Here. Yet again.

He wanted her to stay.
Finding himself falling into the valley of expected horrors, he barely panicked. These deadly moors hiding behind white curtains had begun to swindle him again. And he, conceded.

Alas, he found himself exactly there. There. The one place he had been running away from. All this while.

Misguided

"She felt misguided, like she had led them all in the wrong direction.
Her passion wasn't writing or maintaining a stock of pretty notebooks or a humongous wardrobe of clothes.
Her passion was deception.
The mere act of faking."

Just a Thought

"Inspiration cannot be sought. It must and will, in due time, fly towards you and till then you must wait yet carry on."

Hope is why Ram went to rescue Sita. Happy Dusshera :)

Firstly, I want to thank everyone for being a part of my little 'Hope Quest'. It was overwhelming and very exciting to hear the kind of personal definitions and meanings people had. Mostly all the responses I received were optimistic. It was pleasing to see that people answered almost instinctively, furthermore proving the closeness of people to this issue.

For me, hope is the background music to life. The kind you see in a movie, you know? It's beautiful and goes on in the background, perpetually. Perfect in each moment. It's probably a clinging force as well, but it keeps us all going. It is dynamic. It is strength. It is weakness. Its a feeling more than a condition. It's always hovering in the shadows, so subtle. It shatters as quickly as glass, and is rebuilt in a jiffy.

In the words of  Francis Bacon, "Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper." I couldn't agree more. But I also believe that if hope is the reason people smile first thing in the morning, then it is also the reason people go to sleep with tranquility and solitude at night. Life is sometimes lugubrious and sometimes very well lit. During the day, we're all by ourselves, but in the dark of the night, we have hope. Sometimes, that's all we have.

Some people might say that hope is stagnant for it kills the desire to move forward and achieve what one can. But don't we all only hope when, against all odds and obstacles, we feel like we have lost it? That the light at the end of the tunnel is no longer at our disposal? Then how can hope kill the desire to achieve?
Hope is a beautiful belief.

Its watching those poor children in a temple ardently wait for food on a festival day.

Its the longing for a good birthday present every year.

It's the fire within you praying for someone else's lost spark to return.

Its the strong desire for the future to work out.

It's probably the only thing in the world which observes the glass as neither half full nor empty, but simply as a glass which can and will be filled with as much water as one wishes.

Hope justifies, 'May the odds be ever in your favour.'

Hope is why Harry Potter went to Hogwarts every year and redundantly tried to fight Voldemort,

Hope is why we do what we do and feel what we do. Its one powerful cosmic force. 

Hope resides and molds through the various predicaments of our lives. The oxford dictionary may define it as 'a feeling of expectation and desire for a particular thing to happen." but for every breathing soul there's hidden meaning behind the word hope. Some may even fear to face it 

Each of the meanings below will only make sense to you if you can relate to them. Try it out for yourself. :)

P.S. I am still in for more hope responses. :) 

We Accept the Love we Think we Deserve

That's okay

You're afraid, but not the way you think you are. You're just scared to let your guards down. Scared of starting all over again with strangers.

And that's okay.

A Heavy Heart is just Misery Breathing Out Loud

He walked into the room, watching people boisterously fuel into fits of laughter. Merriment and happiness seemed so easy every time he glanced at them, which was pretty often, by the way. His humongous, heavy heart barely had enough empty space to function routinely. He did not recognise the problem as easily as he could feel it looming out of the blanch walls and cover his world in profound blackness.It was an enigma of all sorts, this abysmal low he was feeding on.

He kept waiting. Why? He did not know.

These people, did they not feel it?

Were they not being succumbed into the languid horror?

That little rebel inside him fought to death, breaking barriers and sinking alongside. Sometimes it could even imagine its soul floating at the surface of the fire, charred; scarcely aware of the dispassionate motive following far along. Maybe that's why it gave up every once in a while. Because every once in a while, it did get too much. But it held on there. For it knew, what the world perceives was momentary when measured against the strength it held

Why did he not say anything out loud? He did not know who would really be kind enough to judge or callous enough to use this piece of information to pull up one's own haughty business. After all, they'd all been ostentatious in ways larger than themselves. Only if he could find one sign, anywhere in the universe. That would probably be enough, wouldn't it?

Sometimes, he'd roll with the punched. The other times, he could hear his thoughts gushing forcibly out of his cranium, only to end up being inaudible to the world outside. The thoughts felt ascetic and could barely be kept out. The screaming would grow louder and louder. And with every bar of rising volume, it turned horrific and bellowed sticks and stones. His life, sadly, was an alternative between these two. And somewhere midst the shuffling, he was rendered numb and his eyes spake love. 

This ever musing tragedy that refused to leave his side made him feel deep like the ocean, when at edge of silence. Yet, at the very same time he felt at loss of words. He had tried to look back often, only to hear the shadows sing their songs of demise. But even walking forth seemed equally unattainable.

His fragile cocoon refused to crack open. Its only when a caterpillar feels its death approaching, that it transforms into a butterfly. He never claimed to be one, but hoped that somebody saw him as one and was intently waiting for him to fly off and do miracles! 

He was fugitive to his own reign.

Whether he was left, or did he leave. It wasn't much of a win-win either way. 

In shallow terms, he'd say he was a mess. And he probably was. But he felt like something more abstruse than just an emotional wreck. His agony reached heights of persistence, and these uncanny boulders of guilt and self-deprecation just did not seem to fit right with each other.

He believed he was an ultimate cry for help. In fact, it wouldn't hurt. But egotism prevented his foot from trembling even an inch; mendicancy was never his thing.

And just like that, he had one last gander at those smiles and glistening lights in the room, before walking out and feeling the cool breeze, relentlessly reminding him of the envious grounds, towards which he'd idly find himself drifting.

There's courage in writing, which only who write can know

I read some beautiful pieces sometimes, and I mean it when I say they are beautiful. Scribbled words can mean so much. They can help someone feel better because they just vented out a whole lot of exhaustion and pain. They can serve as evidence, proof or memories, all at the same time. They have the power to change. To change the world, even. They can take people to places. Or help the miser escape. They can teach life lessons and help you feel connected in a moment, when bonding with the outside world can be such a Sisyphean task. They are a whole different world, quiet and mesmerizing. And they can touch down, deep within. They can tell you about a person, who can barely talk about himself. They can scar and blind, and give living things a life.
You can tell who a person is from what he writes, but not so much from what he says.

Stuck there, in the fury of the moment

And then there will be days when a stagnant mind will have so much to say but his mouth or hands will refuse to cooperate. That is when one might wonder, how did I come here? Or rather, where.
In life, I guess that's when you've come a long way and still have a long way to go. You're motionless yet free to follow your own cause of direction. Tied by bonds you may or may not regret.

Mumbaikar? LOL :P

I'm officially now a 'Mumbaikar'. I have been shifted from the calm and serene town of Pune to the fast and happening city of Mumbai.I tend to refer to Pune as town because I think it just is that tiny compared to Mumbai. However, I will always love Pune. No matter what. How does one simply forget the place they grew up in? I guess not. I do miss it a lot actually. But that's part of the process. I just have to let it reside at the back of my head, whilst continue to survive and adapt simultaneously here. It's a big change, in every aspect. Perhaps, something good is awaiting. A pleasant surprise.
I guess I'll know. Soon.
As of now, I haven't seen much of the town or people to really scrutinize critically enough. But eventually, I hope to develop a viewpoint.
I was miserable a couple of days back but a chain of events has led to me being filled with loads of inevitable inspiration and a funny joy that tells me that it's all for the better and that life can change and still go on. In fact, it will.