If I could then, I would've been making self love easily accessible for the needy!
̶̶̶̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ - !
House, the calm ends of shores, The shop floats on the ebbs, but still stays by the shore. Whatever a person needs for self-love is served. Potions made of some crumbled old pages, that once preserved roses. Soups of charm, luck and courage.
Every soul sings about its long lost love, they collide with each other and leave together. Fantasy lives in their mind, that's why they can't realise the reality. Sanguinity is too slippery for them to stand on it.
Wearing plethora of metaphors, many decent souls walk past my shop. Some metaphors were shining like diamonds, while others were burning like fire, Wandering like some ships in the night, those stars, swim across the sky alone together.
/ Every corner of their brains has witnessed love, That their hearts failed to preserve. /
candied eyes with cacophonous voices were kept apart in a jar, they weren't bought by any. while sour souls + sweet potions were taken, planted in pots filled with stardust, potions poured little every night, made them to bloom.
I can see your shadow on the clouds. witnessing that thorns bore a bloom, don't get swayed by (love in) the air, self-love ain't selflessly wandering in air.
/But, bitter coffee and its aroma can make you feel better. Savouring favourite delicacies with lovely music can help you. Following the sunshine can help you. Travelling with the rains can help you bloom again./
Love for oneself can't be bought by someone and poured. Get it yourself.
When my daughter suddenly died in a tragic accident nearly three years ago, Nights were the worst. My mind was obsessed with images of her last moments and the question 'why'?. I lost my job, my hope and my passion to live life. I had nothing and no one to strive for. I became more and more depressed, it was a miracle that i was even alive.Her memories kept me sane. Every night i would look back into her memories waiting for her mesmerising voice to carry me out of the cosmos, until i fell asleep. The moon and the stars were my only companions, they were the listeners of my stories and regrets. The stories of how i used to play with my daughter, how i wanted her to achieve her dreams and how i wanted to become a good parent in her eyes that she'd look up to someday. But now all I'm left with are these loathing and crippling regrets. One night, her memories took me to her room, the room was filled with the aroma of her lost presence. There, i saw a diary, kept on her desk.It was an old diary with a couple of handwritten notes.I picked it up, and kept glancing over the empty pages, searching for her words to fill the crescive void inside my heart. At the last page of the diary i saw a note, there was something written on it:
"Do not fear death, but rather the unlived life.You don't have to live forever, You just have to live".
As i read it, tears fell from my eyes, as all my repressed emotions and memories were now liberated from the shackles of despair and regret. There was something in those words that made my heart wrench and eyes weepy, it was maybe..a realization that even though she has left me, somewhere in my heart, she still continues to live forever. The tragic irony of life is that it can be only understood by death.Now, i strive to truly live my life and relish and squeeze maximum joy out of it, because she taught me how to live, because this is what she would want for me. The greatest miracle is life itself. It's in the art we create and in the people we love and cherish, It's all around us. We are made out of this beautiful essence called life. Let's learn to appreciate it and live it to the fullest.
You've been told this lie that you are born broken, incomplete, and this life is nothing but a pursuit to find pieces to make you whole, to find someone else to make you feel whole. As if being You ain't enough, that you have to go on this divine journey to find someone else to find the pieces scattered around the world to be You. It's a constant struggle, isn't it?
You stay in the dark pit with a false hope that one day, in the middle of the night, someone would magically appear out of nowhere and it'll all make sense. Every poem, every movie, every poetic bullshit will make sense in that single moment. We always had a thing for fairytales and happy endings.
You have always wondered, what does it mean to be whole? You've seen enough strangers at two in the morning who talks about stars, the way autumn falls on the streets, about how everything is so deterministic but we look for a poetic side to feel a little something, a meaning. Words are funny that way, you know. They tell this lie that you will find pieces that will make you complete in a two a.m conversation with a stranger, but you always end up leaving a little part of you in them. Does that mean, in the end you are nothing but an empty shell of someone who is scattered around in strangers that you no longer remember? Perhaps it's all contradictions, or maybe someone being complete is someone being empty. But you've seen enough strangers, to know that, sometimes some will make you feel more. That is hard to define in words with your objective brain that always looks for a reason, a why, to feel a little less of the impending existential doom.
Perhaps we are limited by these boundaries. You are made to believe this is who you are, a close arbitrary space, nothing more and nothing less. So you end up finding pieces to fill the space and throw out things when they no longer fit. Yet, it never feels complete, often it is suffocating, and often it is just emptiness. Some people are entwined in a way that makes them feel more, beyond the edges of who they are to a newfound solace. Some, last for a few hours and some a little more. But the scariest thing is not finding someone who will make us feel more or losing that someone who made us feel something, the scariest thing is not realizing that you are enough, to feel complete. And maybe, it is not about finding someone else to make you feel complete, but finding yourself at two in the morning with a fine whiskey enjoying the mid-life crisis in a lonely apartment dancing to Elvis and feeling fucking fine.
And maybe, it's these empty rooms that let you breathe.
It is said that you attract what you think, maybe that's why poets rhyme their melancholy, and still wish for a miracle. It isn't that rare, just be a little more observant and you'll be surprised at what you find. Hope and happiness create beautiful symphonies together, but if you let the burden of expectations in, it's certain to cause discordance.
In between the cold droplets of August and humid sky of October, there's a soft wind; hidden in the rusty pages of September, that would take away your sorrows, pour them down the parched lane of a dry summer and make you hopeful once again. Months are not just pages on a calender, they're much more; feelings indescribable. Each one holds a certain emotion, that floods in the middle of emptiness and fades away when you get used to it. As years pass by, you keep running in circles, waiting for the one that rhymes with your soul and holds your abode.
Between the pages of my favourite novel, there's a chocolate wrapper, pressed and preserved; a fossil of forever, that now lies in a coffin of words. I sometimes wish to crumble it between my fingers and throw it away. But I can't, for it's a souvenir of a miracle, one that led to beautiful memories. Memories are bittersweet, either they build you or break you; into fragments not worth stitching back. Scattered stars are what add beauty to the sky, anyways, so you can be a mess and still shine.