These days are so clouded nowadays and on some days they are so clear, absolutely plain blue. But whatever day it is, it doesn't affect the aura of the forbidding air inside my house. However, what does affect me, are these calendar dates and clocks. These calendars, these dates, the hour hand, the minute hand, they make think about what my mother said.
She said, "Life is too short to count days and hours, just live them instead of counting."
I hate to admit, but she's always been hypocrite. And for the first time, someone being hypocrite was something which that someone did with a good heart. She expected me to be something she couldn't be. While all along, she had always counted days and hours and minutes, just waiting for the time her soul would be liberated. Excruciating? It is. Especially for a daughter who was fed with lies told by her mother. Especially for a daughter who found out that the opposite of those lies was residing inside the person's soul. The truth was in her. The lies are in me.
Both implanted by her.
It's funny how I came across a point in my time where I was doing the opposite of what my mum told me. I am in my twenties and I look at the calendar, crossing the dates inside my mind, not even one date worth looking forward to. Yes, not even anyone's birthday (including mine, especially mine). Then I look at the clock which is placed very close to the calendar. I count the minutes, the seconds passing away. I wait.
What do I wait for? The same thing my mother waited for. Redemption. Redemption from this chain of delusions I'm stuck in. My thoughts can either be my well-wishers or my worst enemies. Since the day I read the note she left on the kitchen counter, my thoughts became numb. They were neither enemies nor well-wishers. And that's worse.
There's a time when both the calendar and the clock harmonize with each other perfectly. It's when the the hour hand strikes 12 and lets the midnight hour take it's place in the corners of my room. And a new date is there on the calendar. You see this might happen to you as well. But my midnight is way different than yours.
And I don't blame you. There's no one to be blamed. There's nothing to be blamed. I just have a memory, which is so deep that every midnight makes me have a flashback of that day, the memory in my mind more vivid than ever.
You see, an hour after my mother left, I found a note on the kitchen counter. It was 1 am. My mother left at midnight. So I hope you understand why I look forward to midnights. It is because the just-turned adult inside me (who was still a girl starting her journey) needed her mother to be by her side. I can't really blame mum. She went through a lot. And she made me go through it, without even having any intentions of doing so. But she did. She so did.
Do I hate her? No. Do I love her? No. Do I need her? Yes.
I guess that also provides an explanation as to why I wait every single midnight for her. I wait for these calendar dates to pass by and these seconds to tick away. I wait for the day she would come back. I'm full of hope yet hopeless. She was the reason why I locked myself in a prison of those lies fed by her, and she will be the one who will be my redemption.
Today's day is full of bright sunshine. It's amazing to see a rainbow today. Alas, the note in my hand with my mother's handwriting brings me to the same place.
"Life's too short to count days and hours, just live them instead of counting." How?
What a mindless write-up. I don't know if this makes sense. Does it?
It was 3 am. It's always 3 am, when I find myself searching for the torn pages of my diary on the line of whose words were written in the blue colour of the ink. The time I wrote this, this blue colour didn't bring sadness to my heart, but rather clarity, for I was a writer who wrote truths, not the kind of lies which gave false hope to the people who depend on me for showing a path to them.
Now the blue ink brings nothing but sadness. Maybe that's why, I try to search for those pages, to feel the same ink, trace my fingers through the page and feel the exact thing I felt in that time. People say as you grow older, you attain maturity in thoughts. But to me it seems like, I'm finding myself in more twisted and tangled threads of uncertainty and confusion, where I can't write clearly. Because I myself am not clear. I'm becoming devoid of things which brought me happiness, of my truths.
I filled myself with these lies. And every 3 am, reminds me of the day I wrote the first piece without even knowing I was writing. It was a rant. A diary entry. I was small, innocent, someone who made a lot of spelling mistakes and grammatical errors, but more importantly, I was true. Now I feel like I cheat my pieces, the only thing that was my escape from this world, is now trapping me in a world of it's own who's creator is me. I weaved it with a web of lies.
Suddenly I remembered today, that those pages of my diary were torn and thrown away by the part of me which forgot the other part of myself. I threw the torn pieces from the same place where I found myself standing a few moments ago. The edge of the skyscraper.
And just then, I mumble these lines to myself, "On days of cotton candy skies, and nights surrounded with crushed blotted papers," I try to go on, the true part of me is pushing me to go on. And I go on, mindlessly yet being mindful at the same time, a beautiful irony enveloping me. I go on and say, "I find my truth in conflict with my lies, and they are in war as I stand at the edge of this skyscraper."
It suddenly hit me. The lines I just said, rhymed. They had a part of me in them. I rushed down, blinked my tears away and took out my old diary from which I had torn pages. It broke my heart little to see only five of the pages being there, but I pushed the little heartbreak away, and I wrote. I wrote these lines.
For the first time, in what seems like a lifetime, I found that the blue ink of the pen doesn't bring me pain anymore. It brings me redemption. As I write each and every word, I entangle every thread of the web of lies I created. I find the pages. I cannot touch them, but I know what was written. I remember the texture of the page, I remember the words, I remember the ink that brought me happiness.
