u/Phlegmatic-soul

She wears a pendant made from two brightly shining metals, joined together by a circular medallion that rests gently upon her collar bones. At first glance, her neck possesses an elegant simplicity, its graceful contour framed by medium-layered hair that falls from either side like a silken curtain. Hair are far more than a somatic feature for a woman. It carries the vestiges of childhood, when every mother adorns her daughter with tender affection, weaving love into every strand. There is a line from an old coconut oil advertisement that often returns to me,

"ये जो टूट के गिरा हैं ये ज़मीं पे मेरा दिल पड़ा हैं, इन्हें बाल मत कहना। ये जो आँखों के आगे हैं, ये तो प्यार के धागे हैं।

Perhaps it was a delicate moment when she folded her right hand and tucked a wandering lock behind her ear. In that instant, I imagine her not as a person in a photograph, but as a character from a tale, a luminous figure clasping a book, wrapped in a colorful pashmina, surrounded equally by virtues and flaws. What would such a sight be to me? A excellently brewed cup of coffee? A forgotten book waiting in a drawer? Or the halcyon chill drifting through an open window on a quiet evening? i do not know.

I prefer to search her in the hues of a vivid dream. She seems to me the ethereal spirit of dream-colors, painted in equal measures of bliss and melancholy. She writes poems, loves mountains with a reverence she scarcely explains, and fills her favorite pages with horizons stretching into infinity. I wonder if she is fond of animals. A quiet corner of my heart tells me she possesses a simple and winsome nature.

I spoke to her only briefly, exchanging a few simple words that felt too small for what remained unsaid. In an almost childlike manner, I confessed that I liked the coffee.

But was it truly the coffee?

Or was it the warm mist rising between us, carrying a strange serendipity I could neither name nor understand

My heart is whimsical. It seeks happiness, yet does not turn away from sorrow. Even now, I hesitate to open that final message, treating it as one might a letter from Kafka. Warm with humanity, yet shadowed by melancholy.

(Based on imagination)

(Photo-pinterest)

While reading a story we attain diverse mental stages, sometimes we cry, we love, and even curse the character who plays the role of protagonist. A story ignites our heart to emit the words that were always stuck inside. what thing forces us to read or watch a film, is it our enthusiasm? Maybe, but strongly it's always about "we start becoming the same character, we start embracing his traits, expressions and ideas"

isn't something Which we do in love too?

I believe we just become the same person who we love.

Alas! everything is mortal except the words that play a role of a bridge between us, words are like a rope, over which we walk, the endless view and horrors we see are our emotions which need a way to exist in reality. When I get grumpy it's not something that oozes out of my heart, i reflect you, I reflect you wherever I go. Thankfully, you gave a hand so I could share that a grumpy kid is still alive in my soul.

I was seeing her lean physique seated on the steps of the door, she was gazing at the last gleams of the sunset with absolute silence on her face. The foul smell emanating from the street could not be tolerated even for a moment, the tattered garbs of girls were plonking on the filthy and splintered road and dense and profane rooms were making my soul completely nauseous, rooms that have no space except a alter where her body gets plundered everyday. It was a prostitute's street.

Her physique was as a diminutive village girl, she was sitting on step, her ripped-up blouse was not skilful to even cover a slight scrap of her breasts, the hair were swelling on the breast were clearly seeable. Some man-made bruises were also emanating on her body, her palms were very scaly and the face had become tarnished as a dehydrated cloud.

The nails of her hands and feet were misshapen and warped, but even in this pitiable condition, the eyes posted between her deep and thick eyelids were glistening like the ivory ray of the moon full or like a firefly situated on the top of a tree landed in her eyes.It's getting late now, the street started getting clamorous, rickshaw pullers and laborers were entering those suffocated rooms with more and more fervent feelings for prostitutes, each prostitute's face with a dense incapacity was equally visible, as usual the scars of force were about to grow on their body again tonight.

These helpless and defeated people will ferociously slaughter her body, clutching ones breast in their mouth and will start chomping it as a lump of meat. It is not unusual for them, many fuddled men take out anger and frustration on her, they might place their cigarette on her collar bone, to deprive and deteriorate her modesty, with words and touch. I was seeing her playing with a leaf and waiting for the something that she never wanted by heart, her work was a force or a situation that falls like a unbearable disease. I call it captivation or usurpation of her independence, smile and dignity. She gets ready, she wears new garbs, applies a new scent, not for her own life but to get plundered by a man.

