The sombre sky of this languid evening was very much different today, perhaps because I didn't have to ache my neck and crane it upwards to look at it but instead, I just had to gaze down to see the clouds floating like damp cotton balls, as if they seized some pain inside them, collecting miseries of souls above whom they hovered. 35,000 feet above the ground , high above; amidst these clouds of sorrows, I stared out of the tiny window into oblivion to see the horizon painted in different shades of soothing fire of passion. Of compassionate love. Of shades of red, orange and yellow.
A flock of birds flew by as if to peck the floating yet stagnant clouds to mould them into messages for a lo...
Travelling gives me happiness,
It is the different cultures that I love to witness.
I am here at Indonesia,
My feelings want to ooze out but I feel I'm under some strange anesthesia.
Its not because I'm at a new place,
But the fact that it was my husband that flew me over the airspace.
It was the best flight of my life,
I'm sure my husband felt the same, flying his wife.
Its just the beginning, waiting for many more to to come,
Being the pilot wife and getting all the extra attention is so much fun.
Wishing you all the success, may you keep flying high,
Looking forward to spending lesser time at home and more above the sky.
Love you Garry❤️
I looked at her, even though the room was unilluminated. In the pitch blackness that followed, I could still make out her body's lining. She still had the luminosity that could put even the sun and all the other stars to shame. She had an aura and a bright light of herself. Her eyes still had that gleam, they still glowed, they still borrowed breaths from her aging lungs even though they spoke of infancy. She still had the capability of captivating my heart. She still could bring time to a standstill, hamper with it and warp it in a way that made me stagnant, froze all the moments and memories and also astounded me. They said I was broken and indeed I was broken as a whole. It wasn't just my ...
When asked about
The meaning of life
My mind flashes
With continuous illustrations
Mayfly finding its mate
Sea turtles first taste of ocean
A mother holding her baby
The first glimpse
Of the universe
A man taking his last breath
In the reflection of a mountain
I do not have an answer
I'd like to say
Is unique to us all
But I'm still searching
Afterlife through words and memories is the afterlife we believe in, fortunately or unfortunately.
I fell in love with the air for once, the same air that suffocated me, the same air I choked on at times.
And in the instant I realised I'd fallen in love with it, a bird too beatific from across the splendiferous horizon, from the expanses of the aesthetically pleasing skies and from the clouds that were painted in all the colors from the infinite spectrum, the clouds that rained emotions and thoughts; it came flying with letter glued to it's claws ferociously.
A letter that read:
"Been waiting for you since the day we united. And now that you're here, let me confess it to you. I love you from this hollowness in which your heartbeats resonate and talk to me."
The sender was someone I recog...
The confusion of intensity of life and the ferocious volatility of time often is followed by scrutinizing pain, eventually revealing the ludicrousness of life.
The complexity of the sinosuidal waves of time and life, as the two overlap each other with perpetuity has an unrecognisable familiarity with the waves of the sea that are comprised of saline drops, much like the composition of tears which are not just often, but rather always filled with unexpressed and crypt emotions. The stark contrast to the calm sea which even in stagnation can cause tsunamis to submerge a hideous soul in itself with the tiniest speck of a collision, unseen, unfelt by anyone taking place miles beneath the calm wav...
Separated by a void, the deepest and most sense one, that comprised of plain hollowness, miles apart; a body was devoid of breaths. The salient loneliness accompanied the darkness into a strange whirlpool of fate and circumstances that not just drenched, but drowned in it, the helpless bodies that were breathing the most toxic life of all, already dead from inside.
The dark waters I once loathed in, resenting them all this while though, now look aesthetically pleasing somehow. I suffocate and choke with every endless breath I inhale, one that seems to last till eternity. The mere contemplation of oblivion dawning upon me one fine day doesn't flurry me at all now, as it did once when your ga...
WRITING TOPIC | WIG OUT WEDNESDAY
Write about your stressful experiences, times when you felt like "wigging out!" (Think two days before your exam)
- The Head Lettrist
You don't feel like home, maybe because I don't really know what home feels like.
But you feel comfy, and warm and soothing, maybe that's what home feels like.
The night is almost going off to sleep. The dawn is almost about to arrive, the brightness of the sun and the day is about to deviate the nocturnal souls from their active world of thoughts, slowly putting them off to sleep, playing the memories as a lullaby. The stars fade away into the horizon, deep into the vast and empty sky. The clouds hover above me, moulding themselves into shapes, too vague and bizzare at times. Clouds that are all shades of red, yellow and orange, and all the shades of the spectrum combined as they fade out to unite into a colorless shade that has all the colors residing inside it. White.
