//The Goodbyes//

 

They never told us

how difficult a goodbye could be...

When you see your loved ones 

waving behind the entry point,

trying hard not to cry.

They never taught us

how to detach ourselves

from everything we thought we knew--

everything that became a part of us--

versus everything we will need to learn

to become a better version

 of someone we sometimes think we knew.

 

We were never told

how a flight of 9000 miles

doesn't just carry us oceans apart,

or continents apart--

but into an entirely different time zone.

When you sink into your bed,

tired from work,

but still smile each time

across the screen

seeing the faces waiting to hear your voice,

you try hard to talk about your day--

your eyes dozing,

your mind fogging.

You wish you could concisely describe it best,

how every day feels different,

and some days,

it's a struggle just to find the right words instead.

you are there, 

but your heart is away. . . 

Some days, it's just you,

staring the blank walls,

trying to figure things out.

And they told us--

this is all part of "adulting"

or a "diaspora"

an infliction of feeling missing.

They never told us

that the struggle 

is not just to leave--

but to return back

to the place you left...

only to find that it doesn't exist anymore.

In the journey of reaching a destination,

and coming back to the place you once knew--

it's not just the place that has changed.

it's you.

It is still you.

But you are different.

~Sybil Samuel~

We are S T O R I E S

We are S T O R I E S
of paragraphs and pauses
of letters concocted of mistakes and desires
of sentences misread
of silence travailing for words

We are S T O R I E S
of brief sighs traversing the paths
unknown of mysteries and truth,
searching for ways to resolve our dilemmas
our conscience streaked in monotones
of nothingness and despair
while eyes secretly peer at the distant land of metaphors
assuming in our hearts,
for everything to be but a dream

We are S T O R I E S
of incomplete verses struggling for words
we wander through wildflowers
half awake and in slumber
in vague search of adventure
eulogizing the beauty of sorrow
yet trading silently a part of soul
convicted yet unconvinced
living a life with an asterisk

We are S T O R I E S
breathing inside the heart of darkness
the soul of the infinite universe
restless yet certain
we are words longing for voice
longing to be understood
longing to be heard
longing to live the fantasy

We are S T O R I E S
pronouncing a purpose
on the pages of eternity
scribbling a different end
no matter what the fate unfolds
scribbling a fresh beginning
a story of hope
overshadowing the past.

(Image credits: Pinterest.com)

Behind the darkness

While the city slumbers in the silence,

 Behind thick velvets and dim lights.

The fluorescent yellow burn across the streets,

And the moon quietly hide behind the clouds.

There still lies a world, awake.

In the corners of the town.

Living amidst the crowd yet hid behind the shadows, Behind the veils of a gossamer gray, with spider's web weaving an intricate tapestry.

Little eyes silently peer out from their hiding place,

Their faces pale, lean frames appearing anemic, 

The unfortunate few, 

Born to wrestle to survive, 

Born under plight of poverty, their lives a constant struggle, 

Suffering the maladies of a broken and lost humanity.

Shabbily dressed, unkempt hairs, tears stained cheeks, feeble, yet they are bathed with the luster of ambition and dreams. 

Draw closer, 

And reach, to learn more what the darkness hides.

Behind the gossamer gray, 

A glimpse into the world beyond,  

A world dark, full of nothings.

An abyss of deep darkness.

The darkness of fate,

The darkness of souls,

The darkness of callous hearts.

The darkness of a world of unspoken truths,

The bitter and ugly truth.

Empty room, dim lights

Silent lips quivering in a corner

Her curls fall over her face, 

Wine drip from the glass in her hand.

She is intoxicated, 

Intoxicated, but, with grief.

She wore a cocktail dress and high heels,

Flaunting her perfect body with the glitter and glamour.

She appeared a flawless beauty.

Yet her eyes appealed something deep. 

Behind the smile and charm

She hid her story, the truth of her pain.

Her heart was secretly torn inside,

She burnt with a thirst intense,

Of promises and desires unfulfilled. 

She smelled of alcohol and her favourite perfume,

Yet the lingering smell of longings

Never faded from her.

The longing of nothings,

Of nothings left betrayed,

Of longings, none can explain.

She silently hides in the darkness,

And the world will never see nor hear her cry.

