Sometimes we're nostalgic for the places we've never been in. . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hiraeth
Hey, Do you feel like running away? Because I do, Almost every day,
Where to? You might ask, I don't know where it is I say, As the place, I crave for, It doesn't have a route, Or a name, It is just a place, I ache to go, As the craving in my heart, Refuses to be tamed,
It's Far away from this world, But near to my heart, A place, Where the sun sets a little late, And the moon stays for a little long, Where the days are cheerfully pink, And the night peacefully dark, A place where I don't have to run, Run from anything at all, I can just be at peace, With my flesh and blood, All and all,
Maybe this sounds, A little like a utopian dream, A place more of fiction, Than something ever seen,
Well, maybe it's true, Or it might be false, As that place isn't black and white, To have rights and wrong, And maybe that's why I crave it, As it is where no one judges me, No one Asks me to prove myself, And justify my every breath, Where I am not just brick in the wall, But a little flower on the crannied wall,
So don't ask me, Where, when, and how, Just let me live with this hope, The hope of finding my place, My hiraeth.
@mirakee, @writersnetwork thank you for your kind reposts. I really haven't been writing for months and I don't know if this is really a dream. Thank you everyone for your very generous comments and reposts. This means a lot. ❤️
I see mirrors, A lot of them. In the dead, the old, the decayed and the ones about to be deceased. I see mirrors in poems I read about the little girl in the meadows in her little white frock, with golden locks hanging down her shoulders The faint brown freckles on her face Dancing with the wind on her toes Like ballerinas she went to see last spring.
I see mirrors In the old women I hear about, Sleeping in her coffin, with her tranquility. I walk past her huge door everyday With the faded bijou letter plate, all brozed up with dust of mystery and the gold of love. The wooden door to her tiny abode of remenisce, where she fondly slept on the couch in her last days. For the king size bed her husband brought home Has been lonely for 22 years of him bygone. She swaps in the drapes and the sheets everyday, for him to sleep comfortably in her memories.
I see mirrors In the old library where pretty faces Take a bit of it with them in the photographs, The old shelves with books of those whose bones might have been loamed soil by now, Covered with webs of miniscule creatures and the shores they sank their feet in. It's been just years they've espied sunlight and held hands For those who come to read stand by the newspapers, too old to remember and too weak to bend down for them.
I see mirrors, In the houses near the shores For it's walls have glimmered with french Margherita splashes on the fond nights And have been scraped at times when the kids mastered to draw. The gardens remember the young father teaching his baby boy how to peddle, And now the birds pay their visit to the undomesticated feral grass. The radio on the china table now, never announces victory For the unrepaired gobs Haven't touched a human since the boy wedded maturity.
It always was beautiful in the fall. The sky was mesmerising and so was the ground. As there laid the thousands of leaves beneath the tree. Selflessly making their sacrifice. It was hard to understand or decipher that how deep this phenomenon was. As it's beauty catches the eyes off-guard. And as you walk down those beautiful lanes in the morning sun. All you can do is smile and feel blessed to be a part of this moment.
And in that moment we realise that, it isn't just about the falling of the leaves. Or the changing of world's colour. It's much more than that. It's about us, you me and everyone. Who are part of this planet. And have faced and survived this painful yet most beautiful process called; the transformation.
To begin with, change isn't ever easy. Especially the changes that change you for good. As they're all about making you better. And being better is hardly ever easy. Its more about letting things go. Even if they're once the thing you couldn't live without. It's like shedding a skin off yourself like you're being reborn. And it is also about painfully saying good-byes to people you never thought you could ever leave. It's almost doing, facing and winning over everything you never thought you could do or become.
And so sometimes when I walk down these beautiful tree leaves. I fell pain of crumpling them beneath my feet. But on the other hand I realise that that's what I do too. And you me we all do it. We leave part of ourselves like the leaves of the tree. We shed them off, sometimes it's in the form of people, feelings, emotions, memories and places. We shed. And in those moments I feel fortunate to be able to weep the loss. And express the happiness of the new buds. Unlike the tree. Which silently bears it all. As it stands tall even with all of its leaves have fallen off.
As before the new buds and the fallen leaves. There is a time, a period where the leaves have fallen and the new ones are yet to arrive. And all that is left are the vacant branches. In those cold moments there is no assurance, no gaurantee that there will be good days, or that there will be new growth. It can be the trees last fall. And it might be just inches from its end. There is no guarantee that it'll see the blossoming sun; but it stays.
And that's how it is with us. The transformation phase is so hard. That sometimes it feels like death. We feel like we are dying, along with our habits, people, places and all the things that fell off. We are tired, frustrated, sad and many other emotions at the same time.
And after months of cold and hard day's. One day all of a sudden, there is a swift breeze that brushes across. Turning the leaves as it kisses them a final good-bye. A warm good-bye. A good-bye that assures the fallen that they've done thier part and even in thier going they've done no harm but to make this earth look beautifully golden in the arrival of the new little buds.
In such moment, when I stand beneath the tree. On those fallen leaves, I gaze down. I see the yesterday, which has left off. And upwards on the tree I see those new sprouts, assuring me a better tomorrow. And as I stand there amidist the leaves. I feel the golden crisp of them mesmerisingly beautiful. As I smile to myself realising that; no matter how hard it is shed off, or to step on the fallen. This process of transformation is the most beautiful thing we as living beings can ever go through.
What I think of you @whitewings , me and everyone else. ________________________________________
A bird’s eye view.
Writing. Writing is all you do. You’ve grown into a dream, you’ve never dreamt of. You’re a writer. That’s all you are. You don’t try to be better, you just want to be true. You don’t want escape; you see pain, suffering, loneliness, betrayal and you’re comfortable. No hiding, no evading. You don’t see why life isn’t beautiful. You’ve seen guilty sunsets and poetic lies. You’ve walked miles and found wildflowers bloom in the battlefields. You haven’t seen it all, but, you’ve seen enough to be. Just be.
There was a time when you started. When you loved writing for reasons beyond writing. The excitement in metaphors and references. Writing took you to a different world; better people. Or at-least, that’s what you thought. Intrigued. Excited. You were young. You thought this could go on. But could it? Even then, at the back of your mind, there was Reality. Taunting. Scaring.
Slowly, words took to you. It became a habit. Every time you fell for the sky, the stars or the flowers, you would count on words to freeze the time. Trying to hold a fleeting moment. You began collecting them at the first sight. Little did you know, that the second gaze would hit you with a memory. And the third wave would be a poetry. Sometimes paper-boats bring love to your paparazzi. And you smile. You’re grateful. But you know it won’t last. And you’re tired.
You are a witness to how cruel and kind this life can be. But, you won’t tell no stories of adventure or love. You write snippets. Your words inspire stories and poems. You take no credit, nor care to know someone, beyond the writer he/she is. You don’t want to know. You don’t want to judge. Life has already begun happening to everyone. And we are all in the middle of something different.