Night is not just night-

Night is not just night-

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Night is not just night,
She says,
It’s the end of wear from
Another day,
Its the want of every tired limb,
To graze the bed
And be engulfed within,

Night is not just night,
she says,
It marks the start of day
for a few,

When the birds arrive,
And the sun depart-
To make a living,
They depart into night.

Night is not just night,
She says,
It’s the time when memories,
Sneak a peak-
Appearing as droplets down
Our cheeks,
With the knowledge, that darkness
Would shield their view.

Night is not just night,
She says,
It’s the time some pray,
The time some waste,
The time some rest,
Or the mind comes awake,
But night is not “just” Night.

Of her mind-

Of her mind-

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She had the most beautiful mind,
A galaxy of infinite stars
In the form of thoughts-
Swirling around,
In her brain’s sulci and gyri-
I wonder,
I just wonder
How one creation could hold
So much genuine-
Creativity
Passion
Intensity
With profound humility.

And she’d smile, bashful
Waving off compliment;
Lower her gaze hiding,
Those caramel eyes- behind
geeky glasses.
And I wish,
Oh I wish,
She could see the view
From where I stand.
She watches the universe
Admiring it’s beauty-
Fade to black
Grow into light
Day and night;
But she,
She holds the most beautiful
Universe-
In that mind of hers.

image credit: the HealthyPlace

When the world sleeps-

When the world sleeps-

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I sit alone,
While the rest of the world sleeps;
Blanketed,
by my thoughts and memories ;
Resurfacing,
With dusk and the star beams;
A turbulence,
In my world-I’m befriending;
At night,
The voices in my head speak.

I sit alone,
Envisioning galaxies;
Distracting-
My mind from its turbulence;
While the sight,
Of the starlight twinkling;
Gives me hope-
maybe someday I’ll be free;
And explode-
Like meteorites in galaxies
Giving birth-
To the planets, a new me;
Thus I think-
At night, when the world sleeps.

IMAGE CREDIT: Hii Felicia

Some Nights…

Some Nights…

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Some nights,
It all comes crashing;
The memories,
Like a wild fire,
Blowing on a cold windy night-
Sudden, lasting;
Moving in a storm like fashion-
Roaring, Unceasingly
And that,
Is the way it is-
Some nights.

And some nights-
The stars form gems in the sky,
And inside,
I swell;
A feeling-
Of Joy, words can’t describe
The effect, the memories-
Like a glowing candle
in a blackout-
Filling the crevices;
A gratitude, evolving
For the infinity
I got to know you;
And that,
Is the way it is without you-
Some nights.

And some nights,
Fire and rain collide;
Water glistening,
Under the dim light;
A fire, erupting-
On the inside,
The memories-
A battle,
Reminiscing the old times;
But the water,
Finds a way
Of dousing the flames;
In the end,
The storm’s gone-
Only calming memories,
Leading me on-
To a land of dreams.
And that-
Is really how it is,
Some nights.

Image Courtesy: PictureQuotes.com

She wrote, not cry-

She wrote, not cry-

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From words to phrases,
She tried her might;
To put those pure thoughts,
In lines and rhymes;
Alas, the ink well
Had dried that night;
The muse of poetry-
Departed her.

She sought refuge,
In the dark of night;
With the moon at bay,
And the stars not alight;
When the world consumed her,
She wrote not cry;
When the words ain’t coming,
She froze inside.

The moon didn’t shine that
Night when she sat;
And the sounds accompanying
Dusk didn’t arrive;
In the blanketed night,
Face thrust in hands,
For the first time in ages,
She didn’t write but cry.

She wrote how she felt,
But forgot how to feel;
In paragraphs and deadlines,
She ignored within;
The tears were a welcome,
Relief to her skin;
For in becoming in a writer,
She’d forgot her human being.

Short story: 2 am Conversations

Short story: 2 am Conversations

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“I don’t want that,” “I don’t want it,” she says again. The second time, it is only a whisper. “Don’t want what?” I ask, sitting up straight and looking towards her direction. But it’s too late, a gentle snore signals to me that sleep has overtaken her yet again. Her sleep talking is back though she doesn’t believe it.

I shake my head a bit and let a slight smile form on my face. For someone who speaks counted words during the day, she sure speaks a lot at night in her sleep. She wouldn’t believe me. “Don’t be silly” she’d say, “I do not talk in my sleep” and with that, she’d shrug her shoulders and storm off.

It’s funny, how different people can be at certain hours of the day. For some, who they are between 12-6 am and 6-12 pm can be as different as North and South poles. The other night, Carla awoke sobbing. The tears trickled down her face though she was still In her fetal sleeping position. She just- shivered and let the tears flow. It was all I could do to convince her everything was going to be okay. By morning, it never even happened; at least to Carla.

Speaking about that night’s event would be a mistake on my part- Carla would never believe it. She wasn’t one to cry, still isn’t. A gun would have to be placed on the temporal part of her skull for her to squeeze out a little tear. And even then, all that might be gotten from her would be a “you gotta be kidding me” smirk.

I’m starting to think this is more than a simple case of sleep talking. She’s like a bottle of coke, filled to the brim and just waiting to be opened at night In order for the gas to flow out. The things she’s told me; I mean, said In her sleep, somedays, I just want to cry with her as she shivers in fear and speaks with a hurtful tone. And yet, her eyes are still always closed.

One more night, that’s all I’m giving her. After which, willingly or unwillingly, I’m taking her to to see someone- running, walking or crawling. I don’t care if I have to drag her all the way there, but she needs to talk to someone. Enough of the 2 am conversations. Now I’m starting to think, maybe choosing psychology as a major wasn’t such a great idea. The sight of Carla alone is breaking me. Heaven help my soul.

IMAGE CREDIT