A wisp of thought it remains,
Walking in unannounced,
A distant echo of the whispers exchanged
Of the breaths shared.
A wisp of a memory it remains,
Floating without connections,
An unconscious gaze into the dreams wished
Of the promises unmade.
A wisp of a love it remains,
Formless of definitions,
A play of lingering touches of destiny
Of the strands of losing hope.
From the vaults of unrequited love. Written for Sue’s photo prompt.
I used to avoid confrontations – a situation has to become the most precarious jenga formation before I started pondering if I should do anything about it. I would just steadfastly examine the shape of my toenails if the other person is around. I became a flight risk.
But of course, I became a part of the evolutionary cycle and I have started looking at people in the face to start difficult conversations. The elephant in the room becomes smaller and smaller before vanishing completely.
Which really makes me wonder, how many rooms are running out of space for elephants just because of the choice of remaining passive and just brushing the dirt under the carpet lest feathers are ruffled the other way. In families, in groups of friends, in colleagues…. There are always times when the tension is as thick as cheese. But we all bite our tongues, give smiles ranging from constipated to maniacal (depending on how well we can act) and continue talking about the weather. Isn’t it strange how gossip is always welcome as long as it doesn’t concern us? Why is it so uncomfortable talking about topics that touch a sensitive chord?
Why did I make the change? Probably because it helps me sleep better. Why fret over things and how they may unfold when you can take it in your hands? I admit, I have put people at a loss of words because they weren’t expecting me to bring it up? Especially the older generation who are so used to not being questioned! I admit, that makes it a little fun… I am one of those who doesn’t respect elders just because. (C’mon! You can’t get away with age all the time)
And other times… I like being a devil’s advocate. Dialogue is never bad… and with well-timed silences, have lead to masterpiece discussions that have opened my eyes about people and relationships more than anything!
Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday – an interesting prompt of “book title”. The Elephant Vanishes written by Haruki Murakami is a book of short stories – Highly recommend reading “Sleep” which appeared in the New Yorker. Mind-blowing!
It takes a lot to fight gravity,
The first law of nature that we adapt to.
To keep our feet firmly grounded,
Lest we crash and fall.
But oh, the exhilaration of jumping in the air,
Of the innocent abandonment of playing on a swing,
A leap of faith, if nothing else.
Take the plunge to soar up,
Feel the gusts of wind bringing out wings hitherto invisible.
Don’t turn your back to increasingly piercing light of the sun,
Don’t shut your eyes and find yourself astray.
Try again if you crash hard,
And let the freedom of the flight be your guide.
Written for the weekly prompt at Sue‘s write photo challenge.
Train journeys in India are my favourite. There is barely any scope for boredom or monotony. There is no telling what you may catch from the window – it could be a smiling child at a sleepy dusty station, or a boisterous family of ten people or a runaway couple embarking on an adventure.
Landscape changes every few minutes, showing distant signs of abandoned villages or brimming towns, of fields run astray with weed and scrub or of clear lines of cotton. These images are flashing through your eyes, a never ending kaleidoscope that is almost meditative. Maybe you stumble upon a secret not meant for your knowledge but you can bask upon.
A train journey in India will change you and stay with you as a palette of colours that you can never completely identify or count. It is never completely yours and is shared with hundreds of others. But you can be assured that for those fleeting breaths, it was wholeheartedly for you to consume and dive in.
Written for: Transient
Late afternoons often found her sitting alone, still and straight. Her mind would travel years back in time, when the house was full of children’s laughs and echoing footfalls. In a flash, hours and days had molded into long years of cooking dinners, attending PTA meetings and finishing yet another load of laundry.
Now the house sat quiet, reminiscing of a din long gone. The children had moved out and her husband was indulging yet another hobby. One evening, a sliver of sunshine happened to escape the curtain’s stern guard. Through the dance of dust mites, she happened upon her reflection. Her eyes and her face told stories of the years gone by and the errands they had seen through.
There were no stories of her own. There was not even a hint of the flame that once shone bright in her eyes; it was extinguished long ago.
A muted glint from a hidden corner caught her attention – somehow her old ghungru* had managed to dapple in the last light of the setting sun. It had been so long she had seen them – she had almost forgotten how they felt tied at her ankles. With trembling fingers she handled them delicately, more precious than any gem in the world.
What if….? Dare she even dream…?
The next afternoon saw her tentatively clearing a space and dusting out her old dancing clothes. As her feet slowly became accustomed to the once-familiar weight of her ghungru, the years melted away and she fell into a rhythm that was as natural as breathing. On days when she was not at dance school, the curtains were firmly drawn back as she conducted personal concerts under the sunny spotlight.
She was not a daughter, a wife or a mother then. She was a dancer. She was an artist. She was her chosen form. She was blowing at the cool embers, re-kindling a fire that had almost blown out. It was never too late to spark it back!
Written for Sue’s prompt – Flame. I took it as a metaphor and ran away with it! Hope that is okay…
*Ghungru: is one of many small metallic bells strung together to form Ghungrus, a musical anklet tied to the feet of classical Indian dancers.