You’re a Candle burning bright!!!

You’re a candle burning bright

Just breathe and be who you are

Just relax and be the best self

And let your flame burn bright

Let your passion fuel your flame

You’re a candle burning bright

Don’t let your flame ever flicker

Don’t let your flame ever waver

Cause when you waver you dull your flame

And take away your shinning light

You’re a candle burning bright 

Let no one dull your flame

Let nothing dull your flame 

Let no one take away your flame

If someone or something even tries

Shine brightly right into their eyes

You’re a candle burning bright 

The secret to your flame is you 

The magic of your flame is you

So shine brightly and radiantly for all to see

Lighting up the world

Yours and everyone else’s 

Who need the light of your flame

You’re a candle burning bright

Continue to shine with all radiant

So much that when you flame is no one

All who knew you

Or were to be to know you 

Would always remember 

How brightly your flame burned!!!!

His Blush

He heard that all familiar beep. He knew what it meant. He tried to ignore it. He tried to go about doing what he was doing. Not wanting to get all caught up in it, all addicted to it. So he tried his best to ignore it.

But after a few seconds, there it was again, and then another, immediately after the first. 

Now his curiosity got the better of him. He needed to know what were the content. And although he promised himself otherwise, his curiosity got the better of him.

He reached for his phone and read every word. 

He suddenly felt of flushed, all hot under the collar. He felt like the blood from all over his body seemed to have rushed to his face. The words that he read had caused him to blush.

He wondered if men even blushed. Was it manly to blush? But what he read had all the ingredients to bring about this feeling in him, this wanting in him, this longing in him, causing him to blush.

After the last heartbreak, after his last heartache, he promised himself never again. Never would he put himself through this pain, never to get his hope high, to have this expectations, to have it all come crashing down, breaking him down. 

But yet here he was trying hard not to let these words lead him down a rabbit hole and into the unknown, trying hard to anchor his feelings and emotions and be real. And these words were making him loose control, loose control over his emotions, over his feelings, that he was so hard trying to keep under check.

It was causing him to build hopes and dreams, a lifetime of togetherness. Making him act like a giddy teenager. Was making him blush.

Just then when he thought he could blush no more, his phone buzzed… “My dearest Hubby….!” And he blushed a crimson shade of red!

It Takes a Village

It takes a village to bring up a child, not just a sperm and egg contributor. And though one may say that one will do it on their own, it takes a village of people directly or indirectly involved in the upbringing of the child, people who become your very own village.

Right from the boss who signs your paycheques, or pays your dues, becoming the enabler of the necessities of life, to the milkman, the farmer, those who put together the things needed to nourish you.

And when you got to get back to earning a living, winning the bread you need to break, you have the daycare, the aiyaha, the babysitter, the people who  take the little tyke off your hand so that you can go out there make a living, when you don’t have a close relative to come to your aide.

You have the teachers, the tuition teachers, the professors, the faculties, who help you shape the lil one, of course with your contribution.

You have the people the lil one will come across, the experiences that will affect which way the lil one will grow.

And not to forget the doctors and the nurses, who help to make sure the lil one grows to be strong and healthy.

All these people, and many more, become your own lil village that help you bring up your lil one, whether you acknowledge them or not. And when your lil one grows, they will have their own lil village to bring their own lil one.

His Blind Parents

His parents were blind. Well, they weren’t blind in the literal sense. They chose not to see the torment, the pain, the suffering he was in, often refusing to believe him. Often turning a blind eye.

He was a sensitive child, different from the other children, someone who would stick out from a crowd. He was not into sports, like boys of his age, in fact he detested it. He loved arts and craft and loved to dance and act, much to the charging of his parents. He was not very studious and had learning difficulties. But most of all he showed no interest in girls.

He was not bold or strong, but at the same time he was not too weak. He walked with a sway in his steps instead of a swagger like most boys of his age.

He was an outcaste who was constantly picked on, made fun of, verbally and physically abused. He was constantly subjected to bullying. When he tried to complain to his teachers they just dismissed his claims, stating he had an agenda against the boys. Even  his parents refused to support him. They believed he was just trying to make an excuse and being over dramatic.

If that wasn’t enough, he had suffered years of sexual abuse at the hands of the one who was supposed to care for him. When he told his parents about the abuse, they once again refused to believe him. They said he was making up stories and telling lies and sullying the good name of a person of great repute and standing in society. They turned a blind eye to the constant rape  he suffered.

