//today was a day like no other I was sitting and talking to my father, suddenly he asked me,"are you happy?", there was silence, and I felt something on my face, only to see my eyes leaking, Hot tears were falling, like a tap left open, and they weren't stopping. my heart felt like it was ice cold, and my face remained expressionless.
my dear friend happiness, are you playing hide and seek? or were you never there in the first place, did I mistake you, for the absence of grief?
my dear friend happiness, I know we're strangers now, but do you remember me? because it's been so long since you've been here, I've forgotten how it feels.
my dear friend happiness, why'd you leave me? I'm broken without you here, can you please stay with me?
my dear friend happiness, I saw you with someone else that day and I couldn't help but feel bittersweet. the memories are killing me.
my dear friend happiness, grief is a good friend,she never leaves me, but I'm tired now and you were and will always be my first friend, can you please come save me?
my dear friend happiness please hurry, I'm fading without your company.
whatever you do,don't leave me with your cruel cousin numbness,please. I rather be with your eldest brother, death,really.
my dear friend happiness, I thought you were family,show me some mercy, after all our history.
my dear friend happiness, I'm so sorry. Let's stop playing the game of hide and seek. I've stopped hiding now, all you've got to do is come find me. ~A//
the day I met her, I was filled with a curious feeling, I felt hollow but it felt like I was overflowing, something told me, that she would be reason for all the exquisite joys coming my way. her face, was, such a beautiful thing, but it induced sadness in me, she looked at me, and i just couldn't stand it. that moment, my heart which I had forgotten I had, was beating like a drum, every vein in my body was thrumming, every hair in my body stood up, I knew then and there, she will be my rebirth and my destruction. he eyes, oh her eyes, they were melancholy eyes. her face was, a spectacle of grief. she moved like an injured catastrophe. her voice reeked of tragedy. the day we met the sky was the colour of pain. she was broken,completely, but i she was broken art. and to me, to very definition of broken means something can be fixed. she was the embodiment of misery, but when she smiled, they earth stopped spinning around it's axis, the stars stopped twinkling, the wind stopped blowing, and the moon also looked down at her. maybe she was me. and I was her. #wod@writersnetwork@miraquill
yesterday, I found, a dried rose,withered, between the pages, the red petals, that were very soft and had now hardened. the blood red color that startled me, had now faded into a dark brown. the thorns had become harmless. a beautiful specimen it was before, now falling apart. it was almost as if, it had turned into ashes, who could imagine, that something of such wonder and beauty, could turn into dust, that would fly away with the wind, leaving no trace of its existence. it was like my love. I pressed my love into an journal.
//the stars in your eyes shall live longer than history & miserable.
then we were together, somehow we had found each other back, we didn't have much to say, rather we had too much to say, but no way of saying it. so we sat there, in comfortable silence. he turned when heard me sigh, "what's wrong?",he asked, "oh it makes me miserable, to even think, that these stars it the sky, like precious jewels, will one day dull and merge with the dark sky" I said. he didn't respond.he was quiet. I just looked at the stars. "beautiful things are so tragic." I said. "And why's that" he asked. "they all must come to an end. after all their fleeting beauty is what actually makes them beautiful. but it's such a shame. I can't help but feel sad.I wish true beauty was eternal". I said. I finally looked at him. I realized all the time I was looking at stars, he was looking at me. he looked me with this peculiar expression and had a glint in his eye. "you never cease to surprise me. i'm constantly in awe of everything you say and you do". I was quiet. " you know what? I'll promise you something. I'll promise you that the most beautiful thing to ever exist will be eternal". I asked him,"What do you mean?" "The stars in your eyes shall live longer than history. they will live on even when you and I are gone. they will live on in the poems of poets, they will be eternalized. even when the world will be coming to and end, the gods will remember them. I can tell u that with absolute certainty." He replied. all I could do was look at him with my starry eyes and smile. so I did just that.
//I cradle my broken childhood & denial.
I'm lying in my bed, under the sheets, I'm curled up, as I stare at the ceiling, and see glow in the dark stars on the ceiling, I remember a time, when I looked up at them for comfort. I was scared of the dark, and monsters, I was scared on the ticking clock, I was scared of the creaking door. but with the stars, I felt safe. with a start I realized, how much had changed. I was in denial of who I have become now. would the little girl whose best friends were these fake plastic stars still like me? or would she find me unfamiliar? I cradle my broken childhood everytime I see those stars. I cradle it fondly, handle it with care. because with every passing second, it's only breaking more. the older I get, the more broken my childhood gets. so I sit there cradling it in my arms. hoping I never break it so much that I never get it back.
