Guys guys I've not left this community, I'll never. I'm recently busy with some of my personal stuffs so was inactive and won't be able to remain active for few more days. Thank you for your concern. You all means alot.
Life isn't meant to be simple,not always going to be planned. And so we should remember to take opportunities where we can do all the things we want to work, write, travel,dance,sing,cook.
The dissonant chords and consonant chords dance in harmonically progressive orbits that create cloudy tempests. Don't let your winter arrive having not done anything.
I laugh some moments, marveling that I can make up stuff and convince people. But I embrace the deeper lesson that opportunity isn't so much something that shows up, as something to create. Don't wait for your life.
Life doesn't stop at only one or few windows. It does takes a lot of courage to realise this and much more courage to lose few things.
-Richa (pointingpoems) **SENDING POWER TO YOUR WAY**
The world of words fascinate me. I paint my characters with ease who come alive, as I dress them with magical verses. The silent airy blow takes me to this land to live the stories never been told. Every season that I would greet, would've me gazing at the sand's and sun's meet.
The world of words fascinate me and embrace me in arms of dreams as I felt a kiss of warmth snatching all my fear. I rearrange the disquieting into a silver canopy of serenity, finding peace in my eccentricity.
The world of words fascinate me, I write and write till my head hurts. Till my soul let out the negative feelings buried inside. Till I shed few tears because even my own tears have somehow betrayed me. I'll write it back in my diary when the one's appearance showing it's worth to stargaze and dream.
The world of words fascinate me to the new land of songs and lives and awakened longings, the hope of new beginnings. In times of joy, in times of unabashed celebrations, in times of grief, uncertainty or pain, what I do ?! I write.
A writer choreograph words to make verses-pushing through with silent beautiful art. Dance and sing and the words shine with a graceful beauty. A beauty known only to us as "WRITING".
When a year ends we see how times have changed, how we have changed - but we fail to notice how we change every day, no next day is the same as the last one, no person is the same as yesterday, no place is same as what it was once. @/kehta_hai_joker you'll be forever missed 20/10/2020
I stared at the sluggish coconuts snooring in the shelter home owned by fresh green leaves glistening the pink glow of a baby's face, feet submerged in the warm sand like a half melted candle standing on a wooden table. I smiled at the glance of the beloved sun bathing my face in the pleasant rays of summer sunset while the breeze of dusk whispered a handful of secrets from the box echoing melodies of white pigeons who were exploring the vast orange sky while my eyes dived in the pool of magical charm of the sea waves.
"Retribution, deserved!" he whispered and spun the mosaic paperweight, disrupting the perilous silence that could have followed through. His dry but maliciously sharp orbs stared at it viciously, as if seeking to transfix it. In hindsight, I realise the jailer's words weren't hollow:
"Careful, chap, with the flick of a finger he could blow you away, and in the blink of an eye, he could turn your world upside-down. In there, do not trust his actions; whatever he does, is never even half of what his intentions are. If he decides to tell you a story, pray that you live to hear the end, because if pasts were to be synonymised with monsters, his' would be the Kraken."
He sucked what he had to, I sat frozen at my spot, and to leave was a choice, but I wanted to hear further, apart from the fact that my legs were trembling.
A cold gust slid across the eerie prison cell, with barely visible spaces that let light in. A separated wisp, ruffled his rufous hair and I felt I could whiff the blood he was drenched in.
"Erebus Bronwen, 37, I love my wife." he had scribbled and engraved the sentence all around his greyscale room. He was handcuffed and a transparent barrier withstood between us, but still whenever he'd heave his head to cast a glare upon me, I felt death closer.
"What did your wife do?" in a timorous tone, I asked another question with lost audacity, under the impact of the answer of the first one: "Why did you kill your wife?"
"Reese? She never did anything, she had a problem, things happened with her, around her," he uttered and beckoned silence.
I couldn't afford cessation because quietness was disturbing:
He broke his fiddling with the glass weight, wielded an arcane curve on his face and parted his lips to begin the end.
Sometimes I see butterflies embracing memories as they hold the experience of the brightness of sunlit corn fileds in summer the thickness of each raindrop in monsoon the journey throughout the honey leaves of autumn the stubborn nature of winter the freshness of new blossoms in spring on their naked souls.
Days and nights pass. Just like trees and entire sceneries speeding back from you, while you're in a car, with your hand stretched along the window panel, head rested against the glass, and orbs gazing at the world rushing past you. You shift right, then left on your seat, unbuckle the seatbelt, yet this steady feeling of uneasiness doesn't go away.
You reach your stop for the day's journey, get out of the car, straighten your back, untie your messed up hairs, but that knot in your stomach, keeps on building. You can't throw up, can't dismiss it off, it just stays, unfazed by any effort.
The wind feels like puffs of long-held breaths on your tired face. The warm rays of the setting sun, just about to disappear into the crimson seas, shines brighter, as if saying their last goodbyes. You think of the journey you've to set about again tomorrow, for this isn't the final stop for you; it never was. But when would that be; when you'll cease to go on the same cragged road, throw off your baggage once and for all, and might be, breathe in the fresh air forever, never having to restrict yourself within doors and closed windows.
