This being my first challenge I am most excited and pleased to participate in it. So, I thank ColeCampFireBlog for providing me with this great opportunity.
The rules are simple:
Thank the person who nominates you ✅
Post one quote per day for 3 consecutive days ✅
Nominate three new bloggers each day✅
The bloggers that I nominate for this challenge today are:
The game’s on!
Cheers to all the nominated bloggers!
To speak is to violate,
To write is to offend…
But to make silence your ink
Is to see loneliness your friend…
What do we become? What becomes of “me” in the future?
It is a silent night as I am sitting with this question that has sprung out of my memory, relapsing from the thought of a movie I had seen quite back – In the end, do we all become our mothers?
My mother is a strong woman with determined thoughts. I for one am a passive person with a bundle of ideas for thoughts. Can I then ever meet up to become the person who has created me?
Generation gaps and ageing are two of the most common words teenagers and young adults use to cover up for their dissimilar ideas with their parents. It is quite agreeable that such an assertion saves the rejection of either; but it is also true that it does not accredit the unbreakable relation which the both share. Fortunately, our ancestor did not fail to recognize this ever lasting bond. So, if the Divine had created man in his image – Was I created in the image of my mother too?
As I wrote the last sentence, my mind was driven to Alice Walker’s book “In Search of Our Mother’s Garden”. This was not so because I find myself in the midst of the oceanic question – “Who has given me meaning?” – but because a large part of me sits beside the very garden it searches and yet wanders to find purpose elsewhere.
So, can I agree that I am NOT my mother and in the end I might NOT become like her too; but in the journey which lies in between both – I am sure to become that half of her which could not come to be…….
Yet, isn’t that akin to saying – WE ALL BECOME OUR MOTHER’S MIRROR
Thank you for reading!
Let me know your thoughts about this question 🙂
There is an acquainting emptiness on the ground
Absolute filling in the sky
As I sit as if in a
And time elapses by….
For once the world and I are apart
The walk of age has arrested
Silence clenches the throbs of a heart
The moment for a breath has rested
Up and up this feeling goes
As down and down goes height
I would be silent, with silent toes
Stay elated all night…
Dimming eyes and airs deep
I wait to live my eternal sleep…
Let your wings soar in the air
Fear not about the colour of your feathers….
I have borrowed six words from a dear friend’s blog and added to it for completing the story..
Do tell me how you like it and don’t forget to visit happymesshappiness.wordpress.com 😉“Maybe some things just won’t be…….”
But in another world they’re reality
I stay behind or move ahead?
Live them both in writing insteadDoes that look like a good 24 word chronicle?
A myriad of thoughts wander through our brain as we pass the time of our day. From the moment we wake to the moment we lie down on our beds – we always persevere to think so that we have a world of our own where we can ease and be comfortable with ourselves. Have you ever wondered at the origins of these thoughts!?
Today as I sat reading a book, I came across a simple nine letter word which unconsciously drove me through a range of thoughts.
“Fireflies”
So, I lifted my head from my book and stared ahead – least recognizing the world that awaited outside for I was busy searching through my memory to find that very place where I had first recorded this word. From the title of a song – to a night time tale by my father – coming all the way from a poem I had composed years back, a painful encounter and a memory of a photographs…After considerable ease I was able to find the numerous traces of the single word. Yet, it wasn’t to end on that!
The traces pulled out pieces and the pieces joined together to form fragments that had been left off from some tapestry of a memorable day. The book was not closed and in a matter of minutes, the bounds of the word “fireflies” had drifted away smoothly to expose an arena of escaping recollections.
After a couple of minutes (in the real world) and a tiresome era of battle (in the field of my memories) when I opened my eyes to my book the word seemed to become absolutely alien to its text. As an intriguing case, it stood out to my eyes as a relic of my now irretrievable thought……
And there again I sat investigating – “FIREFLIES, doesn’t that word ring a bell?”
Now if you might ask – Was I able to ransack the escapes?
I shall have to say – I seldom remember….but it must have been a “glow-rious” fight
Once upon a time, a good many years ago, a traveller set upon a journey and this magical journey was to seem very long when it began, and very short when he got half way through it.
He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without meaning anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. SO, he said to the child, “What do you do here” And the child said, “I am always at play. Come Play with me!”…… #CreativePrompt
Tired from his lonely journey, the traveller decided to enjoy the little event of company which his dark path provided, perhaps to keep him motivated. But the attire of the child was rather peculiar. It was the first time in his days on the road that the traveller saw a garb made of sack and ropes. But it wasn’t just the clothes that made the little boy different.
“What do you think, mister? Would I eat and sleep tonight or would tonight be the day for playing ‘Pretend’?”, asked the soft voice in the sack. Awoken from the perturbed and judging thoughts the traveller sat down and replied, “I fail to see how the two are related. dear friend.”
“Oh! You are lost! That’s why you are here, aren’t you? said the boy with a contempt which was unexpected of his little self. He then started arranging his little “dimes” and “nickels” in rows, as if he was indifferent to the emotional turmoil he had prompted in the traveller’s mind.
