Undone.
Incomplete.
Something missing.
We think we are pieces of a puzzle,
You and I.
Faith.
Hope.
The last of our expectations.
immersed in the notion of something
that will fulfill us.
We are so intrigued with this idea
of someone
Completing us.
Healing us.
Filling us.
Sometimes I wonder…
Maybe we were born whole,
not nuts and bolts.
not a jigsaw puzzle.
nothing missing.
Ever so often we find ourselves looking for people, places, memories and opportunities that make our hearts ache. But in a good way.
Some find happiness in running after that feeling, chasing it in bars and discos. Jumping off cliffs only to have a trace of its grandeur. Intoxicated by its scent in foreign skies and seas.
Some find solace in the hope that it will come to them. That all they must do, is believe in its power, its possibility, and trust it with all their heart, and the wait will be worth it.
That feeling is what makes the World go round.
Earth, our home, found it in its path around the Sun.
Sun, our star, found it in its luminosity and illumination.
Water, our sustenance, found it wrapped in the bonds between hydrogen and oxygen.
Wind, our cosmos, found it in the chirp of every bird that beautifies it.
Fire, our energy, found it in the oxygen that strengthens it.
Sometimes, it comes in our early years. Others spend ages feeling incomplete.
Sometimes, it comes right when you need it. Others learn that it has the worst timing ever.
Sometimes, it comes when you’re ready to hold on. Others are caught completely off guard.
I made a wish for that feeling, then placed it in my soul.
I promise to welcome its immensity and its enormity the next time we bump paths.
Images from Google Images
1. She veiled herself, unable to accept the flaws. The world, patiently awaited her exit from hiding, ready for her light.
2. Their reluctant hands met. Sparks flew, warmth coarsed and love grew in the silence. Hiding behind smiles, they embraced it.
This is in response to Twenty Word Tuesday (TWT) held by Bulbul’s Bubble. This week’s prompt was : Hiding (https://wp.me/pbcaAs-xo)
I took two different angles at this. Let me know what you think!
A bonfire, a friendship and a paradox. Three unrelated entities that came together. This is a story of how.
Completely different yet somehow bizarrely functional, such was our connection.
This is how I met The Boy Who Loves Bonfires.
Click.Tap.Click.Tap.Click.Tap.
I had come up with a rhythm to which I bobbed my head, sitting impatiently. It was yet another day in a class I wasn’t very fond of. Don’t get me wrong, I was great at the subject.The class, however,was a borefest.
There is always that one class where no one pays attention. Everyone is either dozing off or daydreaming. The latter is more my thing.
The seat next to me was unoccupied…until, it just wasn’t. My daydream came crashing down when I heard the sound of metal screeching as
the seat next to me was pulled backward.
Within seconds, a complete stranger who I had occasionally seen in the hallways, sat next to me.
That is probably the most boring and cliched starting to what became one the most beautiful friendships of my life.
While I admit that the beginning was awkward and rocky, a few months later we were inseparable.
“The Boy Who Loves Bonfires,” such was his epithet.
Bonfires? I mean what’s so out of the blue about bonfires?
Fire. An element of life, a symbol of damnation, a source of energy, the hallmark for death. A purifier and a destroyer.
A paradox.
In the last sacrament of life in many cultures, corpses are burnt. Day after day, countless people die, yet the living wish to live forever.
The bodies of the dead are burned as they depart on a journey to whatever lies in the afterlife. Smoke stacks choke the skies.
The holy element of fire is hence linked to the end of a loved one’s journey amongst the living.
Fire, then becomes eerie and sinister to many people.
While my friend envisaged a starry night, sitting across a bonfire, with blankets and marshmallows.
The heat from the fire soothing the frigid air and the shivering toes. Consuming, devouring, annihilating the wood in order to stay alive.
Orange flames cackling while they dance, throwing vivid shadows and shapes under the dark of the night.
Its reflections in the eyes of the people gathered around, whispering secrets as its warmth caresses each soul.
Burning with the valiant desire to breathe. It reminded him of the beauty of being alive, each day.
“We can complain that rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice that thorns have roses,” while I had heard this many times, The Boy Who Loves Bonfires brought it to life and made me live it.
The Boy Who Loves Bonfires taught me a way of life.
I like to think of fire as the calm before a storm. Sometimes, the storm strikes and there is death, devastation, and loss to deal with. Sometimes, the storm passes over. It doesn’t strike. On those days, there is relief, warmth, calm and joy that the fire itself spreads.
I wonder sometimes, does fire know of its power? To create and destroy. Or does it remain an oblivious paradoxical element.
A paradox contradicts itself. It has various faces to it. The one we choose to focus on arbitrates much of our lives.
This I learned from him.
Who would have thought that a friendship that began in the dullest possible way would spark a fire. Dazzling and alive.
Eric, William and Ernest,
had all devoted their words to her.
Each syllable stirred, an innominate emotion,
each word pulled at her heartstrings.
So she set sail,
her heartsrings moulded into a mast,
her heart became the anchor
as she embarked to write about him.
‘His eyes, the colour of Earth
almost as if they dared her to venture,
to unearth the secrets they veiled
left her bewitched.
His scent intoxicated her,
reminded her of the comfort and stability
his arms offered as they engulfed her.
His heart beating in her ears.
His presence, made her heart smile,
propelled warmth into her soul
and dazzled her spirit,
promising to stay beside her.’
A single tear escaped from each eye
as she put the pen down
Each word that she had inscribed
sent a wave of sorrow.
As she mourned what could have been,
as she grieved over her loss,
as she devoted words to him
she became Eric, William and Ernest.
Shamelessly, she held onto that sliver of hope. The odds, ludicrously against her. Yet she stood her ground, grasping on to it. Maybe that was her strength.
Her combat had just ended, blood trickled down her skin. Clothes clung to her body, and a thousand scars adorned her form.
Yet she chose to believe, that humanity, the very one that had killed her lover and forced her to battle unknown anonymous heroes at the border was capable of warmth.
Anticipating that the end of the war would mean an end to all sufferings, she returned home, giddy with joy, only to find rubble and debris where her home was.
Dejected and in anguish, she made her way towards the young boy in the middle of the wreckage and as the toddler wrapped his little body around her leg, shrieking with joy, she knew that her sliver of hope had survived.
Whimsical Wordsmith 