In all this pain he found peace and solace in arts and crafts and his dancing, but this too irked his father, who constantly taunted his wife saying “what type of son have you given me, he’s more a hijada than a boy! He’s definitely not my son!”

His father’s words were like a dagger to his heart.

Then one day his parents decided to put in a boarding school. They hoped that being in a boarding would make a man out of him.

Unfortunately, his torment didn’t end. In fact, it got even more worse. The environment may have changed, the tormentors may have changed but the pain and suffering remained the same.

He still was constantly picked on and bullied by the boys, called homophobic slurs, suffering verbal and physical abuse. If that wasn’t enough, he was constantly berated by his teachers for his lack of ability of keeping with his studies.

Then one day some boys caught him staring at another boy in the locker room. They cornered him in the washroom and confronted him and used homophobic slurs. 

They pinned him against the wall. They each took turns at sodomising him. When they were done with him, they left laying there on the washroom floor all bruised and bleeding. They threatened that if he ever spoke a word of what happened they would make his life a living hell. 

This was the last straw. He knew, like always his parents wouldn’t believe him and do nothing, and so would the school  authorities. 

He decided to put an end to it all.

Even in his death his parent turned a blind eye to the trauma he suffered. They believed that their child took his life because of his inability to cope with his studies, the pressure of studies. They didn’t ask for an investigation even though there were bruises on his bodies, especially his privates. They believed a version that the school provided  who were more than happy to cover up the incident that threatened the good name of the institution.

A week after his death, his parent received a courier. They were shocked when they realised that the courier was from their son. It was his journal where he documented every single abuse, every single trauma, every single rape, in detail.

As they read it carefully  the scales that blinded them finally fell off , and they finally saw the torment he suffered, how he suffered for his sanity. They were shaken to the core.

There was so much they wanted to do but they couldn’t do because they had  refused to believe him. It was now too late to do anything. They had lost, what should have been their precious boy, because of their own blindness.

Life’s Witness

He made his way to the bar. He desperately needed a drink, on today of all days. When did marriage get so difficult? Was it always so difficult? Did you really need to make so many comprises and sacrifices?

It was their anniversary and he had a whole evening planned for her. But then her work and the kids came in the way and threw water over all his plans, effectively sending it down the drain!

Lately it had either was her work and career, or the kids, or household chores. She didn’t have time for him. He couldn’t remember when did they last spend some quiet intimate moments with each other. He seemed have fallen to the bottom of her priorities list.

He ordered his drink, slowly sipping it, letting his worries stew within his head.

He didn’t realise when he came and sat next to him. He seemed all nervous but excited, constantly looking at his watch as if he was waiting for someone.

He tried to ignore him, the last thing he wanted for today is getting into a conversation with a stranger.

Just when he thought he was he was going to get away with avoiding any sort of conversation, when he asked him “Do I look ok?”

He tried hard to avoid answering that question, when he asked another one “Do I look too nervous? Do I look too anxious?”

“You look just fine!” He told him hoping to put an end to the conversation at this point. But to his dismay, he continued with the conversation, “I am planning to propose to my boyfriend today, and I am really nervous about it, about doing it right!”

Knowing there was no escaping this conversation, he finally decided to indulge him, “Pray tell me, why would you want to do such a thing?” he asked him.

“Why not!” came the reply.

“We for starters,” he responded, “same-sex marriages are not recognised by law!”

“Well, it may not be recognised today, but soon it would be recognised,” he replied. 

“Fair enough!” he said, “but what happens to all your parties, orgies and hook ups? Aren’t gay men pretty promiscuous?”

“Oh come on!” he exclaimed, “being gay doesn’t mean parties and orgies and parades! That’s your generalisation and your opinion! And the thing about being promiscuous, all men are promiscuous, whether gay or straight!”

He could sense a tension in his voice as he replied.

“Being gay doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t have what a straight man would have!” he finally said, after he calmed himself down, “Even I would like to have someone to come home to, someone to call my own, my own little family, my own little world.”

“We all need a witness to our lives,” he continued as he slowly tried to calm his down. “There are billions of people on this planet, what does any one life really mean?”

“But in a marriage, you are promising to care about everything!” He said, slowly loosing his nervousness as he put forth his pout. “The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things, all of it, all of the time, every day.”

“You’re saying “Your life will not go unnoticed, because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed, I will be your witness,””he smiled while saying this.

