I’ve been reading The Fountainhead for the past few days, and it’s an excellent book. I read on
the back cover that the author was born in Russia and came to America when she was young. She
barely spoke English, but she wanted to be a great writer. I thought that was very admirable, so I
sat down and tried to write a story.
“Ian MacArthur is a wonderful sweet fellow who wears glasses and peers out of them with de-
light.”
That was the first sentence. The problem was that I just couldn’t think of the next one. After
cleaning my room three times, I decided to leave Ian alone for a while because I was starting to get
mad at him— % &

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“I’ll tell you something, Charlie. I feel good. You know what I mean? Really good. Like I’m
free or something. Like I don’t have to pretend anymore. I’m going away to college, right? It’ll be
different there. You know what I mean?”— % &

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The relentless beating heat was beginning to confuse
me and I had a bad moment there before I realized that so
far his suspicions hadn’t alighted on Tom. He had discov-
ered that Myrtle had some sort of life apart from him in
another world and the shock had made him physically sick.
I stared at him and then at Tom, who had made a parallel
discovery less than an hour before—and it occurred to me
that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or
race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the
well. Wilson was so sick that he looked guilty, unforgivably
guilty— % &

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Don't let other's energy hinder your own. — % &

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I just love it..✨🌻 In the field of my favorite place.. sunflower breeze ,feeling free in a garden lane in dew drops oiled and resting on grasses and others gleaming on twigs and leaves.🌿💦☘️— % &

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Silent brown eyes observing
She sat straight gradually keenly bending
Her gaze never left
Weaving a safe space
Outta thin air

Her brown eyes with a tint of dark
A little aware yet oblivious
Hid the words making
their way down the
alley of feelings

The land of thoughts
Bidding droplets on grasses
Huge and elongated
Closed since forever
If to be remembered.


Epiphany lissome..
In the corner of her heart
A petal moved
Blossoming slowly..
Unknown to her
She beamed in red
Cheeks crimson
Scarlet lips
Tendering the feeling
Adoring nature n it's magic.
— % &

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Grief stricken and lied
Tears unsplashed
Unexplained (to self) lie
Soft as iron
Knotted and tied
Secrets
Untold in dark.
Apprehensive to believe
In almost anything
That's seems too good— % &

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Sometimes, I look outside, and I think that a lot of other people have seen this snow before.
Just like I think that a lot of other people have read those books before. And listened to those heartfelt music that another person would have found solace in on a rainy evening in a cafe sitting by themselves.— % &

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And how much hatred that you get ,will you turn into love?
How much goodness will you give, until you break free of this cycle?
When...will you consider yourself capable of getting love??

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Who makes me smile,
The one that understands
And never stops my cries
She would listen to me
And scatter affection in the most subtle ways,
Like it's glitter
Wonder if she feels
It means more golden than ambrosia to me
She has so much kindness
It makes me hard to breathe
Because after all i have been
For someone like me?

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