.a written note.

Latika's Theme echoes in my ears and as much as life gives us chances to sing melodies wholeheartedly, I feel like singing it on this afternoon. It is the first day of the year, 2013, and as stereotypical as it gets, we all are given minds that are, somehow, dancing on the tunes we listened to last year. Last year. I wish you all a very happy new year and I wish you love. I wish that you understand that it's like the first rainfall in the month of June. Happiness, on the other hand, is what I'm yet to understand. But I want you to go ahead and seek it. Cherish your dreams and love the people around you while you're on the way and be loved in return. I hope that you give yourself time when you feel lost and live in a reverie. It's very rare that people find happiness through this way. People like that are rare. And I wish to meet them. This year, apart from teaching me lessons, showed me how emptiness happens. And what it does to one. Emptiness, again, is...

If not anything, I'd come here with jars of coffee and write. Yes, there have been days when I step my feet here with my mind more nurtured than before. Words like baskets filled with Blueberries accompany me but I have to be careful so they don't fall down on the floor. I had never thought I'd have people waiting for what I write. I received your letters. They smelled like bottle green coloured trees. I read the lines you sent me and they sounded as if I'd promised to get back soon. I haven't really spoken with all of you yet we communicate in a way. The silent conversations bright up my eyes and warm up the way I look at everything you send me. It's the season of Autumn and it's beautiful in its own way. It's been a month since I heard the sound as I type these words. I'll keep the unmade promise nonetheless. I've got stories to tell. People to introduce. Volumes to write. How're you all doing? I'm sending love. And I hop...

She gazes out the window, wondering what can make her swallow her pain.. All she sees are the city things, never the sunlight on the dying grain. The winds blow, touching her cheeks.. Appear the clouds, to not let the Sun burn her skin.. Flowers blossom, knowing she's unwell, wondering if forever, that's where she remains.. She knows all the efforts the nature puts in, not being a stranger. To make her feel good again and not to give in and be the same mess-maker. How she wishes the winds knew, that those remind her of a fragrance.. How she wishes the clouds understood, protecting her, they multiply his absence. The winds blow faster, the flowers grow bigger, Telling her not to be afraid.. The sun goes down like setting a crown, of inspiration and desires, on her head. For her life seems without any pleasing sky, down the street, across the breeze, there comes a butterfly. Asking her if or not can she feel a thing, she looks at it, about to ...