“You can quote me on this” he finally said, breaking the silence.

He stared at the man sitting next to him, taking in what he just heard, marvelling every word.

Just then he noticed his partner enter. He waved to him.

He turned around and said, “Wish me luck!”

“You don’t need luck, my friend,” he said as he hugged him, taking him by surprise, “You already know what you want. He’s lucky to have you!”

He sat at the bar keenly observing them, but not too keenly that would seem awkward, almost stalkerish.

He smiled when he saw him  get down on one knee and propose to the love of his life, ans joined everyone at the bar in applauding them when his partner said yes and kissed him tight.

Seeing them made him realise what he had to do.

He paid for his tab and made his way, not before stopping to pick up a beautiful single red rose.

When he got home, he found her labouring in the kitchen, taking out the dishes from the dishwasher.

He made his way silently towards her and put his hand around her waist and kissed her on the neck.

He gave her the red rose.

“I am sorry,” she said apologetically, “I know I’ve ruined your plans for the anniversary.”

“That’s ok!” he said, “now don’t say a word! Just dance with me,” he said as he took her in his arm.

“But I don’t know how!” She protested.

“I’ll show you,” he said, taking her hand in his. “To dance you require a partner and you  have been my partner for all these years. I’ll show you how. I’ll lead you!”

“That’s ok,” she said with a teasing smile, as he pulled her closer to him. “To dance we need some music, and I can’t hear any.”

“Well, we don’t need any,” he said as he held her close to him, kissing her forehead. “We just have to close our eyes and listen to the beating of our hearts. That’s the only music we need!”

They slowly began to sway in unison, ending in a passionate. And somewhere, peeping from behind the door, their lil ones became witnesses of their love!

Mr/Ms/Mrs… Late No More

Have you ever wondered 

Why do we call the dead “Late”

The Late Mr so and so

The Late Ms, or Mrs, so and so

But what were they late for?

Definitely not for their Death

Cause death, like time and tide

Waits for no man, or no woman

And happens at the destined time

And when it happens, you can never be late

So definitely death is not late

And if they are late after that

Then they are not to blame

Cause they are dead and gone 

And definitely can be pulled up

For being late!

So if we don’t call them 

The Late Mr so and so

The Late Ms, or Mrs, so and so

What do we call them

Do we call them

As they say in Hindi, Swargwasi

That is Heavenly in English 

But what if they are hell-bound

Would we refer to them as Hell-ly

Now is that even a term?

Or is it a new term that we can coin?

And wouldn’t it be really strange

To call someone heavenly or he’ll-ly

So in the end, 

Though we may never know why

Let’s continue to refer 

To our dearly departed, as the 

The Late Mr so and so

The Late Ms, or Mrs, so and so

Even though we may know that 

The poor soul can be late no more!!!

The Great Password Conundrum

I sat there minding my business, as busy as a busy be can be., when all of sudden there appeared that oh so familiar message, informing me that to change my password, of days I had three.

Not wanting to put off any longer, I decided to change my password to something that way more stronger, even than Thee.

So I thought, and I thought, till I racked my brains and scratched my head, almost pulling off all the hair from from them top of my head. 

I couldn’t use my name, or the day I was born, or the name of my mother, my father or even the name of my dog. And no I couldn’t keep “Password123” as this would be a password that could be easily hacked.

So finally came up with password ideas three.

But then the first wasn’t too long, the second wasn’t too strong, while the last was one that I had kept no too long.

So I was back to the drawing board to think of a password that was really strong.

I tried every permutations and combinations that this silly boy could think. I even tried to think out of the box, and by out of the box I meant I was sitting at a coffee shop! I was afraid that I would create a password that would be forgotten not too long.

I applied every trick, followed every rule, till I was able to come up with a password I knew the system would took (forgive for my cardinal grammatical sin).

So keyed it in and waited with bathed breath, hoping that it would accepted and bring my ordeal to an end.

And when it was accepted, I raised by hand it triumph only to realise that in three months I would once again I would have to go through this great password conundrum.

A Map to Him

He stared at the map of the city that stood in front of him. It wasn’t like he was a stranger to the city. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been to the city before. But still it felt different, it felt strange. It was the first time he was in his city but he was not with him. It will felt strange to be in the same city and not be with each other.

As he continued to stare at the map small footprints began to form tracing the places they had been to. The cafés, the parks , the restaurants, a roadmap of their courtship on the map.

