My kind of sadness-

My kind of sadness-

image

There’s a sadness,
      Which begins-
           In the quiet of dark;

There’s a sadness,
      Which peaks when-
            there’s noise abound;

There’s a sadness,
       From which sleep-
             Is a sought for solace;

There’s a sadness,
       Which grips me
              -wide awake.

Then there’s the sadness,
        From which my –
                 poetry originates.

It’s that sadness,
        I cling to-
               During life’s turbulences.

When I viewed my “serched terms” recently, I discovered that someone searched for “sadness”. So, here goes.

the above image is courtesy of Me2go.tumblr

Advertisements
Flash Fiction: Survived

Flash Fiction: Survived

image

Sleep was supposed to be an escape for the soul, but not for Anita. Not after March 25th, the night she found herself victim to an eccentric looking man with green eyes who although immune to emotions, was a master of facade; a man who’d cut short the lives of seven innocent girls before her… She should have been number eight.

Anita had tried everything, therapy, meditation, you name it but still, each time she shut her eyes, the memories come gushing in blurry flashbacks with only one clear cut frame amidst the chaos- A red chandelier. Shutting her eyes, took her back to that moment, when she’d stare at the chandelier, the only thing with color in her hunter’s den, trying to gate the pain and fear off.

But she’d survived then and would survive facing him in court the next day, with or without sleep on her side. She was ready.


Word count: 160. The above story is in response to a Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge hosted by priceless Joy. Thank you @TJ Paris for this week’s picture. 

Writer’s Quote: Matthew G. Gubler

Writer’s Quote: Matthew G. Gubler

image

Meet Mathew Gray Gubler. Some of you may know him as the genius FBI agent on Criminal Minds, Dr Spencer Reed. He is also involved in another aspect of creative arts other than acting/directing – Painting, to be more precise.

As the popular saying goes, “you may be the ripest peach in the garden, yet there’ll be someone who hates peaches”. In life, criticism is bound to follow. We can sit all day doing nothing and still be criticized for doing just that. Chasing our dreams is only going to increase the force of criticism. Certain things can’t be escaped, but our perspective of them goes a long way in how we deal with them- criticism is one of such things. If we could employ the advice of Matthew Gray Gubler, and just for a moment, envision criticism to be the beautiful creation he described it to be, it might be a whole lot easier to deal with.

Taking criticism by the hand and viewing it through rose colored glasses is not an easy task. But then again, it’s also not impossible. Bad days happen; negative comments have the tendency to strike just the right nerve; it hurts when hard work is viewed as everything less. We can’t control people’s words towards us but we can control to some extent, our reaction to them.
Next time we are hit with the close fisted criticism, lets try to imagine the words of our criticizers (as hard as it is), as nothing more than incentives towards a colorful masterpiece. And if that doesn’t work out, I say, sleep on it. Yup, some days, all the wisdom of inspirational words can only do so much without that much needed sleep, if we are being realistic. Sleep, and hopefully, the new day would bring a brighter perspective.

This post is in response to Writer’s Quote Wednesday hosted by Silver Threading.

Short story: 2 am Conversations

Short story: 2 am Conversations

image

“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