Life isn't meant to be simple,not always going to be planned. And so we should remember to take opportunities where we can do all the things we want to work, write, travel,dance,sing,cook.
The dissonant chords and consonant chords dance in harmonically progressive orbits that create cloudy tempests. Don't let your winter arrive having not done anything.
I laugh some moments, marveling that I can make up stuff and convince people. But I embrace the deeper lesson that opportunity isn't so much something that shows up, as something to create. Don't wait for your life.
Life doesn't stop at only one or few windows. It does takes a lot of courage to realise this and much more courage to lose few things.
-Richa (pointingpoems) **SENDING POWER TO YOUR WAY**
The world of words fascinate me. I paint my characters with ease who come alive, as I dress them with magical verses. The silent airy blow takes me to this land to live the stories never been told. Every season that I would greet, would've me gazing at the sand's and sun's meet.
The world of words fascinate me and embrace me in arms of dreams as I felt a kiss of warmth snatching all my fear. I rearrange the disquieting into a silver canopy of serenity, finding peace in my eccentricity.
The world of words fascinate me, 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'll write it back in my diary when the one's appearance showing it's worth to stargaze and dream.
The world of words fascinate me to the new land of songs and lives and awakened longings, the hope of new beginnings. In times of joy, in times of unabashed celebrations, in times of grief, uncertainty or pain, what I do ?! I write.
A writer choreograph words to make verses-pushing through with silent beautiful art. Dance and sing and the words shine with a graceful beauty. A beauty known only to us as "WRITING".
I stitch dainty blooms that create thoughts and smiles without effort breathing in the heady scent of exotic lilies, I feel gruntled for the blessings that finds me waiting with open hands. Odours lightly happy, lightly tipsy stitching charming smiles and weaving stories for untold times. I believe I'm contented to stitch life in shades of vibrant ecstacy, solely of kind of happy thoughts, hues of different shades of love, looking in and romancing with the past.
I stitch my poetry in meaningless sentences, with vague thoughts, with half broken and hallowed mind burning the midnight oil I write a poem of light and I feel gruntled and gusted with every word I write. I merely stitch a masterpiece or near to that but I'm gruntled to reflect myself on the wonder of aliveness, composing myself into stanzas and nudging those stars as alphabets.
I'm stitching the book of my life, each day a new page, a new mindset and metaphor, for I know life is like the weather forever changing. I'm gruntled with the fact that best stories here are the ones leavened with wonder and a sense of relativity, and which allow a little room for love and kindness. I stitch my words like the gentlest of rain that stir your spirit to remind you life is joyful and to help you feel at ease. Embarking on these feelings, I can say you'll be someone great, not someone like Taylor but yourself.
I'm standing on the shore with my forehead burning with the light of the slowly eclipsing sun. And the tides which are emptying sand beneath my feet, are making me realize how everything affects everything. I feel a rush of emotions tugging me off from the wet sands pressed under my feet. As I gather myself, to look at the abrupt ripples arising in my mind's eye, the beats of /Memories/ takes over, dwarfing the soft roars of the warm waves gently stroking at my gritty feet. I let the thin film of water relay some of its warmth to me, while my mind has already embarked on its journey back to the foregone days I believed, existed no more, neither in some deep corner of my memories. I tried covering my ears but a covert trail of lyrics seemed to penetrate through my hands and all I could hear again was the voice of Malone singing /seasons change and we're running in circles/..
I let go, for this time I could hold back no more. I let this persuading apricity resuscitate my hiraeth and I take small steps forward. Entering into the old antiquated house, the dark chamber smells of withered roses, resting within vases made of old newspapers. Their black ink now smudged with the moisture of dead air circulating in the room, closed for ages. At once, the sun peeps through the rusted casement, illuminating the happy faces of that time. A faint smile rests on my lips as I feel the warmth of their jouissance lighting up the dark old crevices of my now grown-up self. As I savour every moment of this glimpse at my childhood, the song /Circles/ comes back to me, as its lyrics seem to literally manifest into life in the arena around me.
I now see myself standing, again by the seashore, but this time I realise, the waves gently stroking at my feet, fail to relay their warmth. And I stand there, perplexed at the oddity of the events, when my wandering orbs rest upon my former self, happily strolling along, hand in hand, in the company of her then forever. I could see the butterflies dancing, though quite oddly, visible all around her stomach; and her heart melting in the warmth of their tight embrace. As dusk settled over the turquoise waters, I suddenly see the letters-- "L" "O" "V" "E" -- flying above my head, slowly fluttering, wingless, further and further away, untill the twilight has completely drenched the sky a reddish purple. And as if, by choice I step away from the fleeting spectacle of departed eternity and head back to where I see a bridge into another passing reality.
As I step down from the bridge, this time though, I see myself worn with age, yet unusually well. The wrinkles on my face seem to have a life of their own, dancing with every slight movement. I realise I look oddly similar to when I was younger, except for some sagging skin, rendering my face a little out of shape, I'm mostly happier. Long lessons of life and love seemed to have imparted a little shakiness to my voice. I look around and the world seems to be the same. Humanitarian ideals still remain as texts in books, distinction between self-named abled and disabled still at display everywhere. Promises are still broken, words of love still remain unsaid. Maybe, I've just gotten accustomed to the worldly ways that nothing seems to concern me anymore. Yet I find myself longing, eagerly enough, to become the same little child with glowing eyes, smiling the widest smiles at the smallest of joys and living life as if there were no tomorrows or yesterdays.
I feel like an audience, walking from present to past to future, watching the many times I've really been living as myself, without caring about the world. With no known intention to return back to the reality I had yet to become tired of concerning myself with, I close my eyes shut...only to hear, a moment later, the lyrics /memories bring back, memories bring back you/ ringing back at my ears, yet this time though, I felt relieved for those memories somehow convened to bring me back to myself.. and thus, in bits and pieces, the wet sands stuck between my toes, the warm waves pulling them back to the giant waters where they belonged, and my orbs glancing at the vision entwined in the many fragments of emotions dissipating my consciousness, returned me back to the same shore I was, in this ever-changing reality of a world.
//Even minute things in life hold too greater depth in them, for they can transport us back and forth in time. We can never really know what happens. Even distant things may remain with us forever, and things within our arm's embrace may leave us. For everything affects everything, and nothing is absolute; yet everything looks the same if we look a little beyond what things simply appear as//
It begins with steps the quiet tread of tired feet, slow breaths as you count from one to ten; you only count these ten numbers and I dare not ask why.
It begins with doors opened at ungodly hours you look behind for only a moment before the locks click into place and a sigh falls from your mouth as you seek yet another life.
It begins with your past making promises to your present that this is a sacrifice worth making the "gods have set their windmills in motion" and you are merely a pawn in their plan.
A memory withers away as you roll the dice and try to resurrect a crumbling dream, a song dies at the edge of your lips as you forget that in order to resurrect a dream, it is but a necessity that you must cause the destruction of another.
About living away from home.
Title taken from the Sidney Sheldon novel of the same name.