Sometimes, sadness is beautiful.

Sometimes, sadness comforts while the rest of the world suffocates you.

And sometimes sadness is all that is left, as your own.

There's always a story, 

Hiding behind the mask,

Hid behind the curtains of misfortune, and despair.

Behind the shimmery make up, hiding its scars of past,

Behind the silent lips, that cried all night, hiding a story of desperation and abuse.

Behind the smiling, guilty face, disappearing in the shadows in dark.

The darkness of awful silence, 

The unspoken silence.

The unheard truth.

* * *

SACHIN

(Image credits: pinterest. com) 

In the silent midnight hour, when the chaos and noise almost mutes and the fluorescent lights are visible across the streets. When the city slumbers in their comfy bed chambers and the heavy velvets are drawn across for privacy. 

There still lies a world, in the corners of the town, awake, living in the shadows, hiding behind the veils of a gossamer gray. 

(Image credits: borgenmagazine. com) 

 Their faces pale appearing anemic, lean frames with little eyes peering out from their hiding place. They were the unfortunate few, born to wrestle for survival. 

(Image credits: tribune. com. pk) 

Born under the heavy burdens laden of poverty. 

Their lives a constant struggle... Suffering the maladies of a broken and lost humanity. 

(Image credits: Google Images) 

Bewildered with grief and despair yet undeterred they were cold from weather not cold of hearts. 

Shabbily dressed, unkempt hairs, tears stained cheeks, feeble, dull yet they were bathed with the luster of unique dreams. 

If one would ever draw nearer to these, they could glimpse into an another world beyond. 

A world enveloped of darkness. The darkness of nothing,  often criticized and judged. The darkness hiding behind the shadows. Yet, The darkness heralding the approach of a new dawn. 

The world where they never fail to appreciate the dim ray of hope, the hope of grasping life .

 Their grateful hearts never craving for the ugly greed. Their lips never betraying the truth. 

Their souls humble to serve but often exploited as slaves. They embrace the dark as from the dark of nothing once human life began. 

The nothing holding everything in its grasp yet never loosening its reins to the shallow, foolish hearts of men to claim it or boast. 

It is the darkness of fate yet the dark of transcendence. Their empty hands possess the keys unlocking the doors of a world unknown. 

The Dark is often a world of unspoken truths .

The Truth often being, so bitter and ugly. 

******

Its 2p.m 

There are those that lie awake in the  silent dark hours, like me, scribbling their blabbering minds in ink on pages. 

Symptoms of Insomnia. The pleasure of the poets and writers. 

I then decided to stroll outside.

I walked through the dingy, dark streets, saw the rats squeak and nibble the bits of food from the trash in the corner. 

I was surprised to still hear the voices of some children nearby at such a dreaded time. 

Their voices intrigued me to walk the distance towards them. I stood there still in shock and surprise. 

What would kids in a country like ours do? Play the game one worships as religion.

 I saw their faces beaming under the fluorescent street lights. 

Who said night is meant only to sleep? I smiled broadly and watched from a distance as they played. 

Who would mind an amusing audience? 

And then I heard a loud voice, which made me grieve, I looked at their sunken low faces, I looked up inquired the clouds, they were thick and dark, and again the thunders roared echoing an alarm for a war in the heavens. Revolting clouds clattered pouring down sheets of heavy rain. Lightning and thunders clashed over supremacy. 

I sit  beside my desk and my burgandy diary holding my coffee mug in hand, a faint smile appeared on my face as I reflected the last event, just few minutes ago, with the little boy. 

"What is your name? "- I questioned as he stretched his hands and asked me for his cricket ball, I had picked from the ground. 

"Give me first my cricket ball" he seemed impatient so I gave him the ball. 

"Sachin" he shouted as he ran drenching in the rain back to his hiding den. 

Back into his world in the corners of the town, hidden somewhere behind the shadows, where he'll peer out his little eyes from the gossamer gray curtain. And will look with his glittering, dreamy eyes, to a world on the other side. To a world which gives him a bleak hope burning in the darkness of his reality. 

And also the world where he found his dream. 

A dream though appealing like fetching the stars, but his dream, his own one, that gave him a reason to smile and live. 

(Image credits: editplatter. com) 

Sachin the dream of million unknown faces in the dark. 