You decide, these thoughts are getting you nowhere, and you need to do, what you've always done, whenever this uneasiness seems to be choking your peace. You let go, you breathe it out, no matter if it's only for the night or for the moment, you just let go, of all that you can..
P.s. But does letting go mean it would disappear forever? No, you still know it will come back to you again, maybe tomorrow or a moment later. But that's the only thing you can do, to keep your peace at this moment. So you don't think of tomorrow; and you just let go, for today, for now..
(Maybe, just maybe you'll listen it. What? You'll never know.)
@augustleaf Thankyou once again ^_^ And I apologise for the length hehe. #rf_licon_ch ________________________________________________________
I'm standing on the shore, with my forehead burning with the light of slowly eclipsing sun. And the tides which are emptying sand beneath my feet, are making me realise how everything affects everything.
A flared floral dress is enough to hide the smiling skin with invisible scars. Wind plays its game once again to enhance the beauty which reeks ugliness when found alone.The waves are calling me in and my unconcious mind is getting stabbed again and again by the habit of taking steps back. One, two, three and here I've forgot the count of how many times this has happened before. It isn't a sign of loneliness that I don't want anyone to touch these half orange and half purple painted nails looking like a sunset under a sunset. It's just I don't want anyone to pick the paint and see what all is written on white nails.
The sand slipping beneath my parched feet is somehow making me feel that I've got nothing to fill the voids. Voids have been filled with reasons that are capable of creating bigger voids. Few days back, standing right here, I told the clouds that I'm afraid of voids and cried until they set themselves aside creating a void through which I saw one of the most beautiful rainbows of my life. There comes a point when beautiful things make you cry worse. I just started running on this shore showing back to those clouds yet fixating my eyes on them.
I haven't really slept for days. Just have tried to close my eyes and feel the peace for once. But somehow closed eyes have been hurting more than swollen ones. Blinking things off, helps. With each blink, a bunch of indigo is blooming on this ocean in front of me. Within a few days, here will be a heavenly indigo field. Just for me. It has always been just me. It all has always been just in my mind.
This too shall pass and thus the sun is continuously setting down trying to let me up. The feeling that I'll witness many more sunsets but none of them will be like this, is soothing at the same time comes with the wave of longing. A never ending longing. You're never ready for any of it but neither is the ocean ready for high tides. It calms itself down, you will too. And me? One of my part must be following you for sure. Then there are a few dreams which knock at our door, at us like low tides and keep asking us to live a little longer, little better and a little wiser. It'll set for a night now. A night filled with stars. I can just hold your hand and walk on the stars that'll line themselves up for us, once we start walking. But one of them might break and fall leaving us as wanderers in this infinite sky. We just can't walk away without noticing the footsteps of said things we leave behind.
These scattered rays of sun are screaming beauty. Maybe broken is beautiful in a way I could never comprehend. It's beautiful for the ones who don't want to know if it's the paint or blood on the edges of broken pieces. You don't want anyone to understand you if not completely. These pieces of shells leave a sigh of relief when left untouched. The beauty of hands that might touch them with all the love and care, doesn't matter here in a way.
Maybe one day, I'll receive a letter floating on these waters. But I'm afraid that day, I won't be left with enough words to write a reply. Neither to the letter nor to myself.
Sometimes burial of many feelings is necessary to let few of the most beautiful flowers nourish over them. Sometimes letting go a few sunsets is necessary to understand what the silence of waves whispers in dark.
The part you've let go a long back and the part you are seeking, both affect the part you are trying to live in this moment cause in a way or other, everything affects everything even if you don't want it to.
/We are sand in an hourglass which is flipped again and again to let those few uncertainties of time delay/
PS: I've nothing left to write. Just a set of emotions, I don't know if they can be written just like that. I wish I was a writer who knows how to write. _____________ You just won't. End of an unwritten and if wrote, maybe one of the most beautiful stories you'd ever read. It's okay. It's okay even if it's just okay, okay? And maybe this is the moment you realise that not every okay demands an okay in return. I don't hate you. *Smiles*
The sunset feels like a brook of wine and I'm sitting on the rooftop watching the memories come back to me from sangria skyline, The Memories etched on my heart like a tattoo etched upon someone's skin, inexpungible.
Not all of those memories behold us but none shuns you.
The crapulent ligule of dandelions waves at me asking me to let go of the feuillemort pile of us out of souvenir, explaining to me that when good bids adieu the best is already awaiting somewhere within the stars, but my sopping smoking orbs come down in favour of murky tangerine sky over anything else.
The tangerine we looked upon with demitasse in one hand and dandelions in others is now replaced with tangerine I stare at, holding sommelier in one hand and a cigarette in other, sitting beside my musky wet spiral notebook on which I scribble my tears dipped in mascara.
As I see the sun setting down and the golden sky putting on the black veil of tranquillity, I find myself as part of the empyrean, the empyrean embracing burning yet dark scars and my domicile is between those scars, interstellar, residing within that black locus being grey blotch.
Now, when the black rule the roost and my eyes are no wetter I lay back to the cupola under that black veil and tries to find my lost soul between those burning scars, praying that I never cross you again but the sun will set again and yes daily.
// I never romanticised even red but now I romaticise black, cause maybe my darkest hues are my only hues now//