April's coming to an end. So quick. On my birthday, while waiting for a dear friend's call I thought about life's bittersweet moments. The ones where I dreamt big, where I accomplished some task that my heart had written off as unachievable, when I genuinely felt happy and felt alive. After talking to my friend, I realised how our lives seem sprinkled with oddities and yet we sieve our ways through them?! What is that fuel that rockets our dreams? And, will I ever get to realize my dream? Actually, what is my biggest dream? I haven't thought about it; I only see fragments and bits of light in my mind, fluttering through pages and freshly dried ink. I smell words hanging in the air, and my eyes piece stories and ideas somewhere on an invisible canvas.
Is writing deceitful? Do I write the truest things? Do I mean what I always write? Or my ideas find mere allegiance to words and they dissolve in the mind itself? What is it to be in love with life? Why am I asking so many questions to myself? Why, don't I always? While sitting in the train watching past stations and holding a book, crying over poems; lamenting moments and wishing I could rewind them- all of them- even the ones that carry the seeds of pain. It's so dear to me, I could always laugh over it in a crowd or in solitude. Where am I going with this train of thoughts? I need a stopper. To cork this random pulley of memories and subsequently to uncork the good ones. The ones that lay buried and someday will reveal their importance to me. I have been looking out for a dream- I walk a few steps, and then retreat and then walk again. That dream is still hidden somewhere, and the uncovering will take time, but it will be accomplished just like my heart always knows it will.
I'm being so dreamy and yet I feel its the best feeling I've ever experienced. April does this to me. Always.
Something about the sun, and the bright, blue sky beckons me. They are my longing. I shall touch the sun and be back.
Is writing deceitful? Do I write the truest things? Do I mean what I always write? Or my ideas find mere allegiance to words and they dissolve in the mind itself? What is it to be in love with life? Why am I asking so many questions to myself? Why, don't I always? While sitting in the train watching past stations and holding a book, crying over poems; lamenting moments and wishing I could rewind them- all of them- even the ones that carry the seeds of pain. It's so dear to me, I could always laugh over it in a crowd or in solitude. Where am I going with this train of thoughts? I need a stopper. To cork this random pulley of memories and subsequently to uncork the good ones. The ones that lay buried and someday will reveal their importance to me. I have been looking out for a dream- I walk a few steps, and then retreat and then walk again. That dream is still hidden somewhere, and the uncovering will take time, but it will be accomplished just like my heart always knows it will.
I'm being so dreamy and yet I feel its the best feeling I've ever experienced. April does this to me. Always.
Something about the sun, and the bright, blue sky beckons me. They are my longing. I shall touch the sun and be back.
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