You Will Be Alright

She peacefully laid in her bed, dreaming of black roses and unsharpened thorns, with windows shut and curtains drawn neatly with a little flower pot beside the border of the curtain. No light could enter the room unless someone bothered to change the cold setting of it.
The door knocked once, she didn't wake up. It knocked twice, this time sharp, nothing happened. 

*knock* *knock* *knock*, large thumps this time and she woke up dazzled as if a child was asked to step out of the idiot box and enter into his books.
She stepped out of the bed, letting her soft feet touch the cold floor. Dragging herself till the lock, she murmured "it must be him. I will dance with him. I love him". 

She opened the door, sceptical about the person standing behind the door. And the moment the door laid open she ran towards her husband,"daddy! daddy! oh, you are here. I was dreaming about you", she lied. 

The man, drained and despondent cupped her face in his palms, expecting her to recognise him.

"So, my lovely lady was sleeping. Did you sleep well? Any trouble?" he enquired, expecting not another verbal blow from her side.
"Yes, yes! I slept well, Love. Oops, daddy!" she mumbled, correcting herself.  

The man closed the door behind him, picking up the glass of water from the corner table and a medicine box. "Eat them, honey, you will be alright" he muttered confused and clueless.
"I ate them. They were sweet, They tasted like a dark chocolate" she responded, justifying herself, making no sense. 

"Okay!" he continued "then get back into the bed and sleep. Buzz the bell if in demand of anything, goodnight."

Checking the state of the room, he went near the curtain wanting to check that the plant wasn't dry. And there it was daubed on the thin wall lining, the medicine. 

"Jack," she said.
He turned around excitingly as she recognised him, "uh! what?" he reflected back.
"Nothing daddy! I was asking Jack to sleep" she replied and closed her eyes, behind the door.

A Book: His or Hers?

And years later, he sat on the floor surfing the bed drawer. He opened it and sat, surfing it, fiddling with the things that came across his hands until a book given by her caught his eyes. It was "The Essential Rumi"; he recalled how she was so consistent on making him read the poetry written by Rumi. He opened it, the book still smelled of her, the cologne that she sprinkled herself with. It was as if someone had sprayed the cologne minutes back all over the book. He opened it, feeling the pages she must have turned in anticipation of finishing the book so that she can make him read that. He thought about how she would have underlined the lines with the highlighter that now were under his sight.
He smiled. He missed her. He really did. He felt the pages that she once held. Touching the stains of oil that she must have left while eating and reading at the same time.

He was filled with brisk sentiments, being all nostalgic about the times she compelled him to read the book she always wanted to preserve and at the end he kept it with him in a hope of reading it one day, preserving it for her. He thought that had he read the book, they would have had something to talk about in the next meeting, but since he never took that initiative, the book and those imaginary conversations laid shut then and there. He felt the loss of not being with her anymore but only one memory that he had, the book.

Sanctum of a Reader

She was tender but aloof enough from the harsh realities of the world. In a corner of the room, near the window with the sun shining brightly outside it, she sat, calm and composed. The strings of silence vibrating in her soul. With her eyes fixed in her novel which was held in her sleek hands, it became difficult for anybody to spot her. She was neither a nerd nor a bookworm, but a voracious reader trying to gulp all the wisdom, those pages had to offer. She wanted to hide herself, in those books and its pages, trying to relate herself with the story that the author got to narrate.

The mild look in her eyes and the curve of her lips could make anybody guess the nature of the book she was reading; it was as if she reflected the emotions that the writer had penned down, sometimes even letting her tears roll through her soft cheeks. But there was a constant struggle that she had; the fear of ending a book before having another one to read. So, like people ask their friends and family to be there with them always, holding them tight, she piled books by her side near the square lamp with orange light and a jug of water. Those piled up books gave her sense of relaxation, making her feel happy every time she glared at them, knowing that after finishing the book in her hands, she would pick another one. Withdrawn from the world, it was her life and living it that way was her choice. She knew, she was not going to change and nobody can barter with her love for those pale pages, paperbacks and hardcovers. This was the life of a reader and she didn't want anybody to deny her the right of reading

A Room for Improvement

Out of all the things I learned in my school and college life, the main thing that I learned was to relax. It was not to worry about what people think of you; Who wants to be judged and interpreted? Nobody!
But we can still be the writer of ignorance and slacken ourselves. There is always a room for improvement. Imperfection is perfect, everybody feeds on it.
Don't shy away from asking what your mistake is, it will improve you.
People will babble about you for a while, and they all are going to forget you after that 'while'.
Why be a puppet in the hands of people's opinion? When you can be the dancer of your will's eyes?
Walk with head high on the nails of criticism, they will bleed you but also, it will grow the new skin of improvement. Be happy when you fail, you will know what you need to do in the next try.
Trials are the part of life; a lady after her miscarriage takes another chance.
Take that chance, be hopeful and remember, there is always a room for improvement.
Shed away the dried leaves of 'I know it all' and let the bud of 'I know nothing at all' grow.

