Miraquill
The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night.
– Haruki Murakami
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writersbay
6h
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writersbay
1d
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Write something about patterns. It could be any type of pattern.
Tag and share with #patternscThere are only patterns, patterns on top of patterns, patterns that affect other patterns. Patterns hidden by patterns. Patterns within patterns.
If you watch close, history does nothing but repeat itself.
What we call chaos is just patterns we haven't recognized. What we call random is just patterns we can't decipher. What we can't understand we call nonsense. What we can't read we call gibberish.
There is no free will.
There are no variables.
— Chuck Palahniuk -
writersbay
3d
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Today write about a song that made you feel happy.
Tag and share with #happysongcAnd I thought about how many people have loved those songs. And how many people got through a lot of bad times because of those songs. And how many people enjoyed good times with those songs. And how much those songs really mean. I think it would be great to have written one of those songs. I bet if I wrote one of them, I would be very proud. I hope the people who wrote those songs are happy. I hope they feel it's enough. I really do because they've made me happy. And I'm only one person.
– Stephen Chbosky -
writersbay
4d
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Word of the day: Cinnamon
Tag and share with #cinnamonc
Happy Dussehra to all of you! 🌻I miss your silent stature,
your avoided days of disaster,
your present state of distress.
I’m cinnamon, cloves and fire,
you are the rested cedarwood of desire.
– Jamie Weise -
writersbay
5d
I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
F. Scott Fitzgerald -
My dear boy, the people who only love once in their lives are really the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect—simply a confession of failures.
– Oscar Wilde -
writersbay
1w
With callused hands
i tasted
the softness of the moon
in the coldest winds
i discovered
my soul's
warmest fireplace
in the roughness
of his stubble
the tenderest love.
– Sanober Khan -
writersbay
1w
Do you know how there are moments when the world moves so slowly you can feel your bones shifting, your mind tumbling? When you think that no matter what happens to you for the rest of your life, you will remember every last detail of that one minute forever?
– Jodi Picoult -
writersbay
1w
Sitting with her on Sunday evening — a wet Sunday evening — the very time of all others when if a friend is at hand the heart must be opened, and every thing told…
– Jane Austen -
writersbay
1w
Close your eyes and turn your face into the wind.
Feel it sweep along your skin in an invisible ocean of exultation.
Suddenly, you know you are alive.
- Vera Nazarian
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COLORFUL LIFE IN AN ACHROMATIC MIRROR
~when they said colors were of many shades~
'
What is once lost in the boulevards of eyes,
can, perhaps, be never retrieved though.
Life, once adored, by harlequin choices
In the hands of fate; fate leading the journey;
switched to an achromatic abstract forever.
Why did the colors vanish so fast? Alone, for me?
I still paint varicolored masterpieces in my heart
never translates them to a canvas, for I can't ever.
'
A hundred choices, was I to make back then
How did they all blend into achromatic black,
in the lanes of dyes which left my stories?
Sure, for from now, no more a masterpiece I'm.
Even those which were once black in color
turned, forever, to perfect shades of vantablack.
I tried to paint with my colorless dyes on my canvas,
But no color does anymore dissolve in my medium.
'
'Tis not a choice; to love, to be extant with love.
It is an occurrence; with dreams flyin' around you.
It is a memory; with no past and yesterdays.
It is an artwork; with many reflections of itself.
Shared, it seemed; my love with colors and art.
Perhaps, 'twas, or it wasn't; but colors faded away.
When I added one stroke at a time to my love,
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
Tue 19 Oct 2021 -
aryaa_anand
2w
Read More@miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay @fromwitchpen @heartsease
#foreverc #ceesreposts
// the fallacies asked forever why was it so deeply loved by people, forever replied that I'm loved because they don't believe in your real presence in love, but they believe in my apparent being. //f- fathoming the unfathomable fallacy of time
o- ostensibly true yet fairly false
r- rhetoric remains of memories questioning relationships
e- extraordinarily ordinary promises wrapped in honey
v- vehemently piercing pangs of pain
r- realm of apparent realities
©aryaa_anand -
amtupu_
2w
Read MoreThank You WN for ��(2)
When birds escaped my city in awe,
I began to imagine living in revere.