He remembered the hours they had spent in each other’s company, the parks where they roamed hand in hand, stealing glance and kisses, when mo one was around. All the names of places and streets and restaurants and cafés, began forming pictures in his mind of about the places they had been, the good time they had, memories of them together.

As he continued to stare at those imaginary footprints, he wondered if their path would ever cross, now that they were both in the same city? Although it was his decision to call it quits, but he couldn’t help but miss him so, and now that they were in the same city, he hoped that somewhere, somehow, destiny could conspire and bring their paths together.

He didn’t realise it but his eyes began to well from the yearning, from the longing that he felt for him. Just when he thought he was finding a way to heal, he once again began to miss him, to want him more.

However, he was determined to not to think of him and cry. That would be an insult of the bind they had once shared. He wanted to think of him and smile, for all the good moments they shared, the sweet memories that they had made.

So he wiped away the tears from his eyes and smiled, thinking of him. He noted the place he had to go to, using the map. He hailed a taxi and off he went into the city, smiling.

The Map to their Heart

Like clockwork, he saw her everyday at the bus stop, staring at the route map, trying to figure out the bus that would take her to her destination. And every time she ended taking the same bus as he.

He couldn’t help but admire how beautiful she looked, especially when the sunlight fell on her face, making look all the more beautiful, all the more radiant. He loved the way her hair fell over her face, from the window breeze, and how she tucked it behind her ears, every time.

She didn’t need no no make make up, no accessories, to enhance her beauty. She was beautiful naturally from the inside and out.

Oh how he could stare at her all day, if only his staring didn’t creeped her out. If he didn’t appear a weirdo to anyone who caught his glances at her, her included.

He was mesmerised by her, he was taken by her beauty and her simplicity. Seeing her each morning was the high point of his day.

Oh how he wished he could find it in him to talk to her.

Like clock work she saw him from a distance, as he approached the bus stop, a handsome, well-groomed, well-mannered man. And every time she saw him approach, she would immediately stare at the map, afraid he would see her stare and think I’ll of her. So she tried to steal glances at him when he was not looking her way.

How she wished to get a seat next to him, cause she loved the way he smelt, an earthy, musky, masculine smell. She was not sure if it was his aftershave, or his perfume (did men wear perfume, she wondered), or was it just his natural scent? Whatever it was, he had her under his spell.

She could sit and stare at him all day, if he didn’t think her mad, just try and avoid her. Seeing him was the highlight of her day.

Then one day, as luck would have it, the seat next to her was vacant, and he grabbed the opportunity with both hands.

They sat next to each other, trying not to have their glances caught, itching to say something, if that something was a simple, hi or hello, or a good morning, or a how you doing. But they couldn’t muster it in them to say those words. And if by chance, they happened to glance, at each other, at the same time, they just smiled and glanced away.

He sat there hoping that someway, somehow, he could find a map, like the one she stared at, that would show him the direction to her, to direct him to her heart, cause he couldn’t help himself but fall in love with her.

She too wished she had a map, a map to his heart, that would help her find her way to him. If she had the said map, she would know what to say and know what to do, she would know how to win him over. Oh how she wished,  she had map to him.

And as they both sat there, in seat next to each other, wishing they had a map to the heart of the other, not knowing that what they wished was one and the same. All they had to is ask and they would find the map to their heart.

Her Treasure Box

As he returned to her room to take the last of the boxes. He noted how empty the room  look, how lonely it felt, without all the flowers, without all the photo that hung on the wall, without the beautiful soul who had inhabited the room, who had now moved on to a much better place. 

He couldn’t help but miss her even more. soon there was tears welling in his eyes, a lump forming in his throat.

He stood there taking a moment to gather himself. He took a deep breath and wiped off the tears from his eyes. He reached down for the last of her boxes.

The label intrigued him. It was marked as “Treasure Chest”. As he lifted the lid off the box, he was greeted by photos of all colours and hues. He sat on the floor going through each of them. He remembered how much she loved photos, to click them, to be in them. She called it her way of freezing time forever, on a piece of glossy paper.

She insisted on clicking photos of every moment in life. Every occasion needs to be treasured, is what she used to say, and the ones in the box only bore witness for her love of capturing those moments.

There were photos from every possible moment, from the one from her first date with the her future husband, to the one from their wedding day, and their honeymoon.