"Sachin" I muttered and switched off the light. 

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 ©Sybil Samuel

Midnight Musings

He stood silent... Staring ahead the charcoal blanket full of tiny stars twinkling brightly in the dark sky. The silver crescent moon hung over the horizon. 

He closed his eyes and gasped, then drew the pale curtains over the windows.
The room fell quiet and dark, only the dim moonlight that streamed in through the window, made it bit comforting, though, it did not fail to appeal like a haunting dark dungeoun. 

The place smelled like aged wallpaper, rust and somewhat of coffee beans.

Soon the thick dark clouds hid the crescent silver moon... The lake remained calm and still, as the glimpse of the beautiful silvery moon was overcast from view.... 

The leaves ruffled by slow breeze, the rats squeaked in their little holes, nibbling the bits of food, the owl settled on a thick branch of a tree... 

It was dark, one would be afraid of even their own shadow... The bats were the only noisiest mammals outside in such dark.... 

The silent midnight hour, when the world falls in slumber, deafened to the outside chaos and noise... 

While some struggle alone in the unpleasant dark, left bruised, abandoned and hurting...  Some hearts grieving in silence, unheard, unseen...
Weeping in their loneliness... Unnoticed...

He stooped a little, his silver teacup was lying near his favourite velvet cushioned chair, he bent low to pick it up.

Why was he still awake so late? A man in late 60s, silver grey hairs, wrinkled loose skin, searching a cup in the dark...
He lowered himself to pick the cup, the chain on his neck touched the floor, the silver cross on his chain beamed as the moonlight fell on it.
He smiled, a content smile of relief, as he picked the cup and stared the cross.

"Somethings meant to occur..." He mumbled quietly and reclined on a chair near his desk .

A burgundy color diary was kept on his desk, he lit the lamp and the fluorescent light beamed in the dingy room.
He held his smile, the gentle, warm smile of knowing. . . . knowing certain things...

He was a retired priest, silver haired man, with thoughtful grey eyes, who treasured the wisdom sought under the sun. Lived as an interested audience, watching various dramas of life unfold before him. A keen observer of life, of things... Of the peculiar, little things, that many would fail to notice. Only now, with old age holding him in its clutch, he found himself increasingly critical of the drama submitted to him.

The night was frigid and still. The houses in the neighborhood loomed huge and imposing, and most people's porch lights were already off for the night.

He closed his eyes and gasped.

And then began scribbling in his diary...

"Everything in his time"

. . . Still carrying that smile, his mind busy in musings...

"We sit with our lives in the wrinkles of our fists, unable to comprehend or understand ourselves.

Sombre, dreary mortals...

Breathing...
Time, passing away with our breaths... Moments fleeting from us with a blink...

Beyond our will or power...

Absolute certainties crumble to dust.

All the metaphors cannot truly describe Life..."

He shut his eyes and pondered deeply.

"The weights that bring us down... Hold back our empty hearts..."

He paused and stared the withered sunflower kept in a vase on his table.

"Sometimes... But not sometimes...

It is always, worth the fight.

For One Day...

All that seemed far away, visible from a distance...
Will become clear...

The blurry ... Glimpse of that something familiar...
Something we had often known... All along...
Something known to our subconscious ... To our hearts...

Something...
Our beating hearts never forgot to remind...

Something whispered as a wish though agreed with a frail heart...

(Image Credits: rashadifoundation.org)

And Then the magical thing... 

Something ..  Meant to occur ... 

As purposed... 

The gossamer thread belief one clungs to for so long... Even when the strength was gone... Amidst the rough and overwhelming trails...

Yet one hung onto it.... The shimmery gossamer thread of faith in the dark..."

He paused his gaze fell at the Sacred Heart image of Christ on his wall. 

He took a long breath, held his pen and continued.

" Resign not to fate...  It shall come to pass."

The room was silent. A long tail flickered. Two eyes glowed yellow. A cat scampered stealthily across the room.

"Kitty, my lovely fluffy cat... " He smiled broadly. 

He closed the burgandy diary and looked at the clock. 

"Time for bed..." The cat purred slowly. 

"Sleep.. (Walked lowering his head) will never be worthy of the dreams we dare to touch."

(Image Credits: flvrkids.com)

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