So I pen soft sonnets every night,
just to remind me that forever exists.
You're every shade of reverie I starve,
even if this sordid earth moved shaking,
I know you'd carry water for me.
- @amtupu_
#wod #foreverc #kwansaba @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay @readwriteunitei pen soft sonnets
every night
to remind me
that forever exists.
©amtupu_ -
Women, I think, are made
of spells and enchantments-
ancient and ruined,
each detail so intricately woven
in their being
like stars embedded in the sky,
like patterns of the universe-
concordant and harmonious;
divinity personified.
Women are battlefields-
stained and unholy,
wars waging inside them
don't ever end;
yearning for a middle ground
lost ages ago,
they keep preserving in vain.
The woman inside me,
I think, is what they call poetry;
soft flowers, strong sails,
homemade curry, a cuisine exquisite,
she's everything, you name it;
a thousand years ago,
they burned me- a witch,
I rose from the ashes,
today I'm a bitch;
label me all you want,
you know well,
chaos cannot be contained;
as a poet once said~
/I am no bird,
and no net ensnares me./
©paper_cuts -
samridhi_mahajan
3w
Read Moreतीरगी : darkness
कैफ़ियत : condition
तहरीर : likhawat
तेजा : light / radiance
तब्बसुम : smile.तुम तीरगी में पूछते हो कैफ़ियत मेरी ,
कि तहरीर देखने को तेजा भी तो चाहिए
तब्बसुम के लिए होंठ काफ़ी नहीं मुर्शिद,
एक कलेजा भी तो चाहिए । -
stardust_writes
12w
Read MoreYou are like the wind,
nowhere in sight yet so
crucial. I can see you amidst
the clouds of uncertainty,
rising like a golden sun,
radiating your grace.I'm
sunkissed and verklempt,
trying to chase your equanimous
soul before the sun dips below
the horizon, just like having the
last gasp of beauty before the
death of the day.Your name rests
between my lips like a prayer,
if my susurrus sounds reach
your ear, they would be spelling
I love you. My soul is riddled with
toska, the sadness of longing for
something that I cannot have yet
I cannot live without. Nothing ever
ends poetically right? I would rather
weave poems with your leftover
memories than to forget you
in the abyss of time. As the
night descends, memories
of you surround me like a warm
blanket protecting me from the
shivers of a frozen heart. If the
crescent moon ever calls out your
name, remember I have told the
moon stories about us. I gulped
the night and chewed your fragrance,
waiting for the dawn to break as
mornings bring endless battlefields.
You're like a kid on the carousel ride,
playing merry go rounds in my war
field. I'll wear my love like an armour,
come what may, I'm ready to get
wounded, again and again, but
remember my love, it's only for you!
©stardust_writes
#start #rise #poeticallyc @writersbay @miraquill @writersnetworkEndings
Nothing ever ends poetically.
It ends and we turn it into poetry.
All that blood was never once
beautiful. It was always just red.
~Kait Rokowski -
mirror
4w
Read More//absaar
(sight)
hazy when it rains
i look out of a window
stretching my palms towards freedom
pretending
that there is more to this world
while a subdued part of me wonders
what more can i ever see
through the only window i am allowed to keep
fuzzy when it's cold
my window is frosted
with facades and faint cries
of everything that is
protecting me from what lives
outside my room
that my crutches cannot distinguish
with two clicks on the ground
on the other side of the only window
i am allowed to keep
bright in summer, i feel heat
i try to look outside but my eyes betray me
as i fail to make sense of the beauty
that i've only drawn in pictures
that are now paper planes, flying
i scratch the window, try to break through
for myself
a view
that is for once not adulterated
with the descriptions
from the eyes of everyone else
who's been luckier than me
to see the world, unfiltered
but what view do i see
when my eyes physically prevent me
from distinguishing between
sky blue and tree green
as i sit behind a dead black screen
realising, that to me, the world shall always look alike,
through whatever window i'm allowed to keep.
©mirrorabsaar
©mirror
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myrrhc
12w
Read More"have you tried fishing in these places before?"
"once, with my dad." the leaves were rustling at every step as we headed for the river beside the woodland rays. the daylight wasn't particularly bright nor warm. just enough to spill a sight suitable to see the crooked pathway.