I had started writing in pencils, because I didn't have the courage to use pens. But today I used a blue coloured pen. It brought clarity. It felt good.
It felt free.
And as I'm crying and smiling at the same time, I'll just end with the same first two lines I mumbled on the edge of skyscraper.
On days of cotton candy skies, And nights surrounded with crushed blotted papers I find my truth disentangle my lies And the war which started at the skyscraper, ended at the skyscraper.
This piece is inspired from a write up written by @_guts_ whose title is the same as mine.
The two lines, "On the days of cotton candy skies, and nights surrounded with crushed blotted papers" does not belong to me. It was written by @_guts_ Rutvi, you write amazingly. And I always wanted to write something on these two lines. Also, surprise.
What good is a day Which at the end of the day Leaves me astray With this bitter feeling of dismay?
What good is a morning in that day, Which makes me long more for the night And as night sweeps in my way I cradle it only to see the same morning light?
What good is the afternoon in that day, Where every meal I eat is just a reminder that I'm alone and it makes me mourn, About how lonely I am in this world, where people I loved never wished to stay, With a girl so gloomy, so now I'm left feeling forlorn?
What good is the evening in that day, Where every hour is just a bomb ticking away Waiting for my breakdown in the quiet hours of the day Making me realize that I will wake up to yet another day Which will make me question again, "What good is a day, What good is a day?" - Aradhya
This is a rant which I wrote a few days ago on the night when I found out people in my family and my neighbours being Corona positive. I felt so scared and disappointed and the feeling of "ah shit, here we go again" came. So I decided to write. For it was the only sane thing, as I've mentioned in the piece as well, around me.
Also, for people who knew I'm gone, I'm back!
@writersnetwork just letting you know. Will read everyone soon, I promise. I love you guys.
Now I'm searching every lonely place Every corner calling out your name Tryna find you but I just don't know Where do broken hearts go? Where do broken hearts go? - Where Do Broken Hearts Go, One Direction
I think I've "mistaken" Soulmates and Muses to be synonyms.
@writesnetwork kyu? Koi aur username nahi mila kya? Thank you for the repost ;-;;;;;
She is autumn leaves changes hues of poetries from yellowish horizon to the blueish skies, she has weaved it all about love and tragedies, just like sunsets dipped in the ocean she dives deep into psychological thoughts
Her poetries resemble ancient art and histories crouching in the rooftop terrace she whispers classic tales to the doors and windows,
Her words speak volumes about unheard and unseen, she is a magician when it comes to persuading the readers
September queen full of mysteries artistic soul full of passion and beauties
If you ask me how to write poetry, I would recommend you to read, Aditi.
Roaming in the wild place with a set of wilder thoughts moulding in verses neat securing them in a cyber way.
Here's the_fox oofé the atmosphere, it all turned dark. Entered with a smile wrote a pile on a tile of your mind get a file save it right! Exists with a smirk leaves a note berserk. *thefoxisdead* says it. Breathe out, keep calm he's more than alive in his very own psalms.
It's summer with a thudding bummer saturation at its best sanity at its rest. he'd scratch the paper out scribble fire without a doubt.
It's an autumn of criticism. sheds a part that's holding back crushes it apart believing the heart?
Raining in and out to be honest, all around. Drenched in wittiness. would still sing aloud a sight meant to be witnessed.
Oh it's winter ah, leave the filters! Holding onto real form this is the time feeds the selve some warmth.
Spring might spring a matter of fling. A soul blooming flowers of smiles unknown to his own power.
Seasons meant to change, keeps the fur as thick and strange. Things would seem a lot deranged but commendable is the way he's always perfectly arranged.
When they gave me your name I was like “now a noob will write for a pro? *facepalms* Ooffox.” I suck at writing poems but here you get this dumb poem and a (it's the first thing that comes in my mind reading your username 乁(ツ)ㄏ)
I'm tired. I'm tired of explaining why the hell I'm tired. All i know, right now, at this very moment, i feel tired. I don't know if it's my mind or body, which is tired. But i feel exhausted. As if someone has sucked, or been sucking my energy continuously, without my consent.
Corona hits again. As if it was gone earlier. Tolls reach up to this, and second peak is that. Cases are increasing, and death rates are changing. Mortality, morbidity, case fatality. What are the new symptoms, and signs? Is the new strain stronger? Home remedies, allopathy, homeopathy, ayurveda? Which works best for you? Rapid Antigen Test ( RAT ) or RTPCR which one is reliable? Are government officials revealing the true data? You know what, shut the duck up. I'm already tired. I don't wanna hear another of your ducking query. Go google. And feed your fears and insecurities.
