Monday, July 18, 2016

There's an innate kind of beauty in what's broken.. In pieces that are not afraid to don any shape. Each crack having a mind and direction of its own. Unfazed, not conforming to appearances. Collecting reflections of different suns, bursting into their most honest colors. Put them against a group of mirrors and they'll evolve into the prettiest of patterns. Leave them aside and they'll cut you when you least expect it. But when you bring them all together, mend them, they form a replica of a previous creation.
We are broken pieces of a complete form, wrecked by multiple storms, fixed to last, over and over again. But however much we try to cover the scars or seal the gaps, we can never go back to perfect completion. We can ever be wholes, because we leave pieces of ourselves into it all. That's the beauty of what's broken.

Sunday, July 17, 2016

What does cold feel like?
Is it a shiver waiting to be silenced? Is it a breeze that soothes the skin? Is it the sand in the desert at night? Or the cubes of ice swimming in intoxication? Is it a flame gone out? Is it a companion of the darkness? Is it the snowflake that lands on the palm or the tear that wets the lips? Is it a heart that can't love anymore or a one that's burnt to ashes?

Saturday, July 16, 2016

I think we spend too much time staring at our screens, adding on the missing pieces to a bridge that's virtual. Trying to connect to a heart who's beats are too far to be heard. Why not instead go counting stars , or climb a dark mountain, or camp with the fireflies. Why not instead walk in a field of daffodils, feed the fishes at a pond. Or just walk over to the people you 'love' and talk them in the eye. The screen is what has replaced faces, minds, hearts, emotions. The screen is the reason why I wish I was a child of the past. So I'd know the bridges were real, and what the heartbeats sounded like.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

How many heartbreaks will it take to turn this heart into stone?
It has melted once, a long long time ago.
Fires of passion died, the remnants hardened with time,
Disfigured, settling, the heart moulded to a new shape,
Yet beating to a rhythm, the only one it knows
The chambers went on filling in, as soon as the voids
Every corner housing sweet memories of tempests
I wish it would melt once and for all into the arms of nothingness
No walls, no chambers, no memories of a lost time
No rhythm to alter, no feelings to silence, no fear of the end...