Of empty glasses and spilled wine...

Loud laughter and unsaid words
Dirty shoes and tiring trips
Broken promises and dreams that come true
Tears of pain and a healing hand
Empty packs of cigarettes and overflowing ashtrays
Smoke filled rooms and free thoughts
Cool sea breeze and a sunken ship
Beautiful melodies and melancholy nights
........

Ruins

There's something quite fascinating about ruins, the ones overgrown with green and brown and broken shards. Its difficult to resist scrapping off the peels from the dilapidation, find the fascinating worms underneath.
She wonders why would anyone build them in the very first place, in the midst of desolation. Far from civilization that would care for all it is worth. Or is it that the ruins caused the desolation.
Why should she even want to know, be a part of the ruins, and the life it held once. Its really not hers to encroach, probe, look at....

Humans are such trespassers !!



.

Back to reality

She knew she'd have to someday.
Walk back to the real world, drag herself through the ordeal already described to her in great detail.
She hopes the dreamer doesn't die though. She's loved that part of her make believe world. Her cocoon of safety.
The hands held out are strong and sure, but her step quivers with uncertainty and trepidation. 
She should perhaps she run away for a few more days?

Scream

Silence

Breeze

Shattering glass

Waves

Smile

Sob

Chalk on the blackboard

Music

Pen scratching the surface of a blank paper

Laughter

Gentle humming of the AC

Rain

Chirping

Storm

Rustling leaves

... on and on and on....

Jigsaw Puzzles

When the pieces are all scattered, and you stare at them long enough. You know that it will all fit. The pieces will come together. They are meant to. They were broken from the same whole.Right?
But perhaps the truth is that the jigsaw puzzle was broken for a reason. Jagged edges that will always show Broken for the pieces never to come together. Scattered and free .

To go away . Free will. If it exists.

Dreams from another life

A haze, a cloud of smoke, usual sounds and smells. Piles of laughter and familiar songs. A silent walk in the wee hours of the morning. A smile at a distant thought. The friendly & shy.
The proximity of comfort, at arm's length.

Maybe just a trick of mind.


.

Scars make heroes

Masochism at its best it is, to equate the number of scars that are possessed by one's valiance. On the surface. Atleast.

But perhaps valiance it truly is to have them, look at them each day, relive the pain and mask it with self appointed glory; to know the hollowness and helplessness of carrying them forever at terms one never dictated.
While the world laughs at one's foibles and the false sense of bravado that one seems to possess, being able to equate scars to heroism itself is valiance supreme.