Flammende Herzen

a small token of kindness (14th August 2021) 
          
          tragic like the moist earth stuck between ruthless beings, there is something unusual about the sun and the moon; unburnt and unseen. 
          
          the star touches the surface of the earth with its fingertips disguised as rays; glorifying its passionate brown and marking it with the names of the powerful. there is no shift, no probable change in its hour of rising. it stays. 
          
          when the moon aligns itself to the eyes of sight, there is little role played by its view and rather by its beauty; it seeps into the veins and travels within them. and in the face of the bewitched, there is an old friend's shadow, the fragrance of the moon in its breath. there was no shift, nothing happened. it stayed.
          
          were they stationary or up and about? 
          
          the world spins on a thin axis. it must keep up its action. and it revolves around the sun, lest there should come upon it harm. moving, running, walking got inculcated in the lungs of a human long before the birth of other rules. 
          
          but was stillness ever elaborated upon? 
          
          observe the planet, its treausres and the mountains. the sun and the moon, the trees and the stars. there is somewhat an ache too of a thousand moments lost in the fibres of movements. there is a deathly stillness. a form of indescribable loss.
          
          adopt their techniques; of being still like the still seas and surviving like its waves. to live, one must be a lunatic dreamer; search in the deep and die from the thirst. 
          
          there is never a movement of calm; always full of chaos that is fatal. too many of these repel life's purpose, for you get killed with the disturbances. 
          
          choose stillness; the way to believe in life without touching it. 
           #adropofhumanity 
          

a small token of kindness (13th August 2021) 
          
          often when the sun is rising, there is in its colours a smell of August; a form of past that lingers in the air. only as it fights against the frozen tear in its eye, does it come closer to the twilight hues of its night. and more often than not, the very light it emits is the cause of sweat that glistens across its body; raging with purpose.
          
          the moon, on the other hand, has its own chain of miracles like the stars that take position in symmetry. within the capsule, there are a hundred thoughts dissolved; some which it produces in its changes and the others that swallow it bit by bit, producing phases. 
          
          worst of all is the scenario of them gleaming alone; with the remnants of the tragedies they had to witness generation after generation. 
          
          in any way; even if incomprehensible and blank, some incidences need to be shared. some memories must be hung over the grapevine and some others must be replaced with the buried oysters in the sea. 
          
          when the time for the two to depart comes, they cling to the sky, fearful of their vastness, of their own spectrum. and they leave their shadows all across the blue. 
          
          when some dealings of the past resurface and in you, a raging night emerges, let the moon take over. let it spread its luminosity, its shade and its tear.
          
          treat the happenings as the dead that need to be honoured; even if it by a single good word. share their meanings and not the incidents for they could heal in others what may have been burnt to nothing in you. 
          
          after all we are nothing but the dying; and the hour is around the corner. give away your wound so you may be flawless at least in your death. 
           #adropofhumanity 
          

a small token of kindness (12th August 2021) 
          
          is it funny that the sun rises each day- in a ring of melancholy at first- but eventually feels its nerves brighten up with the view of moist earth? when it can merely be at the lowest, somewhere in the sky- like the buried- and be bothered least about the whining clouds. 
          
          somehow its senses are tickled by the chrysanthemums, and the lilis decorate its shine in a clinging dress. the soil lets the tears of dew to their surface aligns itself to the body of the large celebrity- in hopes of drying up their past. 
          
          the moon floats to the top of the sky, higher and higher as it can swim. albeit it is tiny, the size of a human palm- to find it beat the well of sky and fight the current of its water- only to flop on its stomach and be goofy with the earth is life. 
          
          surely, there must be somewhat a thing of interest in this land we most vehemently loathe. 
          
          definitely, there must be something of a forever in this messy group of existences, that the moon drags itself to the furthest end of its place to enjoy. 
          
          every day, hour and even minute, the sky you possibly do not even take into consideration watches your movements and takes pride in its silly observations. it finds on this planet what it is ashamed to convey through its weak language of stars and the bubbly clouds- a sort of poem it sits to fill its mouth up with.
          
          and it is through such a firm set of actions that everyday conclusions become eternal in memory. then they ne'er occur again- at least not in the same frame of events. 
          
          these immortals get passed on through words and descriptions, not lives or deaths. 
          
          in you too, there is something a little more eternal than your flesh, that has been present always. no wonder the sun and the moon hold you tenderly, and you should, simultaneously, breathe more strongly to understand that to live is not a sin or a lie. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (11th August 2021)
          
          it is apparent that the sun- being such a profound source of wellness- cannot speak. it is softer than the floors of a forest and quieter than the home of its ancestors. 
          
          in addition, the moon too- in its flame of glory- has nothing to share at all, except for the light it borrows. there are stars; with hues of dark blues and mellow oranges, with shades of a particular type, yet their communication is the faintest. and some days, they are inert, and exist no more than forced dots. 
          
          the air then, what purpose does it serve than fill up organs like balloons and leaves like paintings with colours? yet it speaks. with its force, with its scent, with its nothingness and most of the times, it carries the universe with it; wrapped in a woolen cardigan, soaked in the death of its tiny inhabitants. 
          
          the more opulent things in life are incapable of being talked about. 
          
