The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright day world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When the love is done. By F. W. Bourdillon
Picture courtesy: Google. Only for representation purpose.
Standing on the highway,
Roads leading both ways to somewhere,
I stand still and wonder,
Where do I belong?
The soothing lullabies of the green mist fairies call.
With promises to wrap me in the cool calm fog,
Holding me in wet, gentle caresses, lulling the storm within.
The call of the shrill, salt-laden sea sirens,
from the sun-baked rocks, Pull me back
To join them as they make me one,
in the fathomless abyss of wonders unseen.
I lament my fragile being,
Born with one heart, not two,
Torn between the ebb and flow of waves,
And earthy scents in muddy dew.
Both offer me refuge,
Cloaking me whole in their embrace, Dust to dust, flesh to flesh and
soul to soul.
In this battle between the mind and the heart,
The heart but loses steam,
Leaving me stranded on a path to nowhere, never to be seen. My mind has been wrought with depression and all things crappy. This is a result of binge-watching a…
I feel sorry for ‘Sorry’ – such an abused term. When you come to think of it, it is just a word, right? It holds significance in some instance and at times, it is a mere excuse. But we humans absolutely love it as an excuse, don’t we? I use this term a lot; I mean a lot! I think of myself as a kind being, and hence, if I happen to push or ignore (deliberate), I say ‘sorry’. I say sorry for things that may not need a ‘sorry’. I say ‘sorry’ to people I am not really feeling sorry for (don’t read this the wrong way). In short, I say ‘sorry’ a lot like I have already admitted. It is my ticket to moving on, a ticket to redeem myself for mistakes and sometimes, tinged with slight sadness (maybe).
But is ‘Sorry’ the right word? Mean, is it even appropriate? Like they say, first you commit the murder and then say sorry. What is the point of it? I would say nothing. Sorry – the term originated from the West Germanic term Sore that evolved to Sarig, meaning pained or distressed. It is also known…
Source: Google Images
On days when the sun has abandoned us, hiding behind the grey, moody clouds. Do they sit inside their hills and wonder out loud? Do they stare outside at the rain, measuring the raindrops, letting thoughts splotch all over? Does the earthy petrichor take them down the memory lane? Or are they content with what nature has to offer? It is a part of their lives, isn’t it? They dredge up foods daily, diligently build their hills, even if it is to serve their queen, only to enjoy it on days like this, no? Maybe they do take stock of things, of their bearings. They ought to sleep it off, take a day to rest or do they lament on the lost time?
When I gaze out, a gazillion thoughts fly by; some worthy of the pen, some so disturbing that I often question my sanity. I like the grey skies though. They seem like textured canvases waiting for me to scribble something. The lazy raindrops wetting the streets below and casting a temporary stain on window ledges bring a…