He was drowning,
And she noticed,
Little scars across his wrist;
And she pulled him,
One more day, to hope to live;
He was drowning,
And she saved him,
Or at least she thought she did;
But with each pull,
He sunk deeper,
like a heavy load on sea.
He was drowning,
And she watched,
His light dim before her eyes.
And she realized,
Her will alone wouldn’t suffice.
Save a person,
Determined his world was doomed.
She couldn’t rescue,
A drowning soul,
Till he lifts his body too.
He was drowning,
And instead she,
Held his hand amidst the waves;
He was drowning,
And she didn’t urge
Him, to kick against the waves.
He was drowning ,
And all she said-
It is going to be okay.
He was drowning,
And she held his hand,
Amidst the rising waves;
It is still okay.
A while ago, I wa nominated by Prakash Hegade and Nimmi to do a challenge. The task is to write a
Paragraph/phrase/one-liner/poem/story/haiku/photograph/anything-else which ends with the #ItsStillOkay and marks a perfect.
image courtesy: Incaseimgone.com
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 17,000 times in 2015. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 6 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.
Click here to see the complete report.
To everyone who’s read, liked and commented on Randoms by a Random, I just want to say. Thank you very much. Not trying to sound cheesy here (okay, maybe a little bit), but I couldn’t have done it without you guys. And wordpress suggested I send a Thank you note to my top commenters: Priceless Joy, Prakash Hegade, JoyRoses, Noirfifre and Nimmi. Thank you.
Behind every successful blog are amazing readers… ❤
Whenever I post a Maya Angelou quote, I don’t like writing much under it because her words are sufficient and have such profound wisdom in them, I feel anything I write would be subliminal. It’s been over a year since Dr. Maya passed away but her words live on as a source of inspiration and that’s the strength of writing. Her poems are a testament of a woman who went through fierce storms but didn’t let them cloud the shine in her rainbow. You read her works like, phenomenal woman and Still I rise and you can almost hear the sass in her voice as you sift through the words, savoring every sentence, every line, every verse.
I chose the above quote because it’s a reminder of something we are in desperate need of, all across the globe. We are in dire need of peace, but in order to attain it, we have to be unified; we have to be color blind; we have to realize we are more alike than we are unalike.
We’ve all got our struggles and just because they are different doesn’t make them any less of a torment than any other persons. I read recently about the importance of writers support groups. There are days as writers where we’ll feel like “we just can’t do it anymore”. You know who’s going to be there in our corners, pushing us on, those writers who have once sailed across the turbulence. They’ve been there and crossed it, it wasn’t easy but they did it. They are the ones who’d help paddle our boats across the storms, being our support systems when our creative juices clog.
A big thank you to everyone who has participated in writer’s Quote this year and has been a source of inspiration to me and also to Colleen from SilverThreading, for hosting this event In the first place. That’s it, and see you in 2016, God willing.
The words he said left an echo which has only now, begun to fade.
“I didn’t break you, you were already broken”. It felt like a hundred pins were stuck into me all at once, with my body’s gating mechanism shut down so that I could feel the pain in every cell of every part of my body. He broke my heart, but it was my whole body which fell apart.
“Broken”- he called me. I was damaged, damaged goods with no value. I spent a long time trying to make sense of that word. A little longer, I spent on anyone who could fix- broken. God, I hated that word.
I wish I could say- that I realized the words he spoke that night were false, lies and nothing more but I can’t. I’m only just now learning, maybe he was right; maybe I am broken; but I am so done waiting around for him to come and fix me.
The image above is courtesy of Lost Treasures found.com
“I felt as though I were standing in a box and the box kept getting smaller. Every time I felt ok, something happened that would knock me around again.”
The above is an excerpt from my last post. During this time, my emotional reaction was intense. The people in my life that I had always been there for, left me feeling completely worthless to everyone. Being badgered about my medications made me feel as though it didn’t matter what I did or said, and it didn’t. I was intensely hurt, and intensely angry. I can’t say how horrible those couple of years were, but I can say it was never as bad as being with my ex-husband.
When I first left, my physical state was one where I could not safely walk an eighth of a mile by myself for worry that my legs would give out on me. I had trouble with depth perception, balance and coordination. From the start, every time I was with John and I was in pain, he would ask me to go for a walk. I found that walking made the pain better and I began to walk everyday. At this point I was medication free.
That winter, I went back to my doctor once my insurance was all set and I got back on the medication. This only lasted a couple of days before I was unable to stand up. I was extremely dehydrated and my body was not breaking down the medications. I knew it was my liver. I went to the doctor’s three times over the next year and every time I was seen by a nurse. It took until July of 2015 to get an appointment with my doctor. Then they cancelled the appointment because the doctor had to take a month off. At that point, I made the decision to find a new doctor. Over the past few months, there have been a lot of doctor’s appointments and I have been in treatment for Hepatitis C for four weeks now.
