I am breaking alone with the wind, by the fears of tomorrow, and the hollow promises of today. It's uncertain where the road goes, for my shoes are worn out, my scarf lies torn in a bush tussle, the sweater has begun to rip off, the wool pilling by my turtle neck scratches my skin, leaving it red and sore. I have dirt on my face, smeared of dust, pollen and tears, I walk like an agony, I walk through the middle of the road. My ears are numb to the blaring horns, my eyes half shut to colors of disguise, I am half, half of me has withdrawn. Withdrawn from your absence, removed from your presence, I am walking past my name's significance, walking past places called home. I've been hurt, I've been mean, I've lived to see you go, past the realm of forgiveness and cries. You're so much the soil, the rigid water surmise, your soul by my pillow covers, tell me does it ever cry? Does it break your heart to see me fall at every hundredth step, cry you a river and burn in the light of stars, is this gaze from the inferno enough or this the beginning of my invisible demise?
The thing about you, brings me on my knees each time, is that you, in the brightest sunshine and the most blinding darkness, are an universe in yourself; unaware and unbashed,
Your last night's dreams are outrunning your dreams from the night before.
You more obsessed with your obsessions than you're with the type of person your obsessions present you as.
Your choice of music is really your own. You never succumb to the apparent "soulfulness" in jazz that people talk about. You don't blare out EDM cause it's in vogue. So on mornings when I wake up to the sounds of "dila du ghar chandigarh mein", blaring from the other side of the wall, I know you're happy and when the muffled notes of a certain "Ajeeb Dastaan" lulls me to sleep in the wee hours of midnight, I know you're at peace.
You never drink coffee. Not even on coffee dates, I've noticed. Not even in a high-end coffeeshop that ONLY sells coffee. Your choice of beverage depends on your mood. You are defiantly loyal to chai, and you're not ashamed of slurping the last bit of your Maggi.
You're oddly romantic. You muse about snow-clad mountains and never-ending roadtrips and bonfires, but you seldom sign up for any of this.
You're a book in yourself. Widely read, deeply acknowledged, highly misinterpreted, and barely understood.
Somewhere above the hills Up in the Heavenly clouds Where nature serenades peace And fairies speak symphony She finds abode to her words A romancing place for her emotions Where feelings flow to a molten glow Beautifying her dreams and islets Gorgeous strokes and divine palettes Ordained as if for her creative skills Mordant pains and ardent eyes She now writes with perfervid joys