Remember when

I told him I have done a terrible thing.

He said,
no.

You've done many terrible things. 

"Spirit lead me

where my trust is without borders,
 let me walk upon the waters wherever you would call me
take me deeper than my feet could ever wander,
 and my faith would made stronger in the presence of my Saviour.

And I will call upon your name keep my eyes above the waves
when oceans rise,
My soul will rest in Your embrace. 

When feet may fail and fear surrounds me, 
You never fail and You won't start now."

Hey nonny nonny

The pen just hovered over the thin lines, waiting for a signal. But none came. 

Perhaps, 6 more times and it will dance flawlessly again. And then I'll laugh and write "Here it goes: parting is such sweet sorrow.". 

Then sigh not so, but let them go and be you blithe and bonny, converting all your sounds of woe into Hey Nonny-nonny! - Much ado about nothing, Shakespeare 

undo this

For a start, they were simple things. Like the setting of the Sun at the end of the day, and rain in the middle of the night. Finishing a book never felt better, starting one is almost bliss. A couple or so would be most bewitching. And then gatherings were most exciting. For an end, monotony has overtaken. excitement has dissipated. The Sun and its conflicting partner does not matter. Neither the paperback of wooden brown. It is almost a chore to hold a pen and make legible markings over the pages. All that is left is to withdraw, if that has not already been done.

And for an end, it is pathetically miserable, or so I would have thought just a year ago.

Funny that, I no longer mind it. I wish I do.

To be still excited about things that you love, it must feel marvellous.

As it is

It is the time of the year again. It is an entirely different setting and feeling, from what it had been like for the past 2 years. But it would be rather unjust to pick out this occasion and complain so. After all, what have remained the same?

Well, pardon the digression. It is that time of the year again, where you are reminded of the year's end, yet it wasn't really anything much. After the party, it will be back to the same old routine of monotony of existence, until that time of the year again. Vicious cycle, but isn't life based on it?

Still, one must be thankful for the graces and blessings in life that have been graciously showered upon the undeserving blade of grass, that is of no significance in the past, no value in the present, and no certainty of the future, as one is.

And thankful, one is, anticipating the uncertainty ahead to be filled with more blessings, even those in disguise. The Sun is not unjust nor the rain partial; it will shine, as it has been directed and pour, as it has been ordered. Rays of sunshine has graced one's threshold, accompanied by their contradictory, but inseparable twin. One must welcome it, one must welcome moderation and balance.

Change will be a permanent resident and feelings a fleeting hinge that bridges experience and imagination, rusting with age. Think about the heart. The Heart invites infrequent visitors which diffidence and cowardice beckons away, placing the blame on Rationale, which Prudence encourages in assent. Inconstancy is the theme in the masquerade of life; indifference- the mask through which civilities are exchanged.  Beneath the visor, who knows?

Ironic, isn't it, that one must expect changes that induce the same repetitive notions in one's mind? However, though not always comprehensible, God is merciful.

Failure

How does one gain ability to face an oncoming storm with a calmness of heart? Or must one work for it? How does one tell oneself that it is a passing phase, and that the only constant is change? What must one do it convince one's mind that failure is like friction, and to be able to propel forward, friction is essential? Like everyone else, one will fail and one must fail, but the fact is overbearing, and gives no clue on how to face it should it happen to grace one's life. 

One tries not to fail, one tried not to fail. However, such an attempt proved inadequate as exemplified by last Friday's demise of one's hopes. It was not to do better; it was only to maintain- yet it remains the most improbable fact, and what can one do, but wallow in self pity because even though crying over spilled milk is what one would call it, can one help but berate oneself over such carelessness and inadequacy? Can one help the feeling of worthlessness? What does it matter what anyone says, that "it is not the end of the world"? Fairly said, but how can such facts offer comfort when it might as well be the end of one's world- as though being awoken from one's own fictitious realm of dreams and hopeful illusions into a ghastly nightmare of reality? 

Alas, the remainder of hopes no longer depends upon facts and actuality. Ironically, the faculty of imagination provides solace and consoles the afflicted, giving a hint of artificial life to fragments of perished hopes, in which way the persona benefits. Actual life is tumultuous but in even in imagination, there is something immensely rational. Excess of anguish would render one's nature revolting to others. No matter how prodigious the consequences of weakness is to one, it is of no consequence to others. "Success (is) given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak." And fiction is built upon fact. 

And the writer must write the episode of what one cannot realise. 

BP

His fingers manoeuvre gingerly over each black and white key, producing reverberations of manipulative charm. 

She dances along to every tune and twirls with every melody, like an artist bewitched by beauty, never to be reminded of its end. 

A hurricane of emotions accompanies her movements: her mind, a labyrinth. Still she does not cease to dance, propelled by his words: Lass, think about the heart.