But why is she suffering? She looks venerated as a goddess, why does she have to be lewd? The solemnity of a woman is more than our average heart. I find her more stronger than me or anyone else, society let's a rape victim realise that their dignity lies in their vagina and when they are being forced and raped their respect slips away like a wind, suddenly a victim turns out to be helpless and a burden for her own identity, that is absolutely notorious thing. Even in such a profession she never loses her identity, she serves herself and her flesh so wolves won't enter to knock the doors of sheeps who aren't even grown yet. Her heart is a symbol of resilience and sacrifice, where she knows nothing beyond being an object that calms down someone's lust.

zindagi mein main kabhi apne aap se khush nahi hua, Jyada din thodi hue hain jis din se main ye jaanne lag gya ki aakhir zindagi mein khush reh bhi paunga ya nahi. Shayad apne aap se to bilkul nahi. Dheere dheere umeedein toot-ti hain aur turant nayi cheezein sabak bankar aa jati hain, seekh raha hoon, tum bhi? Mere liye khushi ka koi ek matalab nahi hain, coffee, kitaab, thoda bahot likhna aur ghoomna phirana, iske alava kya chahiye?

Pyar?

Barkhurdar, vo to apne hath mein nahi hain. Haan lekin pyar lene se behtar kisi ko pyar dena hota hain, kabhi bhi chhav mein khde rehne wale insaan ke baarein mein baatein nahi hoti hain, lekin jo ped chhav deta hain uske iraade bade hi paak hote hain, vo sirf dene ki ichha rakhta hain, badle mein vo chhav ya pyar nahi mangega, shayad maangega to vaqt se jyda kuch nahi. Tum bhi pyar mein waqt dena, pyar se jyda, bina ye soche ki raahgir kab tak theharne wala hain. Bichhde bhi to aise ki pyar usi chhav ki tarah hmesha rahen, aur aage aane wale insan ko bhi utni hi chhaya aur pyar de sako, theek usi tarah jaise basant aata hain har saal, har baar jane ke baad bhi, usi prem ke sath nibhata hain apna kirdar.

(I was around 17 years old when I wrote this) it's quite old.

I admire that after a certain point every labour and action falls under the trap of void and tranquility. Love returns to dust and it's footprints attain oblivion as if now it is free from the cycle of happening and ending. Oblivion is inevitable, like the last leaf which falls from a tree, but every time spring bounces back, not the same leaf but the same vibration and enchantment surrounds the tree again, same thing happens in love. I believe the day I will fall in love I will start turning my head back more often to see whether someone called my name, I will swill the letterbox with my handkerchief while breathing the awaiting of your letters through my nostrils. Love isn't something that shakes us, but it changes our pattern of habits and choices, silly things start making a sweet noise in our brain, as a lyric of a song. Love and life coexist, in love life becomes like a passive emotion which decides our steps towards life. Murakami says love grows like a plant, but I think, it grows like the newly raised hair that slips on your ears every time you smile and look away from my eyes.

A woman in trouble. I see her everywhere, covering herself while gathering her dispersed pieces from reality. Time has flicked her into the dark, now she tends to be more silent and observing in nature, it's her first encounter with self-reflection. Whenever I see a woman absorbing the misery and rapids of existence, she completely turns herself off, agility of her smile weaknes as if it was never there, her expressions abandon her body and she turns out to be a stagnant mannequin of flesh. A lady in trouble or on a quest to find herself sees the world as full of predators, society tries to look behind the ragged edges of her clothes to see her more, to abrade her more with the sharp nails of discrimination, misogyny and lust. She drapes her body before standing alone in the midst of her struggle to escape, keeping every word to herself for the sake of being obedient.

I wonder if she would reveal everything that she bears daily, she sees her parents waiting to free her only to be caged by someone else, how strangers divide her identity and assign her a false role in guise of duty. Becoming a woman and a mother is a process, a series of adapting to adverse circumstances while accepting them as natural. She is a woman in dichotomy, who hugs herself while standing on the plinth of the world, if she survives she radiates love, and if she leaves, a spotless sunflower sprouts on her ashes.