          the sky has no tongue that can dictate the ingredients from the vessel of its heart. the sun has only but a mere hours of shine. the moon, pitifully, has just some costume-like light. and the air, absolutely nothing, with no presence or being. 
          
          but they do impact. 
          
          the tongue- although free to slip and run- has been prisoned between one's mind and heart. it serves the purpose of wings for a human; after all, how many a time has it flown and corrupted the masses? 
          
          therefore- while it does carry the waves of the ocean and the tropicals of the forests- it is the death of most things unseen. 
          
          it is what can break a heart- physically, like throwing a vase of flowers against granite- and not use a thing except your tongue for it. which is what can cause a hurricane in someone's life and which is how you can bury a murdered soul without a suspicious glance. 
          
          it is right to say then, that, freedom of the tongue is good, but like the wings that cannot soar past the sky, the beak of flesh too should be imprisoned with a limit. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (10th August 2021) 
          
          everyday the sun sneeks lazily into the sky; however with a face of marked difference each day. some hours to its body clings a mask of its own shadow for it longs to be not left to the sky alone. other days it fears to be seen by the ones who cast upon it a farewell glance and fly closer and nearer to it thereafter. and then, every once in a while, it wishes to hinder its existence and stop bruising those under it with its harsh demeanour. 
          
          likewise, under the guardianship of the sun, the moon takes form; here again, the phases speak for it enough. 
          
          its craters are poignantly sharp and they sting it with a mean frown for which reason it rises only as a half. other times, the sun guards authority upon its light and refuses to share the neccesary amount; thus only a quarter of its body is noticed. 
          
          the changes- no matter how trivial- make the day a little unlike those that have passed. 
          
          wake up early if you must but delay not in sensing the air in your chest during the early hours of life. peel the sun's rays and escape to its silver lines. tear down the earth below your feet and find yourself amidst the granules that you step upon without a thought. in your mind, let alone a corner for the moon to make notes for it is in need of a dark shade away from the sky; somewhere better welcomed, an area too personal.
          
          it is not a piece of new knowledge that you have abandoned your days and nights like a rotten flower, unnecessary to be tamed. the thought of growth has begun to haunt you in your soul, and even through your ribcage. 
          
          forget the regulations, there is a world beyond it. watch with squinted eyes and a palpitating heart, there are little stars you miss out on. 
          
          the more you take life for granted, the lesser it appreciates you. 
          
          besides, you have died a little yesterday, you will die a little tomorrow, so why not live today; only a little, with little? 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (9th August 2021)
          
          the sun's hands are spread widely apart, such that its honey like richness drizzles upon everything. in its performance, there is nothing artificial, nothing broken and fragmented. when it chooses, it distinguishes not between the september sunflowers that await and long for it through their umbrellas and the rainbow roses that do not quite as much even wish to have it near. 
          
          then the moon, it gazes coldly and interacts in another language which only the tall pines of the Himalayas and yesterday's bones understand. it sings alone- desperately and absorbingly- the tale of the stars that had worn him in their arms like sleeves of acceptance but had bitten away parts of his to themselves. 
          
          there is in the drastics, a kind of silent affection that hardly is perceivable by the ones who are known to contemporary love. 
          
          the souvenirs of the ruined earth are littered with little mercy yet out of common goodness, there is a shadow of the light that follows it shyly. 
          and the moon barely scrutinizes the apparent; it dives to the thrill of the hidden. it dresses up all wounds and unmindfully, leaves behind little craters from his own body.
          
          love is an adornment; soft and unpredictable, with its frail shells scattered about the world without hesitation, and tender words that do not comply with the violence of human mind. in the dim evening, it is a blush of the desert and the morning, it is a roaring flicker of death. 
          
          there is love but you will lose out upon it like the sun that escapes you but it will return, like the moon that stays.
          
          so worry not, when love you distribute never seems to come your way. because it does; not like the rainbow, rather, like blood. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (8th August 2021)
          
          when the sun rises above the seas- lost a bit within the clouds and a bit in sleep- the sky takes it for itself. it bears its crown like a drop of blood on a fingertip, preciously and protectively. 
          
          then the clouds, no matter their age and symmetry, are in synchrony with the paler and the deeper shades of poetry etched in the fine crooks of the sky. which they fill. with a little blood of theirs. 
          
          finally, the universe- oh, the hopes it shields. 
          
          it has a firm grasp upon the planets and the larger bodies- like the ocean floor that the earth has laid down upon itself like a blanket- while the stars and the comets, it leaves to the space- to the air, to the motionless- to swim. 
          perhaps this is the sweeter side of death- an illusion of the forgetfulness of one's self in itself. 
          
          there is a universe flowing through the darkness of your veins. anachronistic and bold- you will find a home for the dried chokes of your throat and the salted drops of the bygone. there is a place for the sophisticated waves of your ocean and for the rageful desert where you are senselessly burning. 
          
          you and the universe are the sanest paradoxes- alive but dead. 
          
          do not let the crowd deceive you. stay awake in your own place and keep away from visiting others'. those who have the ability to accept and adhere will step in at the right moments, but in the meantime, you are desired to stay put, in your own home. 
          
          for, God forbid, if you walk away further than required- for that is what the humankind aims for- you may forget the way or even worse, the scent of your home. 
           #adropofhumanity 

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