Uncelebrated Love
15:38 - Posted by Shilpa K - 0 comments
I love the power of the unspoken word. The one that lives and dies in the mind of its nurturer. It feeds off the vagaries of the mind – a constant vagabond. It neither provokes nor perturbs. Sometimes you get to witness its metamorphosis to the written word and it is acquires a form much more powerful, much more enticing than ever before. It defines personalities in a way that mannerisms don’t. The written word is a monologue that is uninterrupted. It flows unimpeded, like the wind in the whistling woods. It stays and lingers like the scent of wild flowers in the misty woods. It paints in splendid colours images unseen to the naked eye. The mind traverses through unexplored kingdoms, shuttles between the present and the past, leaps into the future and then precariously arrives into the present.
A good piece of writing is the most exciting thing to come across, apart from good food of-course. There was a time when I judged people by their shoes. But now I judge them by what they write or in more common terms, what they ‘post’. Sometimes that is so glaringly beautiful, that the stalker in me is put to rest only by google search results. There are some lines I can read over and over again and their beauty grows each time they are read. Then there are lines which I have written a couple of years back, in a different phase of life, when life wasn’t just passing by, when age was just a number, and when writing took priority in free time, and more importantly when there was ‘free time’. I can’t help but admire how beautiful those lines seem now, sometimes reminding me of situations in which their genesis lies.
 
I have always placed those who wrote well on a higher pedestal that someone who could speak well. As crazy it might seem, it was one of the many reasons why I fell for life partner. I remember how I looked forward to the English grammar classes where they made us do sentences from given words or phrases. I remember how a kid as introverted as I was would never shy away from reading her essays to an entire class of students. How I loved weaving words, one into another, creating stories from my teenage mind that had limited experiences, and being able to dream in broad day light through those stories.
I believed that my love for writing would become stronger with time. It has. And now like all love that matures, it remains uncelebrated…


Sometimes
17:24 - Posted by Shilpa K - 0 comments

Sometimes the sun rises, and yet there is a darkness

In the corner of the heart, where shadows are cast

By the fears of the future and the evils of the past

 

Sometimes it rains, and yet the heart burns

It blazes in the tears through your eyes that rolled

For the dreams that died and for those you sold

 

Sometimes the road winds, and yet you’ve nowhere to go

Your eyes see paths, your mind refused to cross

As it grieved for the chances that you had once lost

 

Sometimes the wind blows, and yet you gasp for air

To breathe in a space you could call your own

And see buried dreams blossom, as if they were sown

 

Yet, life goes on and yes, it must

Like the promises of spring, that every autumn trusts

Shedding all it has, giving all that is worth

Swaddled with care and returned to Earth