You are synonyms to my perfectly brewed coffee. I don't count the moments when i think about how opposite we are but how finely we have amalamated our lives into a glistening solution of love. I believe loving someone makes us courageous enough to face the darkness that made our dreadful once, love gives us hope to take a step ahead, a step ahead out of the fences of insecurity, fear and negativity. Sometimes I think love is has a similarity with hope, cause all it reflects comes in the form of hope. All these stories that I create, and recite when you sleep into my lap, the sun flicks from the window and kisses your cheeks, pupils of your eyes reflect newly born rainbow, during all this I love the serenity of your face, but still I cover your face with my hand, because I can't accept a pleasure that disturbs your sleep, love.

(Based on imagination)

dear,

Just a few days ago I was deciphering Kafka's letters to Millena, a dull and subdued regret was welling up inside me as I was reading each letter, i scrutinized each syllable but all the time a riddle like question was bothering me,

"Will I also be able to save you with rest of my words?"

It is diverting that one falls in love with a poet, a poet has a sore imaginary world away from humanistic existence where the characters created by him love each other, share their sorrows and happiness with each other, watch the steady motion of waves on the beach. But I am not a poet, my capability is limited only to love you, in fact it is like a nightmare for me to be able to write you a full intimate and explained letter. I think words sometimes kill the feeling that doesn't need to be explained, that feeling is, Love.

I'm keeping the bottom of my feet in the midst of depression these days, your remembrance is breathing in some dilapidated part of my brain. Sometimes I think that what is happening between us is like a tale, here situations start from gaiety to dullness, just as each page of a tale contains different feelings. We are also struggling with happiness and sorrows everyday.I am imcapable to sleep deeply these days, when I close my eyes, I feel that the sharp light coming from some hole wants to wake me up, the pain in my eyes does not bother me because my heart is drowned in the solution of melancholy.

"A person without heart cannot understand both love and sorrow."

For me you are like a metaphor in a poem, without which the liquid of poetry remains incomplete.

Moon is charming, isn't it?

I spontaneously think, would this moon become more gentle in the presence of a loving person?  Will the moon become even more beautiful the day we hug and sit under the moonlight? The earth moves along with a fixed pace and law, the soul will perish on a certain day and scatter in the earth, but is it not possible that we spend each and every moment in our tight embrace?

I yearn to know every side of this story, or maybe I'm pinning my upcoming happiness on a girl who is like a cast of a story, but I'm one of the bad guys to live to the end of this story, even though I'll lose my peace,  But like any average character, I want my cherished ending, I want you, not your memories.

with you?

Maybe yes!

(Based on imagination)

dear,

Just a few days ago I was deciphering Kafka's letters to Millena, a dull and subdued regret was welling up inside me as I was reading each letter, i scrutinized each syllable but all the time a riddle like question was bothering me,

"Will I also be able to save you with rest of my words?"

It is diverting that one falls in love with a poet, a poet has a sore imaginary world away from humanistic existence where the characters created by him love each other, share their sorrows and happiness with each other, watch the steady motion of waves on the beach. But I am not a poet, my capability is limited only to love you, in fact it is like a nightmare for me to be able to write you a full intimate and explained letter. I think words sometimes kill the feeling that doesn't need to be explained, that feeling is, Love.

I'm keeping the bottom of my feet in the midst of depression these days, your remembrance is breathing in some dilapidated part of my brain. Sometimes I think that what is happening between us is like a tale, here situations start from gaiety to dullness, just as each page of a tale contains different feelings. We are also struggling with happiness and sorrows everyday.I am imcapable to sleep deeply these days, when I close my eyes, I feel that the sharp light coming from some hole wants to wake me up, the pain in my eyes does not bother me because my heart is drowned in the solution of melancholy.

"A person without heart cannot understand both love and sorrow."

For me you are like a metaphor in a poem, without which the liquid of poetry remains incomplete.

Moon is charming, isn't it?

I spontaneously think, would this moon become more gentle in the presence of a loving person?  Will the moon become even more beautiful the day we hug and sit under the moonlight? The earth moves along with a fixed pace and law, the soul will perish on a certain day and scatter in the earth, but is it not possible that we spend each and every moment in our tight embrace?

