
The music has stopped and now a radio broadcast has taken its place and still it sounds so very peaceful. I only hear muffled sounds and I now, look out of the window. I see the snow has fallen thick enough and the moon shines majestically. The clouds though, have prepared for their catch and are now approaching it with full speed. I see the charging clouds and I want them to hide the moon and stay there forever. I want them to tell the sun to not rise for a day. I want them to hold the moon prisoner and the sun their slave. I want to tell them to come close and give me the soft lap my mother once gave me for headrest. I want to tell them a lot and I know I can’t. I see the stars twinkling at a distance and I see all cars parked at their spots. I see the building across the street and the lit windows and those that aren’t.
I turned towards the ceiling again. I felt it.... i felt the line from my eyes, down my temporal region, to my pillow... a line my tears made, for absolute no reason at all. I lay still, trying not to concentrate on the line that continued to form, but the brain has its own ways and it did what it felt was the best, put an abrupt end to the tears and I gasped for breath and heaved in relief when I found it.
I love how the night unfolded ahead, without me being hungry, but an odd breaking feeling in the pit of my stomach that radiated from my chest and defied all laws of medicine that proclaimed the absence of a heart break. I loved how the clouds arrested the moon and saved me from the torture of the solemn moonlight lighting up my face and giving me the false idea that I was indeed beautiful. I love how I slept that night, it felt like my eyes closed slowly, almost in sync with the fading of the sound from the radio.
I love how I woke up and knew nothing of the last night for the next few months. I guess I love how the tranquilizers feel when administered in quite a higher dose....
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i can't hold it
She walked across the garden in her mansion. It was the only place that was well kept. It was the only thing that had been preserved and was looked after all these years.
She wore tattered clothes and had scratches on herself. She looked pretty unkempt and it felt as if she could do with a nice and warm bath. Moreover, she craved for a hug.
She had herself, with her tiny hands, built the high wall around the mansion, which looked like a huge castle atop a dark and dangerous hill. The hill was infamous for its bushy, thorny and deathly overgrowths. Rumor had it, that anyone who dared to climb it, would return, but hurt and refused to speak of it, or would never trust someone ever.
She kept hearing them for years now. Every single remark echoed up to the hill and rung in her ears everyday. Her little garden had all kinds of flowers, but she was skeptical about the rose plant. She knew that plant would only prick her if she went closer.
There were a keeper or two, who would come and look after her, though she was ungrateful enough to push them away everytime they ventured close. She would turn as cold as ice and as hard as cement when they did. She was a maniac, a psychotic or so many said. The rose, she never looked at, had another reason to it.
The rose reminded her of moments that were beautiful, of times when the hills were shrouded with lush green trees, of days when she was healthy and felt gorgeous.
But now, so was time, that she couldn't look at it. She didn't feel like it. She was going through such excruciating pain that she couldn't utter a word. She wanted to be held and caressed, but she couldn't speak of it, because all she felt, was that she would be cast away by people. She knew there were only trying to reach her, to nurse her back, but she never wanted them to suffer, for the sake of her, because she somewhere knew, she was ungrateful.
She went back in, the once majestic mansion, now looked ghastly. The floors looked all sorts of grim and scum and the windows resembled the concrete falling from the corners. The chandelier now hung, only because it was, but it never shone like before. She went up the staircase and the pictures hung on the walls seemed to follow her.
Although the sun shone bright over the region, the hill was almost always covered with a large, dark cloud. Hence, she too was sunken and dark, was thin and malnourished. She knew she needed an embrace to put her to sleep, a pat on the cheek to tell her that all was well. She knew well too, that she, was stubborn enough to push everyone away.
There was one room though, it was beautifully kept. It had a window, that overlooked some sunny place, with a clean vase holding a daisy, with yellow curtains and blue pillows to go with. The desk had many books and quills. It had a typewriter nice and red, and a pen that looked blissfully blue. There was a gramophone, with vinyl records, of a voice that she always loved.
She went in there, looked at it, daring not to touch it. She feared it would all lose its innocence. Every night the clock would strike and she would look out of her window. She would see the moon shine bright that it would deserve a ten on ten.
She knew, she had to succumb; to herself, to her darkened thoughts. She slowly crept down the hallway and into the garden. She slid the casket to the side and shifted into the little spot.
She pulled a lever and it did its job, she was as cold as ice and as hard as the cement that covered her on top. The moon shone bright and a few stars fell, just like the dreams she once saw. The tombstone glowed in an eerie light.... She knew she was a mangled sight.
#beautiful words#life#thoughts#peace#aesthetic#writer#escape#quotes#death#writers#prose writing#my prose#blog#mansion
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