Then were photos from every single month when she was pregnant with him, from conception to the time when he was born, all slimy and covered with fluids. Then there was photos from his christening, photos of her cradling him tenderly, his father and his godparents and grandparents beaming proudly. He could feel the warmth radiating from the photo.

There were the photos from the first step he took (he marvelled at how she was ready to capture his first step, she called it a mother’s intuition), his first day at schools (she told him how much he cried and how he refused to let go off her), his first holy communion.

There was a photo of him with his first, and last, girlfriend. As he stared at the photo, he realised how confused he was, it was indeed a confusing and scary time.

Then he saw a photo that choked him. It was a photo of him hugging his father. This was exactly after a year he had come out to his parents, the day father finally accepted him for he was. She on the other hand accepted him with open arms and love when he came out. She always knew he was special, different from the other kids. She always knew who he was, even before he realised it and was happy when he finally did, when he was finally able to live his truth.

The photo brought back so many memories, flooded his mind with so many emotions. 

There were pictures from all the Pride she had been part of, that she so proudly and enthusiastically marched at and supported.

There was photos from his wedding. Each of those photos showed how proud and happy she was when she saw how happy her son was for cementing his love with the love of his life.

The last picture was that of her cradling her grandson. She looked so frail, it was around the time when the cancer was getting the better of her, her last few days. But no matter how frail she seemed, there was joy in her heart and that made her glow with happiness, and made her eyes twinkle brightly. He remembered that day and how excited and happy she was. It was the happiest he had seen her, in quite a long time,  since she diagnosed with her cancer.

And within a week she was gone. It was like she had waited for her grandchild to be born, to see her son finally settle down with the love of his life, on his own term, completing a modern family.

He didn’t realised that he was tearing up. When his husband came in to check on him, he just hugged him and began crying. He just held on him and cried, for her, for the world without her in it.

When he finally able to gather himself , he put the photo back into the box and closed the lid. He lifted her treasure box, while his husband put his arms around him. He took one more glance of her room before switching the light switch off. 

Her box of treasures was now his box of treasure.

The Pencil

As I sipped my cup of  chai, there were thousands of thoughts running through mind. Thousands of stories being formed, thousands of ideas slowly taking shape. Thousands of words running through my itching to find an outlet, itching find a way in paper.

I looked around for my laptop, only to realise that I had given it for servicing. And luck would have it, my phone was completely drained. 

So I looked around for something where I could pour my thoughts  before it slipped into oblivion, thanks to a very forgetful mind (I blame it on those diminishing grey cells and increasing greys in the hair).

And there it lay, like a long forgotten friend, a best friend who at one point in time I couldn’t do without, but now had been relegated to the back of mind, my dearest pencil, with its trusty sidekick, notepad.

The sight of this trusty old friend flooded my mind with sweet memory of the wonderful times we shared.

I remembered how I proudly showed it off to my friend. How I used to sharpen it to ensure that it was always on point. Remember all the competition it helped me win, when I compared it with those of my classmates, the tallest and the most pointed. It was incomparable, unbeatable, one of a kind.

I remembered all the access adorned it with to not just increase its utility but make it all the more fancy.

Come birthday, it was that what you distributed amongst your classmates and not seemed so cheap.

I remember all the doodles I had drawn, the incoherent scribbling, the examinations and papers I wrote. A very trusty friend.

The advent of the digital gadget had diminished it importance, reduced it dependency, speeding it up to near obseletion.

But now that I found it, it was time to make new memories with it, relive the old ones. So I began scribbling my thoughts with glee, behaving like we were never apart.

The Intangible Joys of Life

Oh how I could sit here forever

And listen to the waves 

As they rise and fall

In the vast expansive sea

And crash against the rock

Oh how I could sit here forever

And listening to the gurgling sound

That water makes

As it seeps through niche and crevices 

Into little hidden pools, between the rocks

And away from the warmth of the sun

Where I dip My weary toes 

Oh I could sit here forever

And bask in the sun warmth of the sun

That’s not reached its midday peak

But is still is warm enough

Like the warmth of a comforting hug

Oh how I could sit here forever 

And put all my cares behind me

Put all my worries behind me

Dry off the tears streaming down my face

Put the past in the behind 

And not worry about what is to come

Just live in the moment

The blissful moment

And enjoy what you have been blessed with

Oh how I could sit here forever

And enjoy the intangible joys of life!