I yearn to know every side of this story, or maybe I'm pinning my upcoming happiness on a girl who is like a cast of a story, but I'm one of the bad guys to live to the end of this story, even though I'll lose my peace,  But like any average character, I want my cherished ending, I want you, not your memories.

with you?

Maybe yes!

(Based on imagination)

Don't tie your dreams with your personality, dream isn't a metaphor that can define your life, it simply defines your practice towards a specific action and it's outcome. You're growing up, everyday, getting pervaded more by hope and despair, jealousy also takes part to ruin the meditative man that lives in you. Love, drama and connections are getting way to entangled like a ball of wool, none of them actually gives birth the meaning you're seeking. After a specific age, life is not about learning more, but it's about unlearning. Every cigarette I take from my packet belongs in the dustbin, not between my lips. Finding meaning in human life is like a tragedy, we search for hope outside our heart, we look for a magic, magic of love, magic of godhead. But Internally it's a deceit, when you love someone, you're searching yourself in her, even in your meditative state you're not searching for the divinity, you're searching for yourself, the you who is buried under the weight of series of practices.

You were always beautiful and chasmic like a sunflower, you were a admirer of half brewed coffee once, you were a person who expected the minimal, maybe also the star player of gully cricket... Ironically today you define yourself with something for which you struggle and yearn rather than clinging to the yourself who lacks nothing except a simple way of assimilating the real self.

Be my window in love, not my mirror. Darling When you're around I see solutions more often the riddles, your closeness showers possibilities and ability to look beyond of the world, the world which is quarrelsome and chaotic. I stand in front of you, I look into your eyes, I see the panorama of something that is connected to my window's view. Darling, I'm often sick, but whenever I want to see the world and the it's Felicity I always choose my window, it's just a corner but for me it's a escape to look beyond my life. Last day I saw a little kid was plucking flowers from my plants, a little soul wrapped in a yellow raincoat. During his innocent theft he had a fear of being caught but also a feeling of excitement was there on his face, I didn't distrub his soul. He went away. I think kids are more courageous than adults, they at least dare to do a thing they heart craves for, but people of our age counts the possibility of success more than putting the efforts in the right way. This window has taught me a series of things, the way you did, the time when I had no potential to find answers, I took it's refuge, similarly yours too. I love the window and you, you know why? Because both of you revealed answers and a field which is beyond the perception of truth and lie. I could see life through your eyes and the glass of my window, I'm thankful that none of you ever showed me my own reflection, unless life would have been nothing just a oblivion.

Emotional tendency and kind behavior levitates from love, love is the origin of your goodness, this love is not only finite to being Intimated to someone physically and emotionally, but it's more of your behavioral trait that prepares you to shower the nature and it's strangers with affection and care. The deprivation of love prepares you to assimilate it's presence and need more diligently, lack of many things in life is essential unless you would stop being grateful for something you get. Love is not a special feeling that comes along with a special person itself, it's a emotional string that binds you with your lost self, the self you had to lose due to the deprivation of love, love is supposed to introduce you with yourself. Initial steps of love feel sweetly slippery and it's delicacy melts our heart, it's not because of someone is being in love with us, but it's more because the curtains of our blindness are getting clear, the fogg is getting repealed, love becomes a moment of celebration because it makes you self aware, aware of your lost self, aware of your lost feelings, aware of your hopelessness, it enkindles your humanity to love someone again.

I remember the time I used to get mad at any of my family member, I was a clumsy and ferocious kid initially, but even a clumsy soul yearns to get conciliated and pampered with compassion. The lack of emotional understanding that I have seen in life definitely made me unhappy and numb, but for my own self, for other I evolved a high sense of emotional understanding because I have experienced the lack and aftereffect of being not being pampered and understood. When a kid gets angry on his parents he shuts his door and locks himself in a room, he might skip his dinner to let them know how mad he is, but deep down he expects that someone will knock the door and pamper him instead giving him space to think about whether he was wrong or right, I never believe in giving a space to someone who gets mad at me, but I was always given space, and it made me realize that I never wanted it, I wanted someone to reach me out, unfortunately, not all things happen according to our will. The vacuum which was given made me understand how pathetic life becomes in such a awaiting where we expect that someone will call us or knock and ask "did you eat something". If someone gets mad at you, reach them out, except giving them any space to think anything more, don't let the experience grow so much that one day they will stop expecting and won't care about having dinner at all. The lack of such beautiful feelings might make a man emotionally intelligent, but this lack carries the weight of unfulfilled hopes. A person with scars know the consequences more than a person who hasn't been acquainted with it yet. Sometimes the Lack of love is important so you can love someone generously without giving them any unwanted space and unfulfilled expectations.

