Tag: fyp

Flowers

I have seen flowers bloom in valleys, and I have seen them bloom in deserts –
One is not more beautiful than the other.

One woke up to the golden sun, cradled in the silver rain’s soft lullaby,
The other needed to snake through corpses of its predecessors to taste the breeze dancing above the soil.
But both the valley-born and the desert-forged ended up in the same bouquet a boy gave me yesterday.
And I couldn’t help but admire them equally,
though I forgot to ask who suffered more.

They say it’s the journey that matters, not the destination.
But do we truly care about anyone’s journey or healing?
To the observer, a flower is a flower; its story forgotten beneath its petals.
The assiduous journey of the desert flower, with all its setbacks, means everything to itself and nothing to the vase.

So I wonder:
Would it be such a loss if the flower never broke through the sand?
Would it be less of a tragedy if it never bloomed at all?

Forgotten Trinkets

During my recent move, I stumbled upon this sketch I made over twelve years ago, and it made me smile and sigh at the same time. I smiled because it whisked me back to my teens when I’d lock myself in my room gorging on Harlequin romances, and sighed because it still feels just like yesterday!

Mills & Boon books were my guilty pleasure at fourteen, filling me with butterflies, and probably some of the delusions I carry to this day! I remember deciding to recreate the book cover of “A Wife in Waiting”, and grabbed my 2B pencil, then moved to pencil colors, and then to a black pen. Halfway through an overwhelming urge to draw skeletons (instead of the protagonists “Josie” and “Dacre”) took over me. I resisted at first, but let it take over eventually. I couldn’t put the black pen down again.

I usually keep most of my sketches private, but I’m starting to embrace my style more and more. When people look at my sketches, they often react with concerns or counsel. Yes, it’s dark, and moody, and might ruin your day. But, I think that’s what I do best. Not ruining your day I mean, but capturing the darker emotions.

It is harder to make someone smile or laugh, hands down. But I don’t think I chose the art, the art chose me. And if I’m being honest, I love how deeply I can feel these emotions, and translate them into my art and my writing.

Original book cover

Running

Photo by Polina Chistyakova on Pexels.com

In the essence of my being lies a truth, fundamental and clear,
I’m a procrastinator, wired to sprint; they say it’s born out of fear.
Be it a hundred meters or two hundred feet,
Last night fights before exams, chasing deadlines on repeat.

Then how did I end up in this marathon, now running the eleventh lap,
Five years and four cities, I was following a map.
Convinced I was running toward something – a goal,
But it’s been a long time now; uncertain, I question my soul.

An unseen tether, a spectral noose, tightens around my nape,
I wash the glaze off my eyes; the earth beneath I scrape.
The track marks have long faded; I realize a spiral course I’ve tread,
Thundering encore from the last homestretch bleeds through; the finish line turns red.

Lunging for the fleeting goal, ethereal and sly,
The rope tightens relentlessly, and I run, there’s no time to comply.

Centrifugal force takes over and my legs give away,
My eyes are cloudy, unblinking, lost in an abyss of disarray.

Today, still running, haunted by memories, on the verge of decay,
The elusive question still echoes, what made me run away?