𝔐.𝔅. ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢

a small token of kindness (13th October 2021) 
          
          in eternity, where the clouds have submerged within museums of misery, perhaps shall we find a blossom of ours stuck under the piles of howling prayers. there the sun would be no less than a saucer; a large yet miniscule form of torture, blood dried in its dirt coated fingers. its lost factors oozing out tear- strained, glass-held colours of melancholy. 
          
          we carry the sun a little each day, and we roar of its greatness, of its architecture and its rays that tastes similar to death. you have viewed it in a manner soothing to your mind, and others to theirs. how many suns have we in this process made? 
          
          and how many of these shall perish once we do? you can narrate, you can allow the world a touch of your dream, but what more would they be aware of than just a snap of the rushing moment? the sun you had known in your way, shall ultimately perish with you.
          
          we carry until we become the carriers. the sun too shall mingle its rays for a last moment with some human perhaps too proud to engage with it. and just as simply, the world shall collapse with not a soul who will be aware of all the bounties; all the flowers with their inks, the rose thorn pricks, the ticklish butterflies on summer noses, drops of salt stained ocean fishes, the calloused experiments between the crevices of fingers and the tragedy of the rituals of the wooden empires.
          
          we will die inevitably, death cleans life. but while we are alive, must we not create memories unique to our eyes? keep a part of each subject in you. death was never a matter of loneliness. it has always been about keeping the right forms of every thing witnessed within you; prevented from decay and protected till infinity. 
           #adropofhumanity 
          

a small token of kindness (12th October 2021)
          
          the sun has existed for centuries, without a trace anywhere. it springs a little and hibernates within itself; its presence a petal that delicately falls to demise after an hour of existence. it cuts through the emptiness, warms the dead a bit, guides the void and sets into the womb of the horizon.
          
          the moon begins its course as a mighty surfer like damask tides that tear through the ocean to gnaw at the sky. lack of ululation and of illumination, lack of cumulation and of guidance and lack of a positive environment everywhere. yet it sparks for a while, with a colour of childhood and sinks then, into the rebellion of painted growth. 
          
          everything has its time. everything has its sin of end. when one thing starts, it pours itself down the waterfall of death. the flowers take birth in the spaces of toes and in the dirtied heart of indulgence, they seem to rot. 
          
          like the tongue of the devil and the forbidden sea, we humans have lost our hearts to our abdomens. greed has taken form in us like the wicked apple in darjeeling, our senses lost to the suave-like bodies of stained ink. 
          
          our eyes have occupied monsters within them. what we see, we must destroy with our stomachs. not every availability is to be eaten, some just are for instilling caution. cling to your claws of curiosity, for they are a flaw shaped as paradise. but to test them through every breath of innocence; are we flesh or are we then nothing but wolves in pearled form of humans? 
          
          life perhaps is mostly lost for the very reason that we choose to feed upon it when infact, it should be merely caressed with soft fingertips. 
          
          the oceans waves are only for adoration. do not mistake them to be an invitation into their privacy. you may be a human, the best of creatures, but to the ocean that has existed forever, you might only be the salt to its openness; a knife to its bleeding secrets. 
           #adropofhumanity 
          

a small token of kindness (11th October 2021)
          
          the sun we often admire is a dream of late October- that which is available to iron caged eyes and a heart drenched in coffee like brown sidewalks. is it reality or a winter kissed dream drawn bit by bit into hearts to keep them from rotting? 
          
          and the moon knows the silence of the loud clearer than the ocean's buried lies. it has not lived centuries only to be deceived by spells of the transients. even though the whispers of the dark are similar to the velvet of a breath too lost, the sun's shine always burned an octave higher. 
          
          when the forest speaks, the time like an ancient city forgets its name; its splendour and its trembles. it abandons its identity and sinks into the sand of seconds. it stays, but it is what is lost. for once, it the one who goes missing into the fields. 
          
          time only watches, observes and bears; it has no power to move away. no matter the severity, it stares blankly. it is lonely, it falls apart and cannot keep any of the seasons to itself. 
          
          and perhaps that gives it all the more reason to carry reminders in its empty socket. there is solace in dropping to the knees before destruction, but the consequences are heavy like a rainbow that has lost its wings. 
          
          let it make space, let it sit by your side and dig into your soul. let it sing to you your flaws, and associate them with the doomed decisions made by ones of the past. 
          
          only it knows secrets, those that cannot be carried even down the slipperiest of roads. if it chooses to pluck your flowers away, one by one, then let it. if it tells you the stories of the destroyed, then pay attention. 
          
          not all good things mean well, like the sun in distress. your own flowers can be poisonous for you, like the time that let's history repeat itself. 
           #adropofhumanity 
          

a small token of kindness (10th October 2021) 
          
          the sun has its own universe, one that it conceals in its branches of fame. it spits glory and brushes it around tenderly, like a burnt paper that grew to love the fire. but never puts the same to its own use; like the world that has too much ocean blue. 
          