You're a doctor, go save the world. You know what? I've a family. And i want to serve them first. You fear corona? So you stay at home. Can i? No. I have to work. And then come back to my home, taking all the infections and risk factors to my dearest ones. How to keep myself protected? Just to protect them? PPE kits? Right. Sweat runs down my body within 16 minutes. But my job doesn't end this quick. So how long am i expected to wear a plastic that chokes all my body pores? Where's the space to let my body breathe?
Sympathies? Oh please. Keep them to yourself. I need prayers. This virus isn't going anywhere soon. Pandemic is no joke. Was never. But our perspective lead on to this. And before all of us play the blame game to different religions and politicians, once and for all do what you can. I'm scared. Not because how fatal it is, since recovery rate is >98%, but because of the stigma it comes with. You'll be recovered. Soon. But it will lead to isolation. That might sound like a holiday trip, and you might like its feel, but it's not. Your near ones will have to be tested and once tagged positive, they'll suffer, mentally more than physically. Even the minutest headache would feel like end of the world. That much amount of fear is running in the community. I'm not saying, be fearless. Caution is always good. But take safety measures. Don't over exaggerate your fears. You'll be fine in 14-17 days.
This new strain is more about fever. And that too continuous fever, for 5 or so days. Occasionally cough and sore throat is also there. Don't think that it's weather change or may be malaria. Get yourself tested. But if you have always been someone who gets cold and cough at weather change, then don't get super anxious that it might be corona. Not everyone needs to be tested. Be logical. It's about immunity, since I'm sure all of us are exposed to the virus. Somehow. Keep the medicines in your reach, if things go wrong somehow.
Working as a medical intern, i feel overwhelmed, by the amount of workload as well as the fears and anxiety running in the community. A lot of my colleagues and friends have been reported positive and I'm surrounded by negative vibes, so thought to vent out. I hope they get well soon, and we all can be strong again. Those who are sick, and those who are safe, all need positivity and hopes. And a big shout out to those who are the care takers of corona sufferers. You're brave. You're risking yourself for your dear ones, god bless you! A little hope, and a strong positive mindset can help fight this better. Let's hope, this wave doesn't cause more damage. I'm already tired.
Poetry has soul of sea numbness of moon that bewitches depth of oceans. Cries silent sopranos of seagulls and love carried by albatross wandering above blues in greys.
And if a poet scribbles sea, his words flow as eternal wind of land and sea breeze.
Poetry speaks deserts dead with bountiful dreariness even under sultry skies. Syllables of myriads of sand grains making sonnets rhyme like dunes shape in winds
And when a poet scribbles desert his words flow as eternal wind like chaotic Sirocco.
Poetry traces skies— a divine canvas daubed in hues that writers render in words. Has secret undeciphered anecdotes for which the skies pour rains and a poet poetries. Infinite as poet's heart which covers all the souls of world.
/You see, I am scared, scared because I am free. They say, freedom is luxurious, but being free scares me./ Uncertainty- A Noun Meaning : The state of being uncertain.
Uncertain- An adjective Meaning : not completely confident or sure of something. Since the day I found freedom, the fear of uncertainty has been making me numb. /If I finally am free, why is it that i fear uncertainty./
Choice - A Noun Meaning - The act of choosing between two or more possibilities. If I am free, why is it that I have to choose? Why can't everything bring me muse? /What if I don't really have any alternatives And I choose the only possibility, Then isn't my freedom of choice relative?/
Maktub - A Noun Meaning : It is written When it is has already been written, do I really have a choice? /The decisions I make, are they really made by me? If not, then am I really free?/
@thousand_splendid_thoughts You are one of the most kindest person I have ever come across. You are beautiful inside and out. And you know your smile is contagious right? A million hugs and thank yous for always being there. I know the poem sucks but just know I love and adore you.❤
A complex concotion of carbon and many such compounds, that's what basically defines us the best. A skeletal core with merely the ability to think and feel, so simple and yet so intricate.
A tiny speckle of dust in the whole cosmos, breathing, surviving, only to be eventually stired up and lost in the dust again and amidst this whole cycle of emerging and fading, we have our own cosmos, the cosmos of life.
In this really long but short journey, we experience things, things which help us to live, to survive and at the end, vanish this existence of the atom after reaching home.
Striding along this path, we come across many such passengers, who accompany us, deceived by the same hiraeth. Some unfortunately or perhaps fortunately reach the end of the road soon enough to be left behind while others choose to walk along the other road, on a different path, a different journey reaching the same destination.
Creating stories, we go down this journey. Stories written from the stations we left behind, while some which we could never complete and it slowly escapes into mere silence.
The journey continues and then the summers slowly eludes. You try to hold everything everything to winter this out, but slowly the leaves start falling on the path, everything starts falling and slowly fades away.
You can now hear the footsteps slowly fading away crumbling the fallen leaves. You feel lost, left alone in the sound of the silence...
A new sky roars now and the leaves fall again. But this time, you choose to walk along with the fallen leaves. You don't long for the summers anymore because you find this shallow sensation in falling which slowly starts soothing you. You are lost and alone with the fallen leaves but this time you move along because some beautiful paths can't be discovered without getting lost.