Many eyes are watching
But can’t feel,
And still, more ears are spying
But your whispers can’t hear;
That’s when silence becomes
Better than talking to whom
Never understands your glistening tear.
Despair is like glowing fire;
Never gets satisfied with burning more and more,
Always ravenous to swallow and sap
Every feature of life
And grip pitilessly to control,
Even your cracked heart
And starving soul,
That might burn your memories
Till the cradle,
And then make you live homeless;
With neither a memory of yesterday
Or faint hope for better tomorrow.
*Write 50 words. That’s a paragraph.
*Write 400 words. That’s a page.
*Write 300 pages. That’s a manuscript.
*Write every day. That’s a habit.
*Edit and rewrite. That’s how you get better.
*Spread your writing for people to comment. That’s called feedback.
*Don’t worry about rejection or publication. That’s a writer.
*When not writing, read. Read from writers better than you. Read and perceive.
As the sun quivers its first ray, the smell of morning coffee fills the apartment. All waits in silence on my desk; a pen, pile of papers and the cup of coffee. My mind starts to fling away the blanket of sweet dreams and put on spectacles of the narrator, till the ideas fit in their places into my mind. And then, I pour out my feelings on the blank sheet with no more over thinking.
Yesterday, I picked up a book from my crowded shelf. It looked odd among the others. Dust had covered almost all its features, even its title and author’s name. I kept wondering if I was the person who brought it or it belonged to another. But once I opened it, I remembered to whom this handwriting belongs. Actually, it was my book of dreams.
When golden rays of the sun announce beginning of the day, my heart sinks to deep depths and put on its mourning gowns; for light always shatters the truth everywhere and make it naked. In such moments taking a refuge in nowhere and feeling lost is better than standing still before the dreary truth.