It’s rare to find people who smile when roses wilt, not because they despise its beauty, but because they can’t wait for it to rise from the neath again. If you have the eye of a sorcerer, everything has the soul of a phoenix.
Why do endings hurt as much as they do? Why do beginnings scare us? Why is it that the roads bring us peace but not the place it is taking us to? Do places mean us more harm than journeys can?
It is rare to ask more questions when all your life you have only learned to answer the ones that already exist. Rarer to knit flags that boast your curiosity instead of weaving drapes that cloak it away from the world.
Why do we rush to put an end to contrast as soon as we encounter it? What is this obsession we have for symmetry? Where does it come from? When did we fall in love with indifference?
Aren’t warriors born under the storm-stirred skies? Doesn’t the revolution begin when the heart feels a need to end what exists? Then why fear chaos when it’s nothing but the birthing ground for the new? Or, do we fear what is yet to come more than what has long fallen?
It is rare to love falling. Rarer to love rising again, because it’s difficult to fall in love with the pain of building a new home away every time the former collapses… and if you can, then did you ever fall in love with the last one?
Travelers are conflicted. Lost. They run to lose their identity away in the crowds and then find a deranged new face from the paradoxes of life.
Every evening when they camp on the side of the road, their new face pricks against their skin and all the tears that they kept locked away in a casket come running to them at the dawn of their pause.
Why would they like pausing then? Why won’t they run forever and pray that the Sun never sets on their day? But, in the hind of their futile wishes, they know they can’t control fate. Sun sets; they pause, and they yearn to run again.
But, it is rare for a traveler to choose to pause for a forever one day and so it is rarer to find peace in the silence of the now.
I spilled colors on a rather blank canvas. They dripped off the edges, down in a puddle of water, giving colors to a rather blank sky… An illusion some people so need.
Rains mark my favorite time of the year. Those few minutes of Earthen fragrances sent afloat by the happy soils… The beauty of the greens hanging in the air and rustling every now and then to sing songs of merriment. Dancing hearts, joyous smiles… I don’t know what could possibly make one hate such raw charm. But then, some people do.
Some hearts who had to let another go in one sad monsoon don’t find their bliss in the rains anymore. All they can think of is the way their heart burnt like a forgotten lamp waiting to die before someone remembers it. All they can hear is the sound of their tears falling into puddles that the rain must have filled. All they can find is the melancholy trapped behind the blue hues of water ridden clouds. All they see, all they smell, all they feel… is bereavement.
Bereavement of the rain washing away the last few marks of the last walk they had with their beloved; of new life growing from the old flowers they had buried underneath; of trees falling and withering away, taking along the marks of their journey; of a traveler traveling farther away from her childhood home.
Separation leaves hollows where once life was, and just like an abandoned crevice, these hollows fill with memories when rains fall, but the water dries away- memories don’t.
They stay behind, adding shades of sepia to the neons of joy. Adding rust to the sheen of gleaming metal. Adding gore to glory and pride to prudence.
They tell stories like a charm and make you forget others like magic. Before you know, that void is like the Sun shining upon your midnight fog. The one you can’t resist following, not once in seven moons.
Have you ever seen a butterfly grow out of her cocoon? Her wings are the first to greet the first Sun of her new life.
Do you know why?
It’s a victory ritual. A token to celebrate everything she survived. To celebrate all that made her into who she is now.
The last of the thins of her cocoon break soon. Her struggle to break free ends sooner. The light at the end of the tunnel flows out of her daydreams to bring charms to her reality… A reality she once wanted to run away from. She eventually did… She ran, but only to get closer to who she was.
Have you ever noticed how often writers sell hope wrapped in this exact same tale?
Have you ever wondered why?
It’s a peacemaker’s chant. One meant to make you believe in the power of fallen joy. Meant to make you believe that one day you will wake up to realize how you had never fallen prey to the dark but had only been pulled into its embrace till you got stronger to face the world again.
It’s a poet’s favorite metaphor; her favorite choice of weapon to spill beauty in a world that is threatened by it.
It’s an intricate piece of abstract art, with love spilled all over- a little to see and a lot to feel.
But mostly, it’s a reminder, a letter speaking about all our lost smiles and addressing them back to us, exactly where we had lost them.
Every other night, she sits on a forgotten field, under a lost sky- as full of stars as it shall be. With an old brook, far away, flowing through the creek and crevice with some mountains, standing still in the stillness of the night- she feels small, as small as she must.
What good shall it serve to be brimming with pride in a world so surreal?
Every other night, the moon shines, just as it has shone since the fall of the very first night- It is amusing how, each day, we mock its beauty with our old oil lamps!
Every other night, she lets the grass grace her bare skin, as the wind flows through her unkempt tresses. She lets the insects crawl on the hind of her hands as the crickets sing in a forlorn sweet chorus.
Every other night, she finds herself in all that is lost!
Sometimes I wonder if the leaves have stopped rustling with you not being around. Did you take the wind away or is it just the silence you left behind? Flowers have wilted down, and those standing have lost their charm. Did you crush them under your spiteful steps or is it just the love you took away?
When people pass away, they inherit their life down to those who stood the closest to them. You chose to abandon, and my life has since been a staircase spiraling down to the hollows; an unending funeral in my heart since your feelings died. Is it the void that they bequeath me of?
Sometimes I wonder if the music has lost all its melody since you chose to take that step away. Have my ears deafened down, or are they just not brave enough to hear any lies anymore? I wonder if it is about the lies or just the ones that you spoke.
Sometimes I wonder if it was just the more of you or less of me, or simply not enough of everything- that made you- that made me- lose the fight?