The Rope

She was an avid mountaineer who was quite well versed with her ropes and how to take care of them. She had many climbs under her belt, make that carabiner, so she knew what she was doing. But when the ledge that she had perched herself on gave away , it was her mountaineering experience and choosing the right rope that saved form plummeting to a sure death.

She dangled by her rope that was attached to her carabiner, grateful for choosing the right one that  that could absorb the impact of her fall without snapping under her weight.

As she waited for the rope to stabilise, she surveyed the rock face  trying to find a niche or even a crevice which she could anchor herself and ascend up the mountain.

But there was none to be found leaving her with no other way but to haul herself  up, hoping  nothing untoward would happen.

But as luck would have it, the moment she tried to pull herself up, using only the rope, she felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. The fall had twisted her shoulder and every movement took quite a lot of effort from her. But the only way to safety was for her to move up, and if she had to haul her self up she had to bear the pain, or dangle from the rope till either help came or she couldn’t hold on to it any longer.

So she closed her eyes and took a deep breath and pulled herself up the rope, feeling the full brunt of her pain, wincing in pain, letting out a silent scream.

She stopped when she couldn’t bear the pain anymore and desperately needed a break. She needed to find a way to recover  her strength. But till then she would have to  hold on to the rope for her dear life.

She was an expert mountaineer, and often had undertaken many solo climbs. Today was one of those days, and she regretted undertaking this climbing by herself. There was no one to help her, the rope being her only companion.

As she held on to the the rope, she could feel the rope slip through her hand. She could feel it burn from the friction between the rope and her wet hand, causing her hand to blister and bleed. But she couldn’t let go. Letting go would mean sure death, and she was not ready to die. Not this way, not right now, not today!

She remembered all the the ropes she had to let go in life, because they had burnt her hand, because they blistered and cut her, because it made no sense to holding on to them while it caused her more harm. She remembered all those ropes that snapped because she tugged too tightly at it, a game of tug of war, which always ended up loosing. She remembered the ropes she used  to bind things together but would always come undone.

But this was not one of those ropes. Even though it cut and hurt her, there were no ways she was letting go of this one. Letting go would mean certain death, and if she wanted to keep death at bay, she needed to hold on. Even if meant she had to tie a knot to help her hold on.

But just holding on would not help her. She had to find it in her to haul herself up, with the rope her only support and tool. 

So she she mustered all the strength she could, gritted her teeth , closed her eyes, and tried her best to block the searing, sharp pain, no matter how sharply it stabbed her, causing her to wince.

Slowly and steadily she made it up the mountain face. Once she reached the point from  where she had begun, she just collapsed and lost all consciousness.

When she finally gained consciousness she found herself in the emergency room. A fellow climber had found her and immediately called for help. She had a fractured shoulder and a few broken ribs and suffered from acute dehydration. Her hands were bandaged. She had held on to the rope so tightly that they had to cut the the part of the rope and then surgically extract rest the flesh of her palms. It was certain to scar her but also give her something to remember of the ordeal that she had been through but through it all she never let go of the rope.

Piece by Piece

Piece by piece they built a dream

From the moment they fell for each other

And felt the other was a person of their dreams

Piece by piece they tried to build a life together

Hoping one day they could have a family together

Even though it wouldn’t be recognised by others

Piece by piece they fought for their love to be accepted 

Battled society norms

And what others perceived then to be

Piece by piece they won society over

And we’re able to start the life of their dream

But soon their love grew old

And their relationship grew stale

They found it difficult to accept each other’s ways

Their differences drove a wedge 

That tore them apart

Unable to reconcile, they broke each other’s heart

So piece by piece

They picked the pieces of their shattered hearts

Trying to glue it together what once was whole

But never ever able to mend to before

So piece by piece they tried their best

To return to a life

As if the other didn’t exist

Piece by piece

Mr Speedy Gonsalves

They called him Mr Speedy Gonsalves, cause lived and breathed SPEED. Speed was what he craved for, speed was what he lived for. It was a way of life for him. Slowing down wasn’t an option. He believed it was a dog-eat-dog world, and if you needed to stay ahead of the rat race, speed was what he needed.

He wouldn’t have his life any other way, till one day he had no option but to slow down.

He felt like his life had suddenly some to a halt,like when one jams a break to avoid running into a wall, but you nevertheless run into it, abs it leaves you shattered and broken.

