In Conclusion - Day 7

So I made it! And believe me, I almost missed this last day. It's 11:30 and I remembered; blogging for a week continuously was a promise I made to myself. And well, hurrah! I did it!

I'm happy. :)

My thoughts -

Happiness is indeed a choice, albeit a difficult one. We get so used to the comfort of sorrow that we don't see it that way. I know I haven't. And I also know, that only when I make an effort to come out of it, do I see the bigger picture. So if there's anyone out there, who is suffering, in any way, know that it's upto you to come out of it. Be sad. Give it time. But do not get used to the solace offered by that feeling. The choice to be better is always upto you. The choice to make your own happiness.

Keep yourself involved. Stop over thinking. Do well by you. Be the better person. Forgive yourself. Give love freely. Have a clear mind. Make memories. Be you. Be the complete you. And stay happy.

With love,
Anjana

Haiku: Another try

Sun blazed through curtains
Two souls adhered to tasks while the
Elephant sat still

Need

There is power in prayer,

Her heart believed

With her face looking up,

Eyes closed, and

Lips whispering in fever,

She prayed in need.

Haiku

Dusk gave into night

Starry skies pursued in craze

The bloody sky in race

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Dusk gave into night

The birds soared from trees and flew

While the south wind blew

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Dusk gave into night

Night jasmines blossomed anew while

Snakes slither nearby

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An Act of Kindness

At the end of each day, the old, worn out cobbler would come and give a little of whatever money he had made to the orphanage at the end of the street. He would move slowly but steadily into the office room of the orphanage. The lady of the orphanage, who took his deposits, never said anything; just the usual thanks were to suffice. The mischievous little boy, who always got called to the office, found this raggedy old man a very curious entity. Once he threw the ball at him, expecting an outburst, but the old man bent, took the ball, smiled and threw it back. He came every single day. His contributions were hardly worth anything, but he never stopped.

Image Courtesy

After making this routine journey, he would proceed walking home to a tent; he called home, on the outskirts of town. His load was heavy and his shoulders bent with them. Nevertheless, he carried on. A small fire built over collected twigs, and whatever little money from the day’s work could buy; putting some aside for the next day’s lunch, would be the dinner for the day. Many a day there had been without a meal, the stomach in turmoil, but the mind at peace. A long night would follow, wrapped in a thin, well-worn blanket with holes. Yet, the old man slept with a smile.

The next day is another long journey back into the city streets mending and polishing the shoes of those who were perhaps gifted with a better fortune. Work would be slow during lunch time. He would seek a quiet corner to take his lunch from the leftovers of yesterday out, wrapped in whatever piece of newspaper he would have found. Sometimes, one or the other street dogs would join him. A morsel was then shared. Work continued after lunch. The day dragged, slowly, but it did go on.

At the end of the day, the old man made his way to the orphanage at the end of the street. He moved slowly, tired, worn out, like the shoes he sometimes repaired. He put what he could spare into the hands of the lady of the orphanage. The mischievous little boy saw him again and bade no heed. He was no longer of interest when other distractions called. And then the old man made his long journey back.

Sunday Sentiments

The curtains were flying, so I went to tie them up. It was 10 am, but still dark. ‘It will rain today’, the thoughts followed quickly. The cool air was a nice welcome, so I decided to sit on the window seat for a while. It felt nice. Having a corporate job with a hectic work life, and living in an apartment building where you don’t even know your neighbors tends to leave you with not many plans on a Sunday morning. It didn’t matter but. I cherished the moments I got to be alone with my own thoughts.

Image Courtesy

The trees were dancing, letting go of their oldest leaves, in despair perhaps. I thought. Why would you want to part with old friends? The clouds were rolling in and I could see lightning in the distance. Chilly and dark, the kind of dark where you feel the sun is fighting to establish that it is daytime and not night. Everyone loves this weather. What is it about this climate that made everyone so happy?

The wind uplifted my souls from the dreary depths it had chosen to rest in, for the past almost one year. After a long time, I felt like a part of my own story, I felt in control, but mostly I felt at peace. I closed my eyes and let it wash over me. ‘Take it away, all of it’, I whispered to the wind. And the wind complied, it slowly touched corners of my heart I thought I’d never set free again, and washed away the dust that had collected. For the first time, in a long time, every bit of me was awash in light. I let out a deep breath I didn’t realise I was holding in. I smiled, and my eyes fluttered close. So I just sat there, doing nothing, but feeling. Feeling all the emotions I’d been holding in, letting go of what negativity I’d been holding on to, promising myself all the things I would do.

It’s going to be a beautiful, new day, come tomorrow.

Of love...

You know how there are different kinds of love...the filial kind, the romantic kind, the friend love, the random acts of love love.
The saddest of them all is a love that once was, and never could be the same again.

One of my favourite books, Gone with the Wind, ended with Rhett Butler telling Scarlett that he didn't love her anymore.  I'd keep wondering how is it possible for someone to stop loving a person.  And I didn't believe it. But now I do. And needless to say, it's a scary thought. To think that someone who once pledged the world to you, someone who said they loved you till the moon and back could one day just walk away from it all. And it wouldn't make a difference. So is there anything like true love? There is this part of me that desperately wishes for someone to tell me that, yes, there is, but then the majority of my mind tends to be rational about it. So much of me wishes I could be that one exception to the rule, but well, beggars can't be choosers in the hands of destiny. Sad. So is there no thing called 'true love'?

We do feel it inherently for family, I believe. But saying that you love someone outside your family, leaves my mind ringing with bells of falsehood. Being completely honest, I find it incredibly hard to completely believe in the possibility of that kind of love existing. And I hope to God someone proves me wrong one day.