Wanting to turn the cold winds into a shower, she waited for the storm. That storm, she believed, would take her through a secretive egress that’d clear all clouds. The rhythm in her chest paced up signifying some complicated happiness.
If someone discovers you while yearning to be discovered, the feeling remains etched. Then, waiting wouldn’t be exhausting; it also won’t any longer be only the essence of sadness or loneliness. That was what she felt, a roller-coaster of emotions, that couldn’t easily be put in words.
What if that doesn’t happen at the dawn? Maybe, it’s meant to be at the dusk. The end of the wait will be that vibrant sunset, the best show saved only for the end of the day!
When people enquire about my busyness and the response comes out to be ‘I’m engaged or committed with something or somebody’, why can’t they just let it be? In awe, the follow-up is usually, ‘Why haven’t you told me yet?’. I mean, why should we announce if it’s just another part of our normal lives? Won’t you get to know if you’re meant to know?
How come the words ‘committed’ or ‘engaged’, in a multitude of minds, just associate themselves with romantic relationships alone? Can’t someone be committed to their family that requires special attention, their dreams that require extra efforts, just those regular chores that happen to be unusually long, or some self care practices that require more energy?
I strongly believe that commitment develops depths of emotions and understanding, be it in a hobby, a goal or a relationship. But, I don’t understand why this personal responsibility often gets mixed up with societal expectations.
The head, getting full, ached as it compromised the vacancy in the heart bearing the latter’s burden in spite of constantly fearing if it was developing claustrophobia within, as the doors of escape from agitated thoughts were always locked.
shelter of patterns offer hindsight or foresight clear blatant vision
Aren’t patterns astonishing? We take shelter in them while also wanting to break them. Quite ironical, is it not?
The varied hues of clouds at dusk, stars at night, the rustle of a coconut palm, the ripples on a silent pool, the aggregation of ice crystals that present us the snow fractals, animal and human behaviour are all nothing but patterns. On a bigger scale, the Milky Way Galaxy which we’re a part of has spiral patterns depicting a Fibonacci sequence in space. Isn’t that stunning? These regularities that reveal themselves in our observations often offer a sense of satisfaction to confused minds, and act like a shelter to hazed thoughts.
Not only in nature are these configurations present. We plan our days, maintain a consistent routine to manage the time and weave a pattern around us consciously or otherwise. We accidentally meet a good old friend, and at once our brain frames a pattern of longing to meet them all. Rhyme schemes are also patterns used by poets to please their readers. Even chaos we face in our lives is an unrecognized pattern which barely gets recognized. That’s what has transformed into the cliché of ‘history repeats itself’.
But, as much as patterns fascinate me, I feel that they’re also a trap.
There was an owl, and a mail sometime later, with a prompt to get home soon. It was once home, and will always be. But barely did it strike then that your voice nor my name will ever be heard thereon. The why was never answered and it’ll remain so.
A new star studded to the dark sky. It began to burn fiercely with that fuel of the pain it left behind on the earth. It is still as bright as the first day even after years, as if the fuel never depleted and is far from running out.
As each day ends, I wish I could dive into my chaos energetically rather than drowning pathetically and then watch the movement of water that overpowers me transferring a portion of its energy as our sweet little deal followed by taking a stand against the welcoming winds under the bed of stars preferably boarding over a gently swaying boat that sails over an ambient oceanscape as a lonesome point that is lost in this vast universe born only to find all beauty in the vanishing ripples that reflect the milky white planetoid pumpkin which has mood swings that do not match with mine and afterwards slowly slip into the arms of sleep right in the shimmering open arbour that remains unbarred while listening to the magical stories of umpteen galaxies that hang over and the mellifluous voice of surrounding waves that kiss me good night one by one until that philander with bright dancing rays barges in on my pleasant utopian or sometimes wild dreams forcing me to open my eyes after bulldozing all fantasies written and directed by Nox.
Word Count: 180 Sentence: 1
The writing above is an example of the usage of the literary device ‘Polysyndeton’. Nox is the Roman goddess of the night.
The word “wee”, the prompt for SoCS this week, led me straight to a YouTube video. “The lion sleeps tonight” is my go-to song whenever I have a bad mood. Having watched both versions of “The Lion King” movie, this is one of my two favorite parts of the remake. Weembaway (YouTube link to the song sequence; embed available at the bottom) – at least that’s how I pronounce it – is always joyful to listen to as well watch.
The last time I watched this song, it gave me quite different vibes than the usual. Maybe, what I saw was influenced by my state of mind.
When the ambiance around is good, so many friends stay around the singing Pumba and Timon to enjoy the music. But when in danger, only Timon stays. Even if he can’t help Pumba, he’s the one who encourages him to run for life – “Run, Pumba, Run!”, “I’m coming, Pumba. Hang in there”, he keeps calling as he himself is running. Also, Pumba doesn’t fail to warn his friend even when he’s in a trap – “Run for your life”, he shouts and only then starts his run. Maybe moral support is what we all need in life!
Nala interrupts the best scene in the woods. Life is always such, pulls a brake when everything is so smooth and happy. How easier life would’ve been had Nala not entered the forest! Maybe that’s the perfectly right time or the perfectly wrong one. Who knows?
The more unliveable our urban centres become, we as tourists retreat into the new-age oases – the sustainable hotels – which are just illusions of naturalness. Even when they have committed to reducing wastes and carbon footprints, how long will we be able to live in this fantasy without having to deal with the repercussions?
It’s easy to pop a balloon, but not break the brick wall. My heart is now a conglomeration of bricks. With time, it got stronger and stronger and is getting more harder to break. But, I keep trying clinging on the rope of hope, creeping through subdued shadows, to break it someday.
Yeah, you heard it right. I am in pursuit of an intentional heartbreak. How will it open until it is not broken? Only when it breaks and aches, I believe there’ll be ways that let in rays for an alternative exploration.
Why don’t we often dare to go against the popular adage, “Let go of what you love; it’ll return if it’s true” and not let go of what we love or what’s worthy when there’s actually a true chance to try and sustain the savour?
In this age of cowering Covid contagion, there are these creepy yet cordial contagions– laughter and yawn – which become worse and uncontrollable the harder I try, and that too, always at the wrong times!