Philosophical Me!

Truth or lies?

imageAnd that chapter is the one everybody is dying to read,don’t ya think?
And that chapter is the one everybody is dying to read,don't ya think?

Truth and lies.

I won’t moralise about what I’ve learned but I can tell you this: in my experience, telling the truth can land you in just as much shit—err, crap, as lying. More sometimes. Sure, a lie can trap you; it can crush you immediately or slowly weigh you down until you suffocate. But telling the truth won’t necessarily set you free; it can cost you everything you love the most. And it can force you to face yourself, as painful as that may be.

So, Truth or Lies?

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Beautiful Liar.

Source: Pinterest

SECRETS are lies in their own right. One can’t keep a secret without a lie. And we revere someone who can keep a secret, yet scorn those who lie. It is the same. They all meld together. We want confidantes to surround us, trustworthy and loyal. But we scream bloody murder when we find someone has been keeping secrets from us. We forget to remember the fact that they could be someone’s confidante themselves. Or maybe it’s not their secret to tell. And, maybe not ours to know either. Secrets we have with our cronies are revered. They make our bond grow stronger. Secrets they have with someone else, us being not on the in, ruin relationships of years past. We love, we fight, we cry over those secrets. But we can’t live without them. They rule us and all our actions. They control us in ways we would destroy lives to get away from the pressure of revealing them than succumb. But we won’t let go. Every now and then, the slate is clean and we have the opportunity to move forward without any of it weighing us down. But another day dawns and ding! We are back to square one, surrounded by beautiful lies and lovely secrets, ever strengthening the stench of desperation to be the one holding all the cards where the bets are high and the game has just begun.

Poetry

Betrayal and Heartbreak.

imageNo tears. Just rain.
No tears. Just rain.

The untrusted word
The broken promise
The knife in the back
The smile behind the hand
The lies and laughter
The bitchy disaster
The unlikely recovery
The fake concern
The non-sensical question
The anger returns
There’s no hurt
There’s no sadness
It’s all anger now.
Vicious anger.
Ready to over flow,
Like hot lava all over.

P.S. It’s been so long since I wrote something like that. Not that I have improved over the years. Not even a bit. But, well, it is what it is.

Fiction.📝

He.

imageAnd, life wouldn’t be so meaningless.
And, life wouldn't be so meaningless.

Ghosts blew through the deserted corridors of his soul like gusts of cold wind. His eyes. It looked like nothing resided in those icy blue globes. But for a fleeting second I saw whole universe swimming in there. Then the shutters dropped as if it never was. That half-grin of his was just that –a wry twist of his lips, trying to hide the real beauty behind it. It was nothing like his real smile. That was a breathtaking sight. When he smiled, people stopped and stared. But he didn’t do it often. No. It was as if he was afraid of smiling; as if the reason behind it would be taken away from him if he showed even a sign that he was a normal, lovable person. He acted like an emotionless, ice-hearted asshole who only did what he wanted to without giving a shit about anyone. But, I saw the truth. I saw that he was a guy with heart of gold and most colorful mind.

-a-

Poetry

Amber eyes.

2
Source | AMBER EYES.

Those whiskey eyes
Drenched in her heart blood,
Staring silently into the darkness.
Long eyelashes wet
With the dew of her soul’s rains.