//the storm and thunder stirring inside your heart & wierd.
I find it wierd, how a single pebble, can disturb that whole ocean, by creating ripples. my heart is a ocean, sometimes it is too quiet, like still water. it just lies there. but mostly, the storm and thunder stirring inside my heart, are screaming, they want to be heard, to be understood. I can't help them, because I want the same thing. so I just listen to their screams.
//sufferings are soft taps of life & pen
people say suffering is temporary, they say that sufferings are soft taps of life, but the taps never run out, they are infinite, and are always open. just because they are soft doesn't mean they don't fill up the tank, they fill it till it overflows. poets find a way to pour the water from the taps somewhere else, they pour it out of the ink in their pens and they pour it out of the love in their heart. -advi
The wind blows. she's not happy and it shows. the stars sense it too, they shed tears of stardust. and there she stands, in the cold, among so many people, how is it possible to feel so alone?
memories have wrinkled faces, the smile has left their eyes. memories are liars and have hearts of ice, they carry secrets and old heartbreaks. memories have quivering lips, and shaking hands, too much unsaid, they come like a wave in the ocean, that hits u suddenly in the face, and drowns you. they don't let u forget them. and even when it think, that you've forgotten them, and they've left your life, they are still there, lurking in the dark, waiting for the right time to return.
she fell from the sky, it hurt because she thought she would fly, the thought occurred to her twice, that she was cursed, ultimately, no matter what she did, she was destined to die.
she sat in the blades of grass, her shadow fell on the ground, making it seem like, the patch were she sat had withered. making it a pitiful sight. a though occurred to her in that moment, that everything she touched, she destroyed.
it was the end, it was doomsday, she realized that too late. all she could do, right now, was sit and await her end. she sat on the ground, the dark night was suspiciously serene, the stars had had come out, slowly but delicately, like buds blooming. the sky was pitch black, and she felt it happen. the end was here, in that second, she looked to the stars, and remembered her dad's words, the stars shall gulp your misery, she wanted that more than anything. so she sat there,praying, that they would gulp her misery, and also gulp her existence, erasing any proof of it.
not all autumns are orange, some are red like blood and love. some are black, like the emptiness inside of her. some are blue, like gloom and the oceans she drowns in. not all winters are white, they are colorless, like the tears in her eyes. not all summers are warm, they are utterly cold, melting all the love in her heart into lava. not all springs bring flowers, they wither her and kill her. they are purple, like the bruise on her eye. from far away, these seasons are beautiful, but to her, they scream torture. -advi
#combination@miraquill@writersnetwork Don't know if this quite makes sense. I used, stardust,wind,alone. Memories have wrinkled faces. She fell from the sky. The stars shall gulp your misery. Not all autumns are orange.
Jamie, you know people leave but places don't.They exist holding back all the memories,fragrances, laughter and tears.
It's funny actually.. when u visit the places later, when they've left, and now you are all alone, for a second, sometimes, all the memories in the place become so concentrated, that you see them.
You see yourself with the people, laughing loudly, calling their name, the secret glances, the inside jokes, the peculiar look in your eyes, everything that happened when you came here together, you can see it replaying, like a video tape.
Places are beautiful aren't they. They have the ability to recognize you too. Even though you come back to the place after a long time, if u observe hard enough, you'll notice, the place will welcome you back, with the small drops of rain on your face, cool gusts of wind blowing your hair, birds chirping melodiously at your arrival.the place knows, it lives.
Jamie, you might think what use are the places, alone. The people have still left, the damage is done. What point is it going to these places.you might think they are just empty shells without anything inside. But they are not. They are proof of your relationships. They are monuments of your heartbreaks. They are your history and your stories. They are symbolic of your growth. They are figures of your existence. And it's okay to miss the person you were the last time you visited these places.
Sometimes, the memories of the past, roll down from your eyes, salty,and cold, stream down your face, and rush and hit the ground.
You see Jamie, once the people have left, then the places also miss them. They become graveyards which were once full of love and of pain. These places were once somebodies childhood home which they never want to look back to. Places are a reminder of our histories. They are scars.That's why people are scared.
