Lazy Sunday once in a while, watching the telly and sipping coffee. Reading a book or brew the tea-i know the favourite as well.
Sometimes I think it's too big of a story for me to take on and I doubt my capabilities to write it. May be in the future it will be something,as the dream still lingers in my memory.
I'll write it back in my diary when the one appears-showing it's worth to stargaze and dream . I guess my mind is just stuck in the time capsule revolving around the past. I know that past is a good place to visit but not to stay.
I crave for solitude in keypads, diary and paper clips.
I write in those hours of solitude. 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 don't look for counsel because I don't want to scare my loved ones. I just try to escape MY reality through the characters of my story. I somehow manage to make my friends take some inspiration out of my own story and those that I write. Even though they've no clue that I'm pretty good at lying.
Book marking sands of time, Perpetual waves of memories, Rolling pearls down the eyes, Scenting every moist paper, Moist,not just with the ink but with the flooded eyes.
I pricked my fingers with turning of pages of past,hurt my fragile heart. Every alphabet, every word, every line and in every leaf of my diary, moments scream silent uproar,with ear piercing and echoing noise.
I tend to hold onto things that have memories or emotions attached to them like a paperclip.
I'm now stranded and astray and with every word I create my existence obliterate.
"This is where your story ends". I said. "No need for a bookmark".