The stream
I tell thee the story of a stream
Thou can consider it as a little child's dream
She emerged from a fountain
Appeared like a streak on the mountains
She collected droplets on her way
But her clear waters sprinkled all the rays
Slowly as she travelled circuitous lengths
She kept growing in her strengths
Convinced even the mountains to share their soil
She prepared the grounds for human toil
Joined by others she became vast
Reaching the plains, a river at last
She could make out the land was parched
Distributed her waters as she marched
As she reached the final phases of her journey
She became even more calm
She moved forward to join the ocean
Who stood with open arms.
Such is the mystery of everything in life
The surface may seem openly revealed
But only gradually and in steps is the philosophy unveiled.

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Stream of consciousness.

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Be Generous of heart,
Be constant of faith... 
So loved...
It will Sufficient  to say that 
with the life
You came,
you saw and
you conquered!!

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Choose a path of miracles and abundance... When you look back of your life, you can easily see how God has been providing miracles and abundance - abundantly...You are standing in faith that your wildest dreams are in the process of unfolding...Choose love, worthiness, abundance, and miracles...✒

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Thoughts >> feelings >> memories >> reactions

- Stream of consciousness

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I am so done with everthing!
I am done pretending to be a mermaid.
Only to find I'll drown myself anyway.
I am so done with everthing!
'What's done is done.'
'What's gone is gone.'
I am done finding the shore.
Only to discover I'll have to build one.

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"It's scary to fall for a stranger."

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कितनी कमियाँ देखते हो तुम
खुद की नमियाँ देखी हैं?
कितने दलदले हो तुम...

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Ramblings (26/7)

Sometimes its just the moment. A disgust, an irritable urge to gather words but nothing comes of it. The craving, almost an obsession continues till it stings - a feeling of incompleteness you can't shirk off. Blankness is quite absolute; the silent noon, uncomfortably still, the heat stinging the salty skin and clouds - grey, slowly spreading across in malice. No nothing will come of it either and as for the insides, they are all but scraped out with a prisoner's anguish. The feeling still lingers, eating away, disturbing the semblance. Its irksome, tiring and hurtful. The pains of being alive in the essence of a habit. This is it perhaps - the tragic pursuit of getting that stone to gather moss. The rabid human nature of keeping a reminder - habits.

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