In His Lines

Traffic lights, much like the moments of delayed gratification in our lives, whisper stories of human patience and resilience. They stand as silent sentinels on our daily commutes, punctuating the rush of life with their colorful instructions. In the brief interludes between green and red, we find ourselves in a shared moment of anticipation, a collective breath held as we wait for the signal to change. These moments, often overlooked in their simplicity, carry a profound lesson in the art of waiting. They remind us of the quiet strength found in restraint, of the beauty in pausing to appreciate the world around us. Amidst the cacophony of honking horns and hurried footsteps, traffic lights become symbols of connection, uniting us in a shared experience of waiting and moving forward together. In their glow, we find a reflection of our own humanity, a reminder that amidst the chaos, there is always room for patience, understanding, and the simple joy of being present in the moment. Yet,...

 For a man who just spares cigar ashes for the wind to dance upon, drenching himself in an expensive flask of wine, the world becomes a stage where he is both the audience and the performer, enacting a tragic comedy of his own creation. With each sip, he savors the bitter sweetness of life, and with each puff the bitterness sinks through his lungs, relishing the fleeting moments of euphoria amidst the constant flux of existence. In the flicker of a cigar's ember, he finds solace, a fleeting glimpse of stability in a world of impermanence. And so, he dances on the precipice of madness, a solitary figure in a crowded room, his laughter a symphony of chaos, his presence a paradoxical blend of despair and exultation. Not worrying if the world splits in half of collapses in one single penny, the only things that matter to him are his mere habits. Swaying from one smoke to another while listening to a cracked 90s vinyl, he finds peace and the love given to him by his flask and none else....

In the midst of a gathering, amidst laughter and chatter, there's always that one figure who seems to defy the norms of conventional happiness. The deranged soul, with eyes dancing on the edge of sanity, appears to be the embodiment of bliss. Their laughter echoes with an eerie resonance, carrying the weight of a thousand sorrows masked by a facade of glee. It's as if they've made peace with the void within, finding solace in the freedom of having nothing left to lose. Their reckless abandon, devoid of fear or inhibition, draws others in like moths to a flame, mesmerized by the raw, unfiltered essence of existence that emanates from their being. Yet, beneath the facade lies a tumultuous sea of emotions, a tempest raging silently within, concealed behind a mask of joviality. In their madness, they've found a twisted form of liberation, embracing the chaos within and without, oblivious to the fragile threads that bind sanity to the brink of oblivion. 

In the quiet chambers of the soul, there resides a delicate vessel, the pot of tears, where every hurtful word, each scornful glance, and every whispered doubt is collected drop by silent drop. It is a vessel fashioned not of clay or metal, but of the raw essence of our emotions, a receptacle for the sorrows and slights we endure. With each passing insult, the pot fills, its weight growing with the burden of our unspoken pain. Yet, it is not until the pot is brimming, until the surface tension of our composure is stretched to its limit, that the smallest ripple can cause it to spill over. A setback, no matter how seemingly insignificant, becomes the final drop, sending cascades of tears streaming forth in a torrent of release. Others may mistake our tears for weakness, failing to grasp the silent strength it takes to bear such a heavy load. But in truth, the overflowing pot is not a sign of frailty, but of resilience pushed to its edge. It is the culmination of a silent struggle, a tes...

  Despite my initial aversion to writing and finding it rather dull, I have come to appreciate its undeniable benefits. At first glance, the act of putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard may seem tedious and unappealing. However, I've discovered that writing serves as a powerful tool for clearing my cluttered mind and providing a sense of closure. While the process itself may not always be enjoyable, the outcome is undeniably rewarding. Each time I engage in writing, whether it's jotting down my thoughts or crafting a structured piece, I experience a profound sense of accomplishment. The act of transforming chaotic thoughts into coherent sentences brings a semblance of order to my inner world. Despite my initial reluctance, I've found solace in the act of writing, recognizing its ability to grant me clarity and a much-needed sense of completion.

It's fascinating how poets and literature critics think. The way they relate certain things. The way they depict certain situations in abstract ways. Their pure literature, multilingualism and humbleness is off the roofs. Their feet indeed touch the grounds but their eyes reach the sky. The perspective that they bring to the discussion offers valuable insights into the culture of poetry. They possess a unique lens through which they perceive the world, one that transcends the ordinary and delves into the depths of emotion and imagination. Their mind does not seem to have the fence that many common people have, which helps them to think vastly and uniquely. For poets, words are not merely tools of communication but vessels of profound expression, capable of capturing the essence of existence in all its complexity.

     When you hear a slight rattling outside the door you let out a cry, "who's there?" when there was no one at the door just some dried leaves. There isn't even a single cloth on the hanger not even a shadow of things all the plants are dead, the wind is dry the chair who's whole purpose is to rock, is still like a man in despair. Smoking a cigarette but the ashtray is broken, The wind whistles through your bones,  it's this lonely Still, the delusional you holler "who's there?"..........