The car that I'm seated in whizzes past the rocketing high pine trees that ev...
"Unspoken : A short Story"
Silence gripped us. Not because we fought, but because we didn't. It was difficult to express our emotions with words. Neither I nor she had spoken that day.
But it seemed our body wasn't ready to be so numb ! Our eyes were playing hide and seek, where one was looking at other, not at the same time. We knew if our eyes met, that would be it.
Our fingers moving up and down with anxiety, as if it was desperate to hold those fingers which made them complete. We knew if we hold it, that'll be it.
Lips were open, just in case. Legs folded towards each other like they want to take a step forward. We both thought ...
I sit in the backyard as the terrestrial bodies, unimaginable though finite distance away from me illuminate the dull and dark sky pretending of partying and being sloshed on memories. The moon has travelled miles, southwards in a couple of days. Away from the West where I could see it without having to turn my face and stress my aching and tired muscles. As if trying to distance itself from the strong attractive pull of the lit mountains that speak of failed attempts of drenching themselves in the soothing light of the wrinkled and scarred body.
I don't really think they're just craters or rather wrinkles or even scars on it's pretty skin as we'd call them. They're wounds. Burns. Bruises. ...
All of us are fighting a war everyday. Surviving the battle. With the wounds and the bruises residing on our tired and decaying skins. The scars on the dead skins, like the memories, reminding us of all of it.
And still, you're the one person I would want to see when I've lost the war, lived the battle. My last memory of the last breath be your gaze struck against mine.
Insomnia shook hands with me. The bruised, pale, old hands. The hands of agony. It lead the way to the balcony as it held my hand and a cup of black coffee rested in the other.
Under the moonlit sky, it just left me, until I realised I had a shadow in the dark as well! That shadow was insomnia. Staring right back at me, piercing through the skin that covered me, into a hollow body and talking to my soul. The sound reverberated and shook the delicate tissues of my heart to make me anxious. I was just a mannequin, a muppet.
My hazel eyes were blithering now as the stars and the might moon tried finding a way through the dilated pupils to lighten up my soul. Unfortunately, they failed. But I h...
Love and memories are like stories. Short stories. Every word, a part of an aesthetic poem that pierces through the thin layer of wounded skin, covering the nutshell you've built around your very own self.
Stories that are monotonous, that reside inside you, every word of the poem you know by heart, as if it's a tattoo inscribed by the ink of love in the delicate tissues of your heart but still love it so much that keep you reading it over and over again. A perpetual cycle that has edges which bleed but you still can't break.
Stuck in the labyrinth of complexities, we usually tend to miss the roots or rather forget them altogether. Just like heartbreak makes you forget what love feels like. ...
Your memory looks so like you.
Your memory is a world in itself, a world of unrequited love. A world of incomplete stories. Of shattered hearts and dreams.
A world that requires no breaths, no skies but just a visit to elate you.
Where the birds happily flap their wings to kiss the moon, even when it hides behind an eclipse, distancing itself from love.
Your words feel so like you. The soft touches of those words on my heart.
I long to lose myself in this world where the drought hit skins are flooded with my tears. A world where I still send you messages, just by a wandering pigeon this time. Every word that's saved from being burnt by the scorching heat of the sun but still kissing the clo...
He walked through the silent, empty corridors, scared to even see his own shadows, for he had led a life of emptiness with loneliness greeting him and hugging him tight every moment. He wasn't just lonely, he was alone too!
The sun was setting and he felt relieved, the blood finally rushing into his veins. His heart, created chaos in a soul trapped in his skin. The sound of the heartbeats that were unfelt was still audible in his ears that hadn't heard a word, a melody, since seasons. Since ages. For he could never garner enough words to do justice with all the thoughts that drenched his empty mind and isolated heart.
A life of isolation was what he was acquainted to, abandoned by the brok...
I wrung out my heart,
To push you out of it.
The blood of love
Tasted like your chapped lips.
The soft touch,
The redness in the color.
Your fragrance surrounded me,
The blood smelled of you.
As it flew, and carved it's path
To find a way, and achieve solace in you.
I kneaded out my heart
As it screamed in torment,
The faint voices
Searched for words.
To reside in hearts,
That would be broken before scrunched.
A heart mangled again,
A million pieces lay crumpled.
The sight of which,
Unseen, unfelt, unheard.
In the silent sobs,
The translucent tears,
Disappearing as they ran
Through red cheeks,
And wrinkled skins.
Red, they say, is the color of love,
Red, I saw, was the color of pain, an...