Heart : Listening is something so important in life isn't it? Conscience : Some say communication.
Heart : I don't know. But I truly feel that listening is the mother of all things being right. Conscience :You're very passionate about this.
Heart : I am. Imagined how listening happens even when we are a child. Imagined a toddler who just learn how to walk, putting all effort to get the attention of the parents with their gibberish baby talk. But the parents are addicted to their phones and don't even pay attention that the toddler has to climb on the parents and hold the parents face and pull it towards the toddler which literally screams : "Mom! Dad! Listen to me!" Conscience : Oh that's so sad ☹️ Heart : Yes it is. Imagined if that's us, even as adult craving to be heard and yet listening became so cripple to us human ☹️
**She notices how selfish human has become. How ignorant and how egoistic all of us have turned into. Listening become so expensive, the highest trait which is so difficult to master. If only we learn to listen. Listen to even the silence of words that is throbbing to burst out words of love, beauty and wisdom. Just imagine if listening was not cripple**
Heart : Do you know what writing can do. It is so powerful. Conscience : Yes it is.
Heart : Lord Byron says "A drop of ink may make a million think". That is simply how powerful it is. Things that can't be said, things that was forcefully silenced, things that are forcefully buried and voluntarily kept as secret and things that was covered to hide the ugly side of human. Just with a drop of ink. It just shakes the whole world and birth the truth. Conscience : And that's how it should be. The freedom of speech spoken by the unspoken. Heart : And so it shall be.
**Her opinions has always been ridicule, laughed at, stomped on, and she has always been called as too opinionated. She is silent but loud. She wants to let the world know on the many social injustice happening to many, happening to the races, to the cultures, to the religion and to her. So the only way is for her to keep making sure every drop of ink that she write with relates and could help others. Every drop of it ✒️**
I have learnt mostly from the intangible teachers in my life. And I now crown them the title for they deserve it.
I believe my past is still pristine, being entirely paradoxical in nature. Albeit, I want it to fade and not become subfusc. I only want to remember all the good memories. Being a rational human being I often tend to incline towards remembering otherwise.
The popular saying goes that failure is the best teacher. But sometimes, failure can also lead to rigmarole of frustration. Which then spirals and creates adversities for us, resulting in plethora of mental imbalances.
To all the experiences, situations, memories, people, non-living things that came into my life and influenced my living, I thank all. For it made me who I am today. And the reason for the principles and values I hold today.
On this occasion of Teachers' Day I promise to hold everything dear to me and let go of everything that poses detrimental to me.
Floatsam O' thee craddle crib tainted thou long sail over the mazarine clement sea, O' how thee forbid thou kinswoman to ease tulips shade their scents along thy alpine tree. Where the rubab's string sings cusp poetry spring O' where thou ghalib has lost far beyond In attan eve, thy streets are red mihrab and minbar frightened where thou sheaves of wheat around the mosque and hijri year underneath, alas! the erstwhile doctrines you sell over thou cold war skin.
O' thee ruthless king how thy (P/p)rime rests In peace why the azans even ring far bounded through his curshed shrine rifts; Children cry by the null mortarshell their mother had died father Is missing and their brother on neva returning runaway, their eldest sister has been lashed In back midst of the men, the parting tears In eyes and dusty breads on her wounded hand.
O' thee fires stay a little while on the cimmerian gale thou cuss may fell upon the tyrant- over the Kafir's head. You thee forasmuch ruler how dare you snatch the prophecy away of my friends, do lease my mighty words, cease the warlords suppress them. O' free thy cyclopian vehemence cyclophosphamide metaphors, rescue thy burnt sorcerer's eminence. O' thee my beloved land thy broods are In paradoxial pain, they flee to live they live In presence of your Grief, they die on your lap. O' why thou roads are red mihrab and minbar frightened where thou soothing sheaves of wheat around thy capracious Land.
soul refers to a cell here, functional and structural unit of life. Idk how true it is but i just saw it in a picture how a star dies forming supernova and how a cell is born from the pre-existing one. Also, idk if this suits for paradox but who cares, the challenge is over anyway
shrey2310@sumiinked even i feel like writing prose from a long time but wo vibes nahi aarhe. But ik I'll write soon, can't assure 100% for a prose but most likely, it can be a prose. Abhi to Filhaal exams hi likh rhe hai warna
sumiinkedOh, achha, Padho Padho, I don't want ki kam marks aaye to Mr. Shrey sad ho jaaye