Averagely mediocre trivialities

 I've realised that life is just an endless cycle of hoping, wishing and longing. We as humans are just constantly looking for things to long for; ending either in heartbreak or with us looking for the next thing to pine after. Be it a person, a place, a thing or a feeling, we are in a state of constant longing and never feeling content.  Achieving our dream leads us to a monotonous life and monotonicity makes us bleak. it's a sadness different from the heartbreak of longing but it's a sadness all the same. Human beings are truly a mystery. We're always longing for happiness and yet chasing after things to delay our happiness. Maybe happiness is an idea and not a feeling and the we find joy in the smaller things. Maybe we have been fed the idea of always having to long for something, never being able to be satisfied, feeling like nothing will ever be enough, feeling like we will never be enough, always clinging onto this thin ray of hope, which maybe one day might lead

 I've found solace in words in the form of songs, poetry and stories that whisk me away from the real world I so long to escape.   When I see something beautiful, my heart sings songs in words my brain cannot fathom and my pen cannot conjure. Why is it so that every emotion I feel is coupled with a heartsong that I am able to feel in my soul, but when i sit to write it down the pages remain empty? Why is it so that as a child I would write poems- about the light that shines in the stars that twinkle and the sun that shines, about the rain that would descend from the clouds unto my cold warm skin and the rain that would fall from my eyes unto my cheeks- and yet as an adult the only difference I see on the paper is the blot of the teardrop that dries too fast. Why is it that my heart sings sonnets when I see a painting or a photograph and it paints a picture when i read a poem? Why is it that I am unable to describe in words how I feel and yet words can perfectly describe how I am fe

Ground control to Major Tom. . . . This gem of a song by David Bowie has always been very close to my heart. It perfectly soundtracks my escapist mind. Sometimes when tough gets going and the going gets tough I wish I could shoot into the stars and just be. How beautiful it would be to just look at the blue speck that we call home. How insignificant then our problems would seem, and at the same time how majestic and beautiful this Earth would seem. The terrifying beauty of the vast space that etches till the end of the world and beyond, and you, a beautiful tragic lone wanderer, a witness to this terrifying beauty. I've always been fascinated with Space and stars and the Galaxy and everything above and beyond and for a long time I wanted to be an astronaut too but Science had maths and No. But I can still close my eyes and float above and swim in the ocean of stars and gaze at the beauty of Mars  and just stay.  So from time to time I put on this song and hear it in my hear

I've found solace in words in the form of songs, poetry and stories that whisk me away from the real world I so long to escape.  When I see something beautiful, my heart sings songs in words my brain cannot fathom and my pen cannot conjure. Why is it so that every emotion I feel is coupled with a heartsong that I am able to feel in my soul, but when i sit to write it down the pages remain empty? Why is it so that as a child I would write poems- about the light that shines in the stars that twinkle and the sun that shines, about the rain that would descend from the clouds unto my cold warm skin and the rain that would fall from my eyes unto my cheeks- and yet as an adult the only difference I see on the paper is the blot of the teardrop that dries too fast. Why is it that my heart sings sonnets when I see a painting or a photograph and it paints a picture when i read a poem? Why is it that I am unable to describe in words how I feel and yet words can perfectly describe how I am fe

If anyone asked me to describe myself, I guess I would say, I am someone who has lived my whole life inside my head. Consciously and unconsciously, as a refuge and as a prison, in dreams of the subconscious and dreams of the conscious mind, lamenting about the past and worrying about the future; living  in my head, coming out only for a futile superficial existence. Living inside your head can feel safe and secure, inside that bubble where the ailments of the outside world can't harm you, but at the same time the dementors in your mind, manage to gloom your escapism. . I have always had very erratic, adventurous and ludicrous dreams. Not divulging into analysing my dreams, so as to protect the only place where I face my fears and go on adventures, I tried to represent  my dreams in one picture. My dreams have always been terrifyingly beautiful (mostly),and provided a refuge for me when life might not have been going the way I would like it to. Specially at a time like now, where

Moss. Today I was thinking about how absolutely wonderful and beautiful Moss is, I couldn't get a picture however, so here's a picture of the sky today. How wonderful is it that it gets no light but grows in all its green glory, out of absolutely nothing? It kind of reminded me of art, any form of art that appears out of thin air, that appears out of nothing to replace an empty space and fill it completely for another to observe the beauty of it and make the grass greener for another to observe it. Like little drops of paint that spread on an empty canvas or little tunes  of sweet melody that spread through your heart, words that could fill up entire empty pages, these green wonders too come up out of nothing to fill the empty space, making it look greener. And like the moss which grows in dark places and places without light, art too sometimes tends to come from within us, from empty dark spaces where it seems the light cannot reach. Yet it can sprout up and strengthen your