Something scratching in the back,
Something got her laughing while sitting up straight on her bed,
May be a familiar story in the old book rack.
The blanket was lying as she left it in the morning,
Twirled like a mermaid taking rest over a rock,
Waiting for the next wave dining.
The spoon just fell over the cup,
Like a huge star, shooting in the infinities of the sky,
While ceramic did talk and made hupp.
She just leaned back on the backside of her bed,
And just like that she held the music in the room,
And she saw the lower corner of the curtain waving to her but she wondered if it was all in her head.
You have a story.
There are words, waiting to be written.
Everything begins small.
Your little first steps, to climb up to her.
Mother, from where all your stories begin.
You are trying to climb up to her.
With her open arms, she gently, smiles.
Doubtless, you rise up.
Remember, those were your first steps.
Now, you’re all old, and strong,
Yet, you fear to climb the stairs of life.
Why don’t you trust?
Life is a book.
Why don’t you travel?
Why are you struck at the first few pages?
Let the chaos within burst out.
Even if you can’t see it, the story is weaving.
Thread by thread, into the tapestry of life.
And if words fail, hope remains.
For years to come, hope whispers, it’ll be better.
Better, sweeter, happier. Any more?
You leap through the dark mountains,
Follow storms. Yet, reach up to the stars.
Your first steps again. Do they taste the same?
Soaked in memories, happiness hails.
While sorrows make a wiser tale.
Mistakes, faults — the chapters you accept,
And do not wish to visit again.
The story of the fool you were, the story of the fool you are.
Wrapped up in few words,
One Adventure, called life.
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Summer is here again. Summer, summer, summer! Who doesn’t love summers?
Summers have a logic of their own and they always brought something out in you. Summer was supposed to be about freedom, fun, adventure and leisure. What’s good about summer is it’s warmth , but one can never realize it without the cold of the winter. If we never had winters, summers would just be an illusion like the moon lady’s love. Or when you are too tired to carry on, summer’s sunshine bring life to earth. Sun is the best thing to happen to earth I must say.
All this time
The Sun never says to the Earth,
“You owe me.”
With a love like that,
It lights the whole sky.”
One always remembers one of those summers which, in a fortunate combination of delightful weather, delightful friends and delightful doing, come as near to perfection as anything can come in this world.
So summers is a book of hope. Each day we had more light to read by. Summers makes one want to believe. But hope is dangerous thing my friends, it can drive one crazy. But faith is sweet, as sweet as the first summer rain.
And so with the sunshine and the blue sky, and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, butterflies and chirping birdies, and the breeze, I believe life was beginning over and over again with the summer.
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And when the scribbles on the last pages of your book,
meant a lot more than your story.
And when it’s not about the ending — happy, or sad.
It’s about the story.
So set yourself on fire.
For one day, you will stumble upon someone,
who will ignite a spark within you that will never ever die.
And when such people happen, you’ll know they’re magic!
And when you’ll never have enough, you’ll ever have an illusion.
For whom you’ll never stop looking among st the crowd.
For they are the best chapters of your life.
(v.) to stir, to touch, to move to tears
And when deep inside they’d care the most,
They would pretend they don’t care.
And when you’ll come across the sad part of the story,
you will ever come to find–– that they are not always the ones
whom we spend our lives with.
It would be too late.
After all at the end, we all are just stories.
Each and every soul you meet has to play a part in the story.
While one may take a chapter, others a line or two.
The special ones occupy the exclamations, apostrophes,
in the happiest sentences of your life.
And then the fire they ignite, may not be the first or the last.
But the only one that lasts forever.
And the only one worth fighting for.
| So I wonder not how well it starts, but how bad it’s gonna end. |
That’s the BOOK OF YOUR LIFE.
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