These places were empty at first and filled up with all the people and the memories. They were voids of nothingness, they were space. And like stars fill up space, people filled up these places. They filled it up with their love and the laughter, their grief and their deaths. They filled it, and the kept on filling, until it was filled to the brim. But they still continued to fill it. They never stopped. That's why, places are overly filled with emotions and sentiments and feelings. And sometimes staying in those places might overwhelm you.
Jamie, you need to understand that people will always leave. They had a purpose in your life, they were there to teach some kind of lesson to you, and after teaching that lesson, their job is done and they will leave. If there is one thing that has repeated since the past, and history will keep on repeating itself, it's leaving. People are constantly leaving. They leave their hometowns to find better places to stay, they leave those places for vacations, they leave and they leave. So you can always count on that. Sometimes, we hope that they stay. Sometimes they do stay. And sometimes they don't. That's human nature. We get bored easily, and staying is tougher than leaving, ironically.
The point of all this,was to tell you that people and places are the opposite. People always leave, places always stay. But both of them are completely intertwined with each other. Completely dependent. Because what are places that don't have people, and what people don't want to go places. And it'll always be that way.the past defines us.
So always go to places, with or without the people. You be enough for yourself.
Places just exist, Holding back memories, And fragrances, Laughter and tears, Lingering emotions and feelings, Unsaid words screaming, Silence overwhelming, Tears and pain, Discontent and longing, Echoing screams, Important moments, And presence and connection. -advi
I stumbled into my attic today, After a long long time, And though it remained unchanged, I was a new person.
I opened a wooden chest, Dusty, With the shed skin of my past, Yet overflowing, With memories of easier times.
I saw my old classics, And Harry Potter books, Now the pages, Were dying, Slowly fading, They had lost their bright color.
They used to seem alive, When I read them, But now, They seemed unmoving, Inanimate objects, And that made me sad.
My books, Had also become fatter, It was as if, Everytime I read them, I left a part of me with them, making them bigger.
I saw my old puzzles, Younger me would've thought, That they are useless, Since some of their peices were missing, But the older me, The me I am now, Knows, That it's okay that they have missing pieces, I myself am a puzzle, With missing pieces of my soul, I'm lost and am always looking for these peices, But it doesn't make me less beautiful.
I saw my old diaries, And laughed at my folly, The pages, Where I wrote that when I was older, I'd have everything figured out. She had no idea, That the older I got, The more lost I felt, The more out of control, Like someone else was driving the car, And I was inter backseat of my own life.
But I was happy too, It was bittersweet, To see the words of the naive, Innocent version of me, The girl I once was, But never will be.
I saw an old blackboard, The chalk half erased, And I remembered, How when was young, I wondered, That the words we erased, Where would they go? Would they just float around space, Would they just be in nothingness, Would those words, Be waiting, Until someone needs them again, I used to wonder. I still don't know the answer to that question.
Whatever happened, I grew up, Not completely, But quite a lot. And now, I feel, Vaguely nostalgic, For the future, When i come back, And laugh on the me that I'm now, For taking myself too seriously.
Oh, to be terrified of the future, Yet look forward to it, It's so pleasingly paradoxical. -advi
Maybe, In another world, I'd be more comfortable, In my body, And feel like, I belong.
Maybe, In one of those, Thousand worlds, There is one, Just a single one, Where I don't yearn, For what doesn't exist, And feel like home, Is somewhere, I don't even know yet. Where I don't feel nostalgic, For the future.
In one of those worlds, I won't be a lost cause, I won't be a fighting chance, I won't look for my place in the stars, Or wonder about my existence, I would live without questioning, A thousand moments in between.
In one of those universes, I won't feel kindred with wolves, They howl at the moon, I silently howl too, I want to go back where I came from. To go back, To the moon and to the stars.
Every choice i make, Makes its way to a complete universe of its own, And thought it's terrifying, It's also secretly comforting, That all of my unused choices, Which I discarded, And chose over, Aren't alone now, Lost and wafting through space, They wanted to feel wanted, So they went and made, Complete worlds where I chose them.
So, it's calming actually, To think, That even if I make a wrong choice, Somewhere along the way, The right choice, Scurries along, Hurrying, To make a world of its own, Where I chose it, And made the right choice. Or maybe there isn't a right one.