Kenneth ©

It Is You Who Matters

Again, she sat in the same wooden chair resting her right arm near the laptop's num pad while her left elbow resting faintly on the glass top table, with her wrist, tilted in a way where she can cup her face with her fingers.
She was back, this time with a little pain, a little gain, and a little buoyancy.
Life sometimes kicks you in a way, where you don't move ahead, rather you fall. And that fall is powerful enough to bruise your knees and your ego, for you fell.
She fell, too hard, hard enough to bruise her whole soul because sometimes there are "problems with no name" and you yearn for the solutions but you get entangled in its wittily woven cobweb.
There are times when you need someone to whom you can talk about your messed up life, someone who won't let you fall and will become your exuberant wall.
Her blemished ego didn't approve of people, it was the time when even the idea of talking and fighting with people nauseated her. And the best part of these worst times were nobody came up. People called her, sang the melodious songs of their own troubles and hung up without even asking about her. People text-ed her, told her that they want a pizza and disappeared.
Occasionally, messages like "how are you" sent to a person with whom you talk on the daily basis can do wonder, give it a try.
But nobody did that.
Too much sadness? eh?

Don't worry my friend, she ain't weak. She learned to live with these words.
After seeing her at the distance of few centimeters, all I can say is: "now I understand why parents teach language and not signs to a child of merely 2 years, because they know that those words will befriend the lost psyche of their child".
She now came on the verge of boycotting people, serve those who serve you. Don't believe in I love yous, don't believe in I will be there for you because these are the sweetest lies. Rather believe in someone who makes you feel that. Isn't this life all about emotions and feelings? No. It isn't. It is all about the blend of everything grated with words, letters, sweet messages, and of course! cupcakes.
Let the world blabber about their own adversities, take a break my friend and think about yourself. You are the one who matters, your life is about you, it is your story rest everything is a sub-plot, and hello, I love you. :)
Ok? Bye.

Concealed Ardours

Winters are gone and the summer sun melts my freezed brain, giving way to all the thoughts that I locked before the winter started. All of them are wrestling amongst each other making their way out through my caged brain. I am feeling too much. I am percieving things and more than that, I am thinking too much. This whole process aches my mind but I am helpless and restless trying to keep myself at ease. 

Winters are gone, and now nothing is concealed. The sun shines bright making things visible. I can no more hide myself in blankets and jackets, concealing myself. Summer is here and everything is extremely hot and exposed.

Oh shit! A thought tickled my brain. A thought of burning everything I cannot conceal. Burning! Everything I CANNOT CONCEAL. 

Kenneth ©

Missing Piece and Love- A Misfit

After scrolling down through her timeline, her friend's timeline and her ex boyfriends' timeline she sighed and figured out that all through her life she has never loved anybody. She doesn't know what exactly love is! Is it the "I love you-s" that is love, or holding hands and walking together or is it the late night long chats? 

She don't know what is it, because till now she was in her little cubicle of thought processes, memories and celebrated ideas. 

Disappointed from herself but happy that she didn't fall for anybody, since now she will know what her heart wants. 

She now sits and think about how it would be to be with someone. Sitting on an empty bench and staring at the couple talking slowly and laughing, she wonders about the topic on which she would talk with her guy. Slamming the idea of being in love because it can never serve her, she smirks. She knows that. A person not to be loved. She knows that she is not attractive. She is aware of the fact of her being weird. She comprehends the idea of being occupied with only dullness in her air. 

She whispered "Love is for beautiful people. You know, Beautiful people? Do you know who are they? They are the ones who look all pretty. They are the ones who are well-dressed. They don't look like a drug addict like you." She laughed at herself. "Love is directly proportional to appearance and indirectly proportional to how you feel about someone." 

Slamming her ideas and shutting down her brain she peeped out of the window and went again, disappearing...