          the moon, although dark with melody, holds a tiny saucer underneath its body, to collect its memories and hand it over to the winds. it has not much to give, but has surpassed the non living, like the dried autumn leaves dancing with the sky.
          
          the ocean waves are powerless like honey; drenched in jasmine stained dawn and bothered by the dew strings of playful silver stones. who lays underneath is but a small girl, with a heart as naive as December. she is a form of clarity that is lined by blurriness and her hair disguised as the waves that consume her.
          
          why do they protect their depth; the face of evolution, from the hands of mortals? and why have we never never been able to go beyond their black scarred gloss?
          
          it is a malady; a fabricated future destiny. one is shaken awake or perhaps slapped back to life, to return to being physically lost. it is best to be here and somewhere else too. do you trust this can be done in death? 
          
          oh to feel, to bite down the soil until the stories leak through, what a transgressing form of desire. we ask for magic, speak of its existence, but hardly move the heart from the laws to the dying cactus.
          
          magic lives in a place unreachable. it is in people who think the deepest and dive into the dark with no fear. like the sun that does not think before exploring the earth. and the moon that sinks in the farthest burrows. 
          
          to comprehend magic, one must be able to feel the deepest. the sun and the ocean need to be eaten. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (9th October 2021) 
          
          there is so much in us and so much we can be, like the cosmos that has been under servitude and the black hole that consumes it. there is within the sun a similar attitude; it walks the cobblestone lanes with eyes of the deceased. melted paints it wants to embellish upon the stars and pluck out the shine of its rays to decorate the leaves of autumn. 
          
          the earth moves solemnly, under the strict awareness of the watchful crowd, and it breaths yellow marigolds in hopes of being surrounded by a tree of hope. in it, on it, everywhere around it; lack of appropriate loneliness. sheer visibility of the city lights, blindness to the one from the heavens above the sky.
          
          what an agony, what a pain. jewellery like ice slitting the throat. flowers boiled in acid. the world a place of slaughter. 
          
          life is one, but lives within it many. if we choose to go beyond the doomed number, we exhaust to dust. ankles tied with ropes of responsibilities and hands with households. where rivalry thrives, it is a place of legends. the kind which carries sins and buries the oppressed. 
          
          however what of those who defy the rules? of those who, regardless of the consequences, accept war? 
          they become the kissable sea, the immortal air, the glorious sky and the soft universe.
          
          be the sun, the stars and the sky all together. if they admire you from afar, it is because they each see themselves in you.
           #adropofhumanity 
          

a small token of kindness (8th October 2021) 
          
          perhaps it is not entirely insensible to believe that the sun has not only poetically but in the literal sense tasted a universe of existences; a conundrum of souls wrapped around it in sequences. it lives in thousands colours, in a lamp of calloused hands, in early shades of fresh flowers and roaring of summer tides.
          
          fresh earth has been stamped with prints of stained feet; those of agonized shadows and sinful priests. these have not collapsed, neither did they rot. they deprive the depths of the sand of its calm. they never pass, they never cease. they change from a mass to another, from a place to the other, like time in a clock that ticks. 
          
          it is unbelievable to say but everything is based upon vigilance. the earth with its trees. the sky with its balance. the sun with its warmth. the moon with its darkness. death with its unanimousity. and life with its universe. where there is a sense of extraordinary power, there is caution. 
          
          human form is such that all that life cannot stitch up in it, death will. the ache of mundanity is such that there is the occurrence of gradual assimilation into nihility; like the air from the creak of a windowpane that melts into the air confined to itself in a room. like the aroma of a warm cup of cardamom tea that infuses with the damp September nights from the mystical fields. 
          
          but before death shall arrive, will nothing heal and will nothing stop to bleed? your heart continues to let its blood infuse the body with life. therefore, if you must bleed after all, perhaps do so in a manner that heals as it kills. 
          
          blood symbolises power, growth and achievement. whether agreed upon or not, death fears it. death despises it. 
          
          beginning of life is dark and so is its end. and in between, survival is possible only if you bleed, collect the blood, burn it and leave iridescent prints behind. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (7th October 2021) 
          
          the sun is a relative of the old- which associated with the scarves of the dried flowers of the gone days. it has lived through jolts of dreams and eyes that held terror of desperation. the lives that lived only upon the preface of the rays, making a temporary home out of fire. 
          
          and what can be said about the moon except that seldom has it lightened its own path. it has and continues to work for the waves; the blades of which are as sharp as the flamingo's stare. it appears, it flourishes but feels foolish and stupid. it is never there by free will and is pitied upon by the sun's flames. decades upon decades of sacrifice for nothing but a few moments of pleasant lingering.
          
          the sun and the ocean are beautiful standstills; like time that has tasted oaks and horns and like seasons of dare coarsing through sorrows. they hold much; they bury misty breaths and golden glares, and they cherish the crippled yellow leaves like revenge. 
          