Rana walked by chance in her life, nothing fancy and throbbing happened between them, but there was a emotional stretch existed in between them, through conversations about nitty gritties of life to philosophy behind love and aging. Everything that happened in between them was unintentional in every way possible, there was no friction of getting something in return, simply they stayed and spent time together, walked around ghats, discussed and argued too, haha. I remember the time when Rana said "Main call krunga" While leaving her house, and she winked her eyes with as positive reciprocation. Here they both knew that it's never going to be the same, everything was intented to change at such a time when they had actually realised and accepted each other's eccentricities. Love wasn't there, but there was a acceptance and assimilation of each other's flaws and opposite philosophy, which made it a bond that seeks nothing, not even the permanence of itself. That's something we need in love.

I kick off every morning with a smokey cup of coffee and some push-ups to chisel and sustain my physical being. Sara, I don't know who am I, as soon as I take a step inside the metro I feel I'm surrounded by mirrors, mirrors that reflect almost the storyline, in which the protagonist's face isn't clearly visible, rather it is covered by a question mark or or dull clouds. I see myself everywhere, in a person who walks with the help of a wheelchair to a kid who gets abused for knocking someone's car window for selling pirated books, I wonder if that kid knows the full name of any book he carries on his lap all day along. I see the world through lenses, I capture accidental phenomena and beauty, I feel beauty lies in unintentional actions, as I say a smile is intentional but a laugh is more realistic and raw. I exist in between the day-to-day's politics of home and office, but I'm a person who observes more than taking part in any debate, sometimes I'm hanging in between a dilemma of choosing a white shirt or a fit white polo, sometimes in choosing what to eat and what not to, sometimes whether you like earrings more or the anklets! I'm that sort of confused human being who end up gathering everything at the end. I don't dare define myself fully, but consider me someone who dodges the complexities and riddles for providing simple and serene answers to those who I love, in such a life, my dreams and aspirations are my invisible ghosts who walk with me until I will hug them heartfully.

(My girl is imaginary and I'm happy with that)

Human Life mostly revolves around three things, Nous (intellect), love and God. It was very well explained in Western philosophy as well that the life of a human being is deeply rooted to a specific Reliance, it can't survive without help of that reliance, now it can be anything, in form of God, the person we love, or our nous (logic and intellect). If you see, our beliefs change almost everyday, when we love someone the person holds the most crucial position in our life, he or she affects us in every way possible and end up being a inseparable part of our existence, but as soon as our belief weakens, either we get logically aware to not to believe in love or we become a bit spiritual and leave the everything on a entity, that Is called God. A lover and a believer of God hold the same proportion of sentimental investment, this investment leaves making a man intolerant and weak sometimes, because reciprocation matters more than the existence of God and love. That's why when we are hurt after trying our luck in love and prayers, we end up being haters of both thing, because we realise that the bridge of reliance wasn't strong enough to carry the weight of our hope and expectations.

Human Life mostly revolves around three things, Nous (intellect), love and God. It was very well explained in Western philosophy as well that the life of a human being is deeply rooted to a specific Reliance, it can't survive without help of that reliance, now it can be anything, in form of God, the person we love, or our nous (logic and intellect). If you see, our beliefs change almost everyday, when we love someone the person holds the most crucial position in our life, he or she affects us in every way possible and end up being a inseparable part of our existence, but as soon as our belief weakens, either we get logically aware to not to believe in love or we become a bit spiritual and leave the everything on a entity, that Is called God. A lover and a believer of God hold the same proportion of sentimental investment, this investment leaves making a man intolerant and weak sometimes, because reciprocation matters more than the existence of God and love. That's why when we are hurt after trying our luck in love and prayers, we end up being haters of both thing, because we realise that the bridge of reliance wasn't strong enough to carry the weight of our hope and expectations.