Wild and free. Gentle and fierce. Ice and fire. All in one. His love is that kind.
He's not afraid to show his vulnerability. He's not afraid to let me know that he gets scared; scared of losing me. He doesn't back down and he certainly doesn't, run away. He stands his ground. He never gives up. Even if the entire world was against him, he would not show the slightest bit of worry on his face, he would fight; with a smile he would fight. He calms my heart but makes my soul twirl, at the same time. He knows, what he does to me. Yet he only smiles. Peaceful. Humble, smile.
He's honest. He's loyal. He is shy but not timid. He's not your normal sweet, he defines sweetness. With his heart on his sleeve, he loves. He truly loves He doesn't need any legal papers to commit. He means commitment when he knows he's deep in love. He's a fighter, through and through. He's protective of me, sometimes like I'm his lioness, sometimes, like his cub. To see how pious and innocent his heart and soul is, all I do is love him. That's all I know, love. That's all he knows, love. Perhaps that's why we found in eachother, this love.
Life is too short. We have heard this countless times before but we realise the gravity of this phrase only when our lives are affected by this in some way. Today every person in the world is fighting for something or someone. We are faced by things which are much bigger than our own selves. There is no time to be petty. Life is in fact, too short. All we really have are numbered days. To love. To be loved. To be kind and merciful. To be helpful and gracious. To be honest and happy. To hug people and kiss them too. To say "I love you" over and over again. To thank your parents and thank those around you who've helped you grow in some way. To travel, to laugh till your stomach hurts, to eat whatever the hell you want to, to dance at 2 in the morning with your lover, to bake cookies for your kids, to bake cake for your Mother's birthday, to be respectful to the environment, to live To truly, live. We humans, we're not afraid of death; we're afraid of being alive, being too alive. Too afraid to follow our heart, too afraid to be ourselves. It sounds cliché but that doesn't make all this any less true. Please, have emotions. Please succumb to a safe pair of hands. Please live. Please love. Please, don't just exist, live. Live big. Live. Love. Love. Laugh.
Can you believe that we look up at the same stars as people did, for example a thousand years ago? Even the fact that many of them could have gone super nova millions of years ago, but since they are so far away, the light from the grand explosion hasn't reached us yet. There's no telling that the stars we see today are a ghost of something that once was but no more exists. Isn't that absolutely astounding?
Thankyou! I know you don't like it when I say this but my sweet love, how can't I? I didn't know what love meant before I met you, before my words made love to yours, before our souls decided to go on an adventure together. You made me a part of your silence, a part of your being and I don't know any greater gift than that. The moment I saw you, your beautiful smile with your sparkling eyes, I knew that was all I needed to be truly happy. The moment you touched me and trust me when I say this, it felt right in all kinds of ways.
So my love, Thankyou! God knows you deserve to be appreciated every single day. Now that you let me be yours and yours alone, I'll eternally be grateful to you for a blessing so Godly, nothing could possibly ever match it.
I'm not going to deny. I was tempted, so tempted to hold his hand. To take an easy ride. Go with the flow. Have a casual fling. For the first time in life, I felt lonely. I was okay being alone, but I just missed the feeling of having someone I could talk to, laugh with, be silly around. Someone who'd care. And allow me to pour into them all the love I had. And in the midst of such desperation, entered he... with all his selfless care and love, at least what it seemed to be at the moment. Although I knew, it was transient, once things get comfortable, people slack down, take the other for granted. I knew he would too. But I swear it was so tempting to have his outstretched hands right in front of me. I, for once wanted to hold it and run. Run until I could. And then I wished somehow along the way, things would go astray and give me a reason to move away, get rid of him. I actually found myself fighting the urge to use someone to evade my loneliness and then just drop them when I didn't need them anymore. But then I looked at his face. And I saw two things. Hope and unfamiliarity. He still had those hopeful innocent eyes, that believed in love. And my heart just couldn't stoop so low to be the reason he'd be robbed of his precious jewels. And he felt unfamiliar. Not like home, not even like neighborhood. Just a comfortable hotel room in a foreign land maybe.
I'm dropping some IG handles here, you can contact them for any kind of cyber issues /threat. If someone's harassing you, sending you inappropriate messages or morphing your pics you can ask them for help @/shubhamcybercop @/wallofshamereal @/youth_against_rape
"Staring into bliss in the midths of abyss, The melancholy in this silence, It's beautiful than the moon and the stars. Ignorance in this darkness, it keeps all my pain away. And even in this dream, I feel like I belong to the world."
you often talk about how you want to end things, this weight, that somehow ended up in your head taking away the little hope that's left.
it's always there within my reach, you said, smiling, a final fall to end it all with a noose.
what is death anyway?
a corpse hanging freely in a tight rope going up and down left and right against the wind. like a kite tied to a chain letting the time to slowly eat away the final bit of sanity.
you romanticize about the fucking depression, in a four-line poem, about the girl you just met, who keeps you awake till its four in the morning. and it dies the next day.
what is death anyway?
I look up and ponder how we were all once part of the celestial beings that shines upon us, only to fall and shatter to mere mortal minds.
how do you write about death when it carries a heavy burden of letting go when you reach the full-stop. I've stopped praying for the heaven afar, for all I know, hell is just another nightmare away.
what is death anyway?
moments, in little infinities, we live; one moment you're here then the next, take you away.
perhaps, we live and die within people. as memories, in a stranger, at two am when the whiskey hits in the right spot. perhaps, a few lines on a bright screen that reminds them of something they lost.
it is strange, isn't it? in the end, we are nothing but some random thoughts on some strangers' minds. living a life beyond eulogies and withered flowers on the tombstones. an immortal life till the time strips away the stories from the mere mortal minds.
what is death anyway!
I do not know. I do not know how to write the best lines to remember someone by. I do not know if it ever gets easier. but, some deaths feel so personal, it is as if you've lost a part of yourself when they left.
Why do you love books? From Nursery rhymes to Cromen's 1293 page book on Introduction to Algorithms. Whenever I meet someone who loves books, there is something about the way they see the world that's quite different from everyone else. They see metaphors all around, life in withered leaves, and death in tiny white blossoms.
There is something special about the way a good book makes you feel. It's not just about the storytelling, the metaphors, or the complex characters. For a moment you're in another world, living the life of a stranger that you've never even met but felt connected for some reason. When you reach the final full stop, a world dies and the writer moves on to create another. You are left with this slight melancholy that makes you smile.
You've always loved used books, the ones that smelled like dust, and a human touch. It's strange to love someone, who prefers the torn pages over the neatly printed ones. Used ones got a different story to tell, you said. They are handed down from a friend to another to a stranger to finally end up in a dark corner of a book store, among a hundred old ones with a different story. They wait patiently, even when time passes they still hold all the stories and wait for someone to pick them up.
You were always excited to find the ones with notes, old ones that have become a part of the book itself. Someone, from another time and another space, read the same lines and wrote about how it made them feel. Every torn page has a story of a struggle or a place someone visited more than once. Now the book is more than just what the author tried to write, it carries the story of strangers that walked through the same world, but in a different time with a different perspective.
The book has its own story to tell now. Sleepless nights, coffee stains and whiskey marks, struggles of a stranger, and how it made them feel when they lived that life. You look for stories in people, how they lived the same life that you're about to walk into. Every imperfection giving a new perspective than the one with neatly printed pages, the ones that come in plastic bags.