          but one must accept that beauty is heavy; a burden like the crisp October that balances between summer and winter. and one must stand still, hold onto elements of protection, the scabbed bits of dressed wounds. 
          
          everything beautiful is terrifying. perfection is wild; the ocean a spectacular depiction. all that which has been cursed by the needle of beauty, has used the thread of terror. perfection dies, what remains are the details. the scabs, the scars, the fine lines of torture evident upon the palette.
          
          perhaps the sun is feared for the very reason. for the love it serves and the fire that it can kill with its venom. 
          
          how else can beauty be perceived? it is common to both life and death and apparent alike in a human's blood and sweat. 
           #adropofhumanity 
          

a small token of kindness (5th October 2021)
          
          the sun is seldom in solitary; basked in August's sweetbread and held by cunning sweetbriars. it is masked in a sheath of desire and a shell of terror. if not for the sky that holds onto it with clenched teeth, there should have occurred by now a calamity. it is in a range of shores; within the depths of our souls, like the soil we have left to the earth's core. 
          
          there is then the moon, dripping its elegance like lavender's sweet rule, in a barrelled room. and in its cold which spreads an essence of the warmth, the minds in us lose their integrity and disorient into the blue sea. there is much to highlight, but the waves slip past your strings and carry forward your flesh; tearing it into gracious gold. 
          
          during sleep and a dream, if you wander, there is death awaiting you at every corner. the song ends, and the music continues; the bittersweet memoir of the miseries of the dead and the breathing. the mello, messy nectar of the heart in which blood finds its drowning spot. 
          
          life is nothing more than a place of error, in a place of danger. death is merely a place of caution, where the cowards rest. if the leaves brush against your soles, and lay upon your path, there is wind in your direction and there is winter in hope. 
          
          in life we sow and in death we reap; remember. do not flinch, do not fling into the ocean's open invitation to the afterlife. death surrounds you, wave upon wave, and like the shells embedded in the sand, you must stay firm and protect yourself. 
          
          we preserve flowers in death, within words and pages of history. why not a heart, within life, in between things that are alive? 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (4th October 2021)
          
          there are moments when the sun appears closer to our fingertips than our hearts; dancing on the edge like a silver speck of innocence. it is similar to the essence of November's fate; rich in anticipation. 
          
          and then the oceans gaze upon the clothes that time has adorned, to fit within a shape and a capsule of eclipse. it remains intact with its gaze, yet never once being able to interact with the emotions that are displayed. one needs must no particular symmetry to fit in; it is disaster and disorder that creates history. 
          
          it is quite so a mystery still how the elements of earth find no reason to discuss the obscure bits of reality; they live and they live on, there is nothing beyond and nothing before. however one cannot help wander into the spaces where the elements coexist, wishing to die into a million fragments and scan and learn. to bloom like a lotus, in a pool of mud. 
          
          they say, it is tragic, to love. or to allow love to push you down the hill; it is fatal. but does not every human emotion push you to the worst; to the core, to the cliff? ignore them, push and defend, tear them apart; but understand that no matter what, you shall keep feeling them, the emotions that live in your blood. 
          
          please do not fear though. what is love, except a language we follow because it makes our hearts blossom? 
          
          if you love, you are powerful. you become the sky, the clouds and the rainbows and nobody owns you. you become the Kingdom, you become the ruler. a lover can never be defeated for the amount of universe it wounds within itself, while a hater dies and dies until death too slips away. 
          
          love is real, but like the sun and the stars, it is dead. and nothing dead can hurt. love, therefore, is incapable of causing pain. it merely sits upon your heart. it is by virtue of your actions that it gets access to your wound. 
          
          lend love a corner. it is only an abandoned sin, a forgotten sun, in search of a sky. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (3rd October 2021) 
          
          at times, the sun appears cuffed to the sky, as though a sin. albeit he is fulfilling his role, one cannot help but be channeled through the emotion that perhaps it is forced after all; by virtue of the role it had been bathed in. it remains paralysed, within itself, cornered by the overwhelming hunger of the rich sky to feed on its soul. 
          
          and the moon, when it glimmers constantly, defying the rules of time, how many atoms of integrity does it lose? in the balcony we think and see it reclines, but how many an hour can one sit, sipping on tea and watching the world of abyss? 
          
          if the kites were never to fall back to your hands, and the daffodils were to be away from the tips of your heart, and the dusty gate would be garnered with strings of chaotic clouds, and if different sunsets did not circle around your hair, playing with the strands like the rays of falling stars; then what form of alive do you call it? 
          
          the sky, therefore, allows the celestial beings their right to exist and mourn. somewhere away from eyes, somewhere beyond the horizon, of which place no one is aware. they dangle upon a swing like the feathers of a wing that soar and water the plants in the clouds' lines. 
          
          if these large objects take their desired rests, why should you not? let go of responsibilities, leave them to the winds. carry your heart silently in your arms, allow it a breath. it has swam many an ocean, let it drown now for a bit.
           #adropofhumanity