In the farther corner of the road, he erected a little wooden box upon which he placed a tin can. After being satisfied with his arrangements he said, “Let’s compete. The one who knocks the tin can from this distance becomes the winner and the loser gets to say goodbye first.”
“I can never say goodbye” though the traveller and for a moment he recalled the night he left home to travel. For in that despicable night, he had let go of himself and all that life had given to him for the fear of being an invalid burden on the ones he loved. “So, I would win” decided the hassled traveller. And the two players started to aim at the tin can dime after nickel, but only to fail.
“Won’t your parents mind you talking to a stranger, dear friend?” asked the traveller as he tried a shot.
With a placid smile on his face the failing competitor replied, “I was born to the world not to my parents. And thus, with the world I live. Yet, I keep for myself a warm and cosy house”.
“I wish I had a house too. A place to call home. But I am nowhere – life has abandoned me” said the aching spirit of the traveller as he failed to deliver his next shot.
“Funny you should say that, because in front of your open eyes the picture stands so clear. Don’t you realise life isn’t an incident but an event that occurs for you? And the aim of that good life is that tin can, whose fall is the only indication of what was earlier possessed.”
Hearing this, the traveller dawned to the uselessness of his journey. In his final chance, with shaking hands, he shot the nickel to a victory which was proclaimed by the clatter of the tin can. “Oh! I won. I won, little friend” he said with a melting voice.
“Indeed, you won” replied the little audience with a smile that spoke more than words. “And yet, I wouldn’t have to say goodbye either. For you stay in my house…”
“I don’t understand!” said the puzzled traveller.
“For you share a memory with me, you now live with me in my house. So, no matter whether you are here with me or not, we shall always share the same roof – that of the house of my heart.”
And in that moment, the traveller only saw the light at the end of his dark path and wondered as to how his tiresome journey ended in a moment of reprise.
“I shall always play with you my dear friend. That I promise!”
Saying these words, the Trevelyan picked up his tin can and glanced at the little figure waving at him. What followed was a parting that was embellished with the feeling of pain and yet secured the warmth between the embracing hearts. With his head to the front and his heart trailing behind the traveller passed silently into a memory of the worldly child’s dream.
Thanks for reading! Do let me know how you like my reworked extension of the creative prompt. 🙂
Have you ever taken the time to look for a person’s eyes? SO much of the truth is reflected on a face, yet the little of the soul in the eyes is the real picture! Have you found the outline of this very real portrait ever?
Of all the days in the world which pass away almost as easily as they are begotten, today woke up with the same bland notoriety to me. And it wasn’t until I stole a moment to look at the beggar I found daily by the footpath, that I slipped into a “World of its own”. The glowing, expectant eyes of the man on the torn rag made me wonder about the vibrant emotions that they prompted in me. While I sensed a glimpse of happiness, I also found trails of questions, a silent request and a ghost of a smile awaiting to be found…
Could there be a more peculiar combination?
Never could I imagine that the damp black of an eye could reflect such a fusion of numerous other colors. As I rewrote that introspective moment in my mind again and again, I was astonished to find the darkness burst open with such a huge number of colors that evolved separately as I delved deeper, only to fuse with my horizons…..
Could there be a more intriguing case of enchantment?
As I traveled through the common performances of my day, the “World of Eyes” opened itself to me more and more. In the glistening charm of a child’s eyes, the excited iris’ of the street dog, and the blinding darkness of a strangers’ view – I curated every portrait with equal curiosity… Until I returned home to find myself in front of the mirror….
With the contracted pupil, outstretching iris and amazed eye, I looked in myself…
Only to find an incomplete puzzle with missing pieces…
What if I told you that no matter how much you fought for freedom, you’re always under oppression?
Often during drowsy hours and unexpected moments, we all face that one instance where “what is expected of us” and “what we expect of ourselves” stand at odds with each other. Why does that happen?
As I sat with myself today, struggling to write a piece which reflected my thoughts, I realized how almost involuntarily the expectations of others informed my opinions about my creations. So here I was sitting and thinking – “I should write as a social critic” (for I am after all a part of the society) or “I should write about an incident in my life” (which is in a way informed by others) or “Maybe talking about general terms and ideas like pride, love and hatred would be most apt” (because besides everything there is nothing better than discussing abstract ideas coming out of human interactions).
And after hours of struggle and countless sheets of paper, I found out that none of the themes that “I” had shortlisted contained the presence of its author – that is “ME”. “I” constantly worked my way to writer and reflect the contents which “I” received from the world. But, where did “my” voice go?
So, there I was stunned with the most fundamental of all questions in my life – How am “I” anything like “ME” if “I” constantly succumb to abiding by the rules laid down by others and hide “myself” for fear of disapproval?
Isn’t my socially constructed “I” oppressing the creatively formed “ME” so as to destroy the latter? Is it not that “I” oppress “myself” every time “I” make “myself” behave and perform in a particular way to suit an audience?
If such is the case, where are we free with ourselves?
I can only wonder……
Dementia's Diaries 