It's good to know, That all the versions of me, Still exist, They are the what- ifs, And what wasn't's, They are pieces of unused history, Tarnishing with time, But, They exist. And I exist. And I think, Therefore I am. -advi
I was scared of myself, Of the people I could hurt, with my thorns, I attracted them, My beauty eternal, But is it, True or deceiving?
My blood stained petals, Held stories in them, Grief entrapped.
I was withering, Slowly but surely, The blood red, Slowly, Turning into, A burnt brown, Maybe because I was burning, Always, In the flames, Of my eternal thoughts.
I was only called beautiful, I was, Severely misunderstood, They didn't know of, All the pain, I had to go through, To be beautiful.
Sometimes, It made me wonder, If it was worth it, If everything that happened, Was worth it.
My scent, Was sweet to them, But intoxicating to me, I felt suffocated, In the body of me.
I was given as a token of a love, Or was it affection? I've forgotten now. I'm tired. Did they know that my beauty, Was just a cry of grief from this universe, I was living proof, That all exquisite things are tragic.
1. I cradle my broken childhood in my arms, like I'm a five year old who's broken her favorite toy; fragrant cotton leaks from a gaping wound at the side of my childhood, it is beyond repair but I'm in denial. I refuse to believe that my childhood has truly gone, that it has melted away like an ice cube that I held in my summer sun palms for a little too long. If Denial were Spring, then I'm the Month of April; I've sunk deeply into it. ~Sometimes its better to be in a state of denial than to ever believe that not all broken things can be put back together.
2. Fate, sometimes turns your strong oak soul to a fragile indoor plant, that dies when it doesn't get a numerically precise number of photons or molecules of water. It is a miserable thing to carry those memories of when you were an oak, now that circumstances have turned you into a tender tendril of a plant; it is truly, a burden. Sufferings are soft taps of life, yes, but when you're a plant as delicate as dew, even soft taps... hurt. ~Suffering isn't always poetic and Strength isn't perennial.
3. I have often been called Weird. I capitalize the W here, because to me, the word Weird, is beautiful enough to be accorded the status of a proper noun. Yes, I'm Weird, I'm green skies and yellow earth, I'm old antique shops that stick out onto the road at odd angles, I'm multicolored stockings and fairytale worlds, and if you can't see how beautiful it is to be Weird, it is because the storm and thunder stirring inside your heart, doesn't let you listen to the loud joy of my laughter. ~It is a beautiful thing to be born Weird.
4. Before Time existed, when the Universe was populated only by Father Sky and Mother Earth, Gaia sang a love poem to Ouranos. Each word She sang made trees grow like hands reaching out to stroke the Sky's face, and when She said, "The stars in your eyes will live longer than history", She cemented Herself as the First Poet to have ever joined Love and Stars in a Poetic Union. ~The Earth was the First Poet, The Sky, the First Audience.
5. "I pressed my love in an old journal", recalled the old pen with a broken nib. "The Last Poem that I wrote, I wrote on the last page of an old maths excersise book and from my home here, on a dust covered stand, I can see that it has not been read again. Like a botanist, pressing flowers in journals to preserve them, I pressed my Love of Art, in the form of poetry by crying ink oceans. I know that just like the delight that pressed flowers bring, when an old dust covered journal is opened, my Love will coax out the same joy." ~The pen that loved Art. __________________________________________ I have written five small pieces using combinations of the phrases and words given. @writersnetwork@miraquill This is my first combination challenge. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it...I hope I've done justice to it.
Words/Phrases used: 1. Denial/ I cradle my broken childhood in my arms. 2. Miserable/ Sufferings are short taps of life. 3. Weird/ The storm and thunder stirring inside your heart. 4. Before/ The stars in your eyes will live longer than History. 5. Pen/ I pressed my love in an old journal.
