every inch of doubt
with the haze of a maze
that seems unending
but when the night
began to collide
with the day
that makes her
in her own safekeeping
I saw Music in one of the busy streets in our town. In the tapping of the feet of the people who cross the roads. In the bells ringing on the hand of an ice cream vendor. In the blind old man playing his flute. In the cars and cabs with their engines through the tempo of the stop’s and go’s. In the tweets of the birds on a tree that sways with the hush of the afternoon breeze. Music loves to befriend them but somehow, Music was lonesome.
Music has his leisure walk on the keys of the piano, lingers for a while in the strings of a guitar and then at the tip of the drumsticks on one of the parades in our suburban. But still, Music felt something’s missing.
She thought to be the wobbly thread on the clothe of your jacket you hid from your closet long years ago that you ought to remember to cut but immediately forgets. She felt like a hook, a clip or a clasp that you just wanted to find when you ought to need something to be fixed, to hold on to and then leave somewhere else when you are done with it. She sensed that for you she’s one of the heaps of papers on your cabinet that you barely recall the significance of its content. She was the thickest book standing in your shelf that you lazily turn its pages and then abandon it in one corner.
Remember how it felt to never locate a thing when you need it the most at the moment?
Just because something was there all along doesn’t mean that it will be there for so long.
He wants to watch
the chirping of
He longs to stare
stars that flicker
He wishes to steal
He craves for her
Yet he was
the sole reason
why at the
dawn — she sobs.
She will once again tread
into a far-flung land
in which she alone will escape
from the vulnerability of her labyrinth.
No bags to be packed.
No luggage to mind about.
Neither travel pillows nor comfy scarves will count.
She will once again take a trip with nothing
and no one to load on her back.
She will take it light and slow.
If and only if you will let her to.
If and only if you will let her go.
Image from Google images
she got her drafts crumpled twice
pen running out of ink thrice
the words are hard to find
with the one behind her mind
the document remained blank
until in her musing sank
the language at the tip of her tongue
were the feelings she used to hang
she hid the sheets again
and took away the pen
for those unwritten and unseen
she decided to keep within
When you recover or discover something that nourishes your soul and brings joy, care enough about yourself to make room for it in your life.”
– Jean Shinoda Bolen
Each of us has tales to tell about how we unearthed the gift given to us – may it be in art, music or literature. We all have that safe haven where we can translate ourselves into any form of beauty (visual, auditory, printed words). We all have that sense of being at home by doing the things that we love while attracting those who we share the same passion/hobby. It’s like reaching out a hand to a stranger, feeding enthusiasm to the world and participating to the fast-paced journey in this modern era that we live in.