"he told me that there are seasons where the fishes are abundant," i continued. "and you don't need any assistive gear during those."
"assistive gear," he repeated. "like spears and arrows, axes and daggers?"
"crossbows and maces," i corrected. he smiled.
the peak of autumn meant the presence of color schemes. usually, they'd range between red and orange, yellow and brown. when the leaves overlap upon each other, as though a smaller tree grew under a slightly bigger one, they'd give off a faded golden streak of gleam like the sun's rays. i hadn't been sure if i ever told him yet, but if you put your palm precisely under that line of light beneath the leaves shone by the sun, you are, by which, a witness of a heavenly body grasping hands with a portion of this world. it's like holding a part of the sky, a similar thing made from the same element the rain gives you.
"how about you?" i asked.
"what about me?"
"have you been to a camping trip like this before?" i remembered the first time going to the mountains with my family. although the view was beautiful, exceptional, exciting, insert all other adjectives that describe the stars the same, i couldn't stop thinking about how the ground was continuously uphill. and the more we stepped, the higher we were. what exactly was the probability of us falling into this den of bushes that was actually a forest of trees below, and the number of broken bones limited to survive the way back home? yes, the journey was memorable, i could say. but breathtaking was a more fitting term to me. both literally and its figure of speech.
"i've been to high places before, and those sceneries," he looked upfront. "definitely are one of its kind. but huge forests? not as of i can remember."
"you don't overlook everything, do you?"
"overlook?"
"like snakes being around these branches or spiders on the tree trunks. worms under your shoes?" i looked at where we were stepping, the shades of leaves reflecting on ground. it reminded me of how john green described them. the sky being split looked like traces of cassiopeia.
"no," he replied. overthinking, it might've been my middle name but i always knew he wouldn't do such a thing. "but it's just like walking at a park, don't you think?" he continued. "a city or a town park, but with maces and crossbows as you say. so it should be like taking a stroll through the woods sixty five million years ago."
"definitely to not try and steal some fishes from their ancient rivers," i uttered. we laughed.
the flowing water sounded closer the further we went. the birds were chirping as well, but not too loud either. they were dispersed high enough to stay on branches of trees median in height. this forest was always closely intertwined in equidistant symmetries, and i always thought i was the complete opposite of it.
the river was already visible upfront. we stopped by the nearest tree as i tossed my backpack, and he placed his next to mine. i retied my shoelaces tighter as i focused on a creek that laid a little upfront. we headed there.
the flowing water wasn't as strong as i expected, which was a great thing, of course, because falling into the depth of that i-don't-know-what-in-the-world-lies-in-its-dark-oblivious void was probably not a good idea. rocks were sitting by its sides and across, some huge enough for its surfaces to remain untouched by the stream. my dad once advised that between these solid platforms laid the most vulnerable paths of prey. i leaped through a few of these spaces, a meter fall by its edge, and i was going first as he followed behind. we stopped at the one with the least strong current as i could see a few fishes already jumping alongside.
"salmon," he said from my back. i faced him.
"and catfishes." i could see their whiskers flashing droplets as another jumped by. we both bent down on the rocks we were at, the space between these platforms managing as our possible source of dinner.
"i'll try to catch it first?" i said as another one leaped by. he glanced at me then back to the flowing water.
"since they're slippery, i'll serve as the second bait."
i nodded in agreement. i wiped my hands on the sides of my shirt (wasn't anxiously sweating, was i?), prepping them closely on the little space this time. i looked upfront as a salmon, which i assumed was heading to our direction, rapidly curved itself for a jump. i raised my hands just in time to catch it, trying to grip its slimy skin. it slipped up and i grabbed hold of it again before it swiveled its body, leaping towards him. he moved fast enough to clasp its body, as they fell down the edge in the water below.
there was a quote i remembered that virginia woolf said in her book "to the lighthouse." it went as, "so fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea." although he wasn't weightless and i knew not that he could (possibly, you know) fly, but he was like the wind virginia woolf described at that specific moment. not the clouds but the sails up on the sky, and not the sails but the clouds into these waters. and i couldn't tell if that were of any good at all.
he was glaring at me, a meter below, arms crossed with his hips down in the water, as drops of the river streamed on his forehead from his strands of wet hair. i could still see the movement of the surface as the fish hurried away from him.
