People leave homes behind. They move away. I wonder if their stories ever do. I wonder if, as much as we believe, have we ever been powerful enough to rip memories off the walls that boast them. Or, is it just an illusion, yet another desperate attempt at gaining power over time? Will we ever …
The One about Rains and Hearts
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wb3BwdBdUdY&feature=youtu.be 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 …
The one about Butterflies and Hope
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 …
To the one who is afraid to heal…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KONq0zK0ZPg&t=1s You know, our ego does this strange thing. It tries to build an identity around our traumas. It wears scars as badges of honor and flaunts them in front of carefree smiles. We define our worth from the tears we shed each day. Pain validates us, we go around collecting it just like a …
The Truth
Memories have a strange habit. They fade away… and they do so faster when you don't want them to. Maybe that is why people came into the habit of writing whatever happened around them. Writing was their helpless attempt at trying to hold quicksand. Words lose meaning once they stop carrying stories around… but if …
Old and Enchanted…
I love walking down the woody trails of old and enchanted forests. The sound of twigs cracking under your feet, leaves rustling to the dance of lost winds, thick fragrances of mosses hanging in the air, a river flowing afar, and the way everything falls into symphony- a symphony to drown into- a symphony to …
Every Other Night…
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 …
From The Quill 