This was exactly how he felt. He felt like his world was crumbling around him. He felt he couldn’t live if he didn’t have his speed.

The feeling of going slow was new for him, was unknown to him, was repulsive to him. He couldn’t fathom how one could be slow. But then he had no choice but to be slow for his beloved speed had dumped him.

At first he found the going difficult, he found going tough, he found going next to impossible. But like all creature he had to learn to adapt or be prepared to perish, and perishing into nothing was unacceptable to him.  So had no no option but to slow down

As he slowed down his life, he learned that although he lived his life, he never truly lived his life. There were so many things he missed out, there were so many things he didn’t get to experience, all because he was he wanted to stay ahead of the race, all because he was addicted to speed (not the drug), he had a need for speed.

So he took to being slow, slowly getting used to it, slowly understanding he didn’t always need speed, he didn’t always need to be fast. He realised when you take it nice and slow your really get to experience life, you really get to live it the way it was intended to be.

So now he’s no longer known as Mr Speedy Gonsalves, but is known by his new moniker, Me Nice and Easy.

The Man who Everyone Adore

There once lived a man

Who everyone simply adore

Who lived an adorable life

In an adorable house

With an adorable dog

He had friends

Who he simply adored

But what he didn’t have

Was that special someone

Who he could love and adore 

Of relationship, he had a few

But heartbreaks a plenty he knew

All ending up in heartaches

And while they all said they adored him

They all wanted to change him

Making him make an effort to be

Something other than the adorable he

Till one day he realised 

He needn’t have to change 

He needn’t have to settle 

For someone else’s name

He just needed to be clear

What he truly wanted 

And though it may take time

And many a kisses 

He would find the one 

Who he would adore 

Who would adore him unconditionally 

But he realised 

He was barking up the wrong tree

Playing on the wrong team

So he kissed a thousand frogs 

Till he found he who he could adore

And who adored him just as he

So they lived together 

In their own adorable world

In their little adorable house

With their adorable little 

An adorable family of their own

When the Romance has Gone

What do you do

When the romance is over

And the love has gone

When your heart breaks to pieces

Leaving you wonder what went wrong

You tear and lament

You mourn and berate

You feel guilt of failure

Weighing your heart down

You close your eyes

Hoping to stop the flood

Hoping that the pain 

From the pieces of your heart

Would just go away

You could sleep forever 

Never to wake again

You are left wondering

If you are the reason to blame

But realise that’s it’s no one to blame

Cause people don’t always 

Remain the same

And change is the only constant 

The name of the game

It’s better to put an end

Than drag it on

Cause it’s difficult to flog a horse

After it’s dead dead and gone

So rather than allow it take a toll

And turn unhealthy and toxic 

It’s better to let go

No matter how hard it may seem

So what do you do

When the romance has ended

And the love has gone

You try to mend your broken heart

Heal and move on

Cause life goes on

My Reflection

As I stared into the mirror and my reflection stared right back at me. Nothing much had changed and this boy (well for all practical purpose I shall be a boy no matter what the numbers says on the birth certificate, or the candles on my cake, or the greys and wrinkles of the reflection that’s staring back at you), looks just the same.

But then the mirrors doesn’t lie and so your reflection that’s staring back at you reflects the real you.

So you see all your curves and edges. The chubby cheeks and no dimpled chin, something that you didn’t even have before. You see all the weight you gained. You see the flab on your belly and make you yearn for the flat tummy you once managed to achieve. 

You stare at the reflection of the muscles you once had but now is gone making you wonder if you will ever be able to grow then again. So now it’s just a phantom flex of something that’s no longer there, or at least is invisible for the moment.

But then the reflection that stares back at you is just your physical manifestation. But if you stare a little deeper (and here I realise I’ve used a lot of buts) your reflection reflects the unseen. Sometimes it’s the pain and sorrows, sometimes it’s the anxiety that threatens to consume you, at times your fears that limit you. But at most time you see the hope in those eyes, hope things will be better. 

But (and there I go again with the nuts) your reflection shows you the faith you have in yourself to get back to the way you were, the way you want it to be. It’s this reflection of the faith in you that keeps you going, knowing that you have the power with you to change who you are, the way you feel about yourself, the way you let the words of others affect you.

So you keep staring at the mirror and your reflection stares back at you showing you what is and what could be, and definitely not the fairest (or the handsomest l, in yours sincerely’s case), of them all!