"i, uh." i covered my mouth, trying to find the words at first, because i believed it was pretty much the most rude thing i could ever do to laugh at what in the world just happened. but i did, i laughed, a bit much i became teary. i looked back at him, expecting an eye roll or probably a punch or a slap (either of which i'd gladly accept), but as i did, he started laughing as well. i shook my head before kneeling down on the rock to offer him my hand.
"i'm so sorry," i said, wiping my eyes with my other hand. "i didn't think that would happen. i should've warned you that you might fall belo--" and before i could process my words, i was already beside him, drenched the same, after he took my hand and pulled it. he laughed and so did i, our voices echoing amidst the trees nearby and the sound of the flowing water.
i couldn't tell which part my head was remembering, which detail i couldn't tend to think. the ever-changing colors of light, splashes of autumn leaves' shadows falling and swaying by as they reflected on the surface of the water, or the way he was happy. i looked at him for a split second. sometimes, i whisper to God how beautiful life is, how infinite are the little things. we are tapestries, and we are astonishments of His marvelous wonder. but i glanced away just immediately as he faced me.
"i think," he said. "there are edible mushrooms we passed by earlier. we can have those for food instead." i laughed a little and nodded in reply.
the actual wind settled in, rippling the water as it did. i thought of the stars and the figures they lined we call as constellations, as if the waters don't show the same. at once, i wanted to say it out loud, how the river, this river, would take us back into the becoming of something that was beyond the lingual way of differentiating moments over photographs, something light and time couldn't capture in its exact. about how diane arbus said that "a picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know." and i knew in that moment that even if i could stick a camera under his nose, about how he was asking why i was smiling under my breath as we walked back to our bags, clothes wet and soaked, that i wanted to write my gratitude to green, woolf, arbus and more, for expressing things i myself failed to do so. that i wanted to freeze, in light and time, a genuine smile i hadn't seen yet. something i could hold to my palms, underneath the rain and the sun's rays. someday i pray for, someday i will.
maybe my head was as messy as i thought it was. but perhaps this was what they meant, to be solely, utterly, indescribably, be in awe, as the little things are to be written. as prayers that are meant to come true.
©myrrhc.
-
seapen
5w
Read More"Living"
With a touch of life, I started to look alive
While I thought the world will welcome me
I was abandoned and hated
The dull smell of Zephyr affected my sight
Colorful buds in my eyes became gray
Everything I see turned faded black
I hear voices in my head
Perhaps the gossips about me.
With a touch of a warm hand, I started to look alive
The morning breeze smelled like spring
Vivid colors of nature bring a smile to my face
The sound of birds serenaded my heart
Slowly, I tasted the sweetness of life
I don't want to just breathe every day
I now choose to live.
©seapen
#senses #wod #livingc
Touch of warm hand - help of a kind person
Spring - beginningLiving
©seapen
-
stardust_writes
7w
Read More
Everything's a dream
within a dream,
at your hand's grasp yet
seems far away,
is everything an absolute illusion?
or am I oblivious to the beauty of life?
Everything that daunts me
is to end up alone in life,
yet I savour solitude than people
who don't feel like home,
a feeling of deja vu hits me
when I revist those homes,
but it's so cold and unwelcoming,
so I chose to walk away.
Everything seems to be a
cloud of fog, hazy and blurred,
what's the color of hope?
It must be black,
or I should be colour blind to not
feel optimistic towards life.
a pall of gloom descends,
the dreams are fading,
wearing a despondent look.
Everything in life seems to be
an act of coming to an end,
I am obliged to live till my
ashes meet the sea,
but it seems I live more in
my head than in real,
I want someone to say
this is all just a bad dream,
a dream within a dream and
this too shall pass.
©stardust_writes
#free #dejavuc #wod @writersbay @writersnetwork @miraquill
Thank you so much for all the love and repost,
Writersbay ❤️, I'm humbled.
Thank you so much for the repost Writersnetwork❤️A bad dream
Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I'm one of them.
~Ray Bradbury
