pondering

habits are just another form of addiction.
isn't it?

stupid love

of loving somebody to eternity and being misunderstood

can be one of the greatest regrets and a flawed aspect of human life

like a vicious cycle, like karmas

like echoes, like gravity

like a weather of feelings

it consumes our lives and yet it is only a little parenthesis in eternity

eternity is fictitious

just like everything else in it is.

that could be the only rationale

and an understanding

a visible cover for a defeated soul
perhaps a misunderstood one

miss wallflower

it's the loneliest feeling in the world- to find yourself standing up when everyone else is sitting down. To have everybody look at you and say "whats the matter with her?". I know what it feels like. Walking down an empty street,listening to the sound of your own footsteps. Shutters closed,blinds drawn,doors locked against you.And you aren't sure whether you're walking towards something,or if you are just walking away.

contemplation

she realises that she is so sensitive to her emotions that her sadness turns into happiness and happiness into sadness too quick,too many times.

and now there's nothing left.
no flesh on bones, no soul,
no mind, no love
and not even her own reflection.

Oh April !

'April is the cruelest month,
breeding lilacs out of the dead land,
mixing memory and desire,
stirring dull roots with spring rain'

Couldn't have agreed to more,
especially when reading these T.S. Eliot's words
itself is such a reminiscence.

may be

i love you little less now; kind of
atleast thats what i think
ironically it is impossibly to hate you
no matter what you are doing to me
but i will never forget you
not because of what you were to me
but for what i was to you.

like an immovable memory
a memorabilia of craziness
rusted with crazy emptiness

eclipsed

last night the moon was at it's fullest, and so was she
yesterday is just synonym to 'remains'
and what remains today are
mere shadows
the secretly hidden moon
behind the rainy clouds

the fallen glasses, ones raised high in toast,
the stubbed joints, the vanishing red bohemia,
sound of those bangles, the smudged kohl,
like the laughter smudged with sadness,
wherever it touched anything, it wept in silence
this unrequited wait
the untouched warmth
this shivering hope in cold autumns,
such an eclipse of love

as if the full moon itself is
nothing but a shadow
that walks with you while hiding behind your back
to eternity
every moment is an illusion
each reality unforgivable