This is my last verse, or you could say a eulogy to my departure No, I'm not leaving, I'm freeing some birds to a november sunset, whispered like quiet vespers to the taupe skylines of a distant city, before the neons wake I watch my birds go higher, against my frail shadow on tufted pampas They'll wither like phloxes in your mute halls, still thawing rivers on those wilted eyelashes As you dive in, you'll meet their motionless canoes drowned in tides of a tireless fate And the night would faint, fallen to an eventide of pastoral silhouettes scented with camphor On eves of early springs, below scattered jewels in an aphonic drift, they're mosaics of memories frescoed to your grey clouds, awaiting like a nestling for its mother's kisses, swaying like marigolds in your sunburnt lalalands All the laughs echoed through an endless veil, as a penumbra of sunny dust on tinged marbles, will melt like snow in your spirit A sea of death lapping betwixt you and them, of bond or a pale body At times, a slow wind caress your curls seafaring a famished coast. I've killed a precarious man, mercilessly strangling his artless heart cold, he lay like his verse frosted mauves in vein now they're silent, for they've met divinity beyond the divide And to my eyes that seek what do they see beyond sighed they sung, How far would you fly to find a sea of love, How long would you swim to find her shore?
People leave, but places don't.. They exist holding back memories , fragrances and events that brought happiness and joy in your life. The buildings narrate thousand stories, each wall has sensed several human emotions and thoughts, each caricature has an ancient civilization existing behind for keeping up their culture and traditions. Thats why we build these, to hold back time and relish hidden secrets of the past.... That's why places exist, to carry forward lost values and eras....
Even though I have written about this once, I don't mind having a go at it again. The attic in a house has always been the final resting place for things gone old and obsolete. It is where memories of the days gone by go to die the silent death, only to be forgotten while dust and cobwebs settle upon them. Trunks after trunks of old items, documents, photographs, equipments just keep catching rot and moss, while we have long moved on from what was once a part of our lives.
However, once in a long time, while sifting through the heaps of 'trash' for something totally unrelated, we stumble upon these forlorn heirlooms that were once a part of our happy collective history. Some of it we recognise immediately because we encountered them in our childhood or they were a snapshot of our childhood, but some of it appears unseen and unknown. I don't know about others, but the feeling that immediately engulfs me in that instance is that of inquisitive curiousity. If it's a picture, I ask - "where was this picture taken? When was it taken? What was the ocassion? Are these people still around?"
By any chance of luck if I find something more than pictures, then the set of questions change. But, every single time that I rummage through things in the attic, I happen to make a discovery I wasn't expecting to make. Just the other day, inside an old cardboard box, I unearthed something I never thought I'll see again in my life. It was an old VCR player that I remember from the days when I was in Saudi Arabia. With a lack-lusture metallic frame, those tippy buttons that would often jam while pressing too much, the plastic flap through which the casette would go in, it all came back to me. How I would be amazed when the device would swallow the cassette whole on its own and I would often lift the flap to see how it worked and yet every single time it was like magic to me.
For those of you who do not know, a VCR was/is (I do not know if they make it anymore, I don't see anyone using them) a multimedia device that did not play CDs or USB flash drives. It used to have those tapes or big plastic cassettes with film reel rolling through them and would be connected to the television using AVR wires. It was always a challenge to figure out if the yellow pin went into the black, red or white port. After stifling with it for what seemed like eternity, it finally worked. I still remember that Dad bought us this VCR just after I had finished my 2nd grade exams and we were coming back from Riyadh city after our stay there for a few weeks. Every time we were in the city again, I would always visit this one shop where cassettes for cartoons were sold. My favorites used to be Mr. Bean series, Batman series, or any other new cartoon movie that had just featured.
With a large bag full of cassettes, I used to be eager to play one as soon as we would get back home. It used to be a nightmare selecting which one I would play first. The sheer excitement I felt just before it started to play is inexplicable. That brief moment of pause before it began would have me bumbling across the room ricocheting from wall to wall in anticipation. Once started, there was no way I would leave my place until the cast started to roll down at the end of the show and then I would feel wanting to watch more. I guess my love for binge watching movies/series is just as old as I am.
Anyhow, looking at that old VCR brought in a lot of good memories and that's actually true for most things you find locked in the confines of an attic. Each item there has a distinct memory attached to it and you'll be amazed at the anecdotes others around you might have to share about them, especially the elderly folks in the family. Some of these are gifts that were exchanged many years or decades ago and would have meant so much to someone that they end up in the attic and not discarded off. To ask about them and know about them would make them a part of your legacy too because once you've known about them and what they mean, you carry the potential to share it with the next generation to keep the memory alive.
That is exactly why documenting old family heirlooms becomes important because once the stories around them get lost, they end up being just some items occupying space in those already overflowing attics. So, get in there and chase the tales behind these antiquities just lying around from the want of attention.