In the spring of 2014, less than a year after I left my ex-husband, I got a phone call from a friend. I had known this woman for 18 years, although I had not seen her or talked to her since before the previous Christmas. When I answered the phone she asked me why I didn’t have a truck yet and I said I didn’t have the money. She said I should have had a job by then, that it had been over a year, (it hadn’t) I told her I was disabled and she told me that she sees people in wheel chairs bagging groceries. She said I was looking to blame someone for my life and when I asked why she was saying these things to me, she said because of the conversations she had had with me over the winter. I replied to that saying, “But I did not have a phone over the winter.” She insisted I talked to her on John’s phone, but that was never true. She had obviously spoken to someone else and was yelling at me for it. I tried to talk to her about this later on three different occasions, only to be told that she didn’t have time for it. I could not continue a friendship with this woman and it broke my heart. I did not, nor do I understand why she called me to say those things. Sometimes it is the not knowing that makes it the worst. Read more
Here we go again;
With the notebook;
With his hopes up,
Today will be the day,
I can see the eagerness-
In the way,
He twitches his left foot,
Sifts his fingers
Through raven hair;
How doesn’t she notice.
I pass his coffee- the usual
The girl has arrived,
Note in hand, gaze down
I notice, I just notice
The flushed cheeks
She was into him, too;
I sigh again
At the hopelessness of lovers.
Do I bring these two
Tell him to tell her;
I’m only a waiter
I move on to the next order
Leaving the lovers-
To another day of
I wish I’d said something…
So, I came across this awesome poem by Rupali, “The girl in the bookstore” which inspired me to write this poem. But that’s not all, Rupali’s poem was actually inspired by one written by are Rehman Jafar “The coffee shop“. Thank you guys for inspiring me.
The above image is courtesy of The bw photo
I started with poetry,
And ended with prose;
Started with you-
I started with a diary,
And ended with words-
Filling up pages,
Of fiction genre.
I started with bullet holes,
Now ending with cracks;
Mended by friends,
I didn’t think I’d have.
I started from somewhere,
And ending elsewhere;
What went on in between –
Is another story to tell.
But I started, I started,
Trudged through life’s mud;
Cause endings are much better,
Than where the story begins.
the above is courtesy of Marc and Angel
I was talking to an old friend today and explained how I wanted a two weeks break from school and stress without having to make any plans or be compelled to visit anyone. Just me, with my girls and our books and cups of tea, chilling, relaxing and watching episodes of criminal minds. He didn’t get it.
There is a certain contentment, an aura of calmness, when you’re with the ones you love and doing what you love to do- reading and writing; many people I have come across don’t understand it, but the truth is, it is NOT for them to understand. We’re happy, relaxed and for a few days, enjoying the silence, isn’t that all that matters. They assume it is a boring life, but actually, there is nothing more interesting than being with like minded people, surrounded by books and stories with amazing characters or challenging one’s self creatively.
Happiness isn’t defined by luxury, it is a state of mind- whether in a glass house or in wooden one. I once read, a few years back that Poets are sad people. For a while I believed it; but now I’ve come to realize just because some write-ups are fueled by sad emotions doesn’t mean ‘current sadness”. Writing it out is just like crying, letting the negativity out in order to create space for the happiness yet to come, and to me that’s not being sad; that’s dealing with life.
Cheers to everyone who enjoys reading and writing either in luxury or simplicity. This world is big enough for both categories.
This post is in response to Writer’s Quote Wednesday hosted by a Silver Threading.
I’m done. How many times I’ve said that word and betrayed the very essence of it. But there’s only so long I can hold on to our broken pieces before the shards imprint a permanent infirmity. No, I am not done. I will be, but i’m not. I’m just getting started. I might leave for a day and slip back for an hour; leave for two days and slip for some minutes; leave for a week and slip back for a few seconds. I’d keep leaving and slipping untill there is nothing left to slip back to- I have arrived at my destination and I am done, done with you.
But until then, I am just getting started…
image credit: waterdropsonmywindow.wordpress
It’s the same everyday. Uncle Jim would walk out the door with his 1960’s suitcase and old man cap. Lock the door and turn the knob twice, look around to make sure the road is clear, then turn the knob a third time. I always wondered why he did that, grandma says, “that’s just his way of doing things”.
He’d walk across the street, say hello to grandma, hand me a sweet and ruffle my hair with the biggest smile on his face while I pretend to drown myself In a book. He’d return to his side of the street, wipe the bicycle seat three times, seat on it and head to wherever he goes off to every morning.
Uncle Jim was a man of repetition and that baffled me. He’d always do the same things a specific number of times and I asked Grandma why, as usual, she said “that’s just his way of doing things”. I’ve resolved to accept Grandma’s answer until I can come up with a better one myself through mere observation.
Word count: 175. This story is in response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge. Each week, we are given a photo prompt and we’re to write a 150 (+/- 25) word story surrounding the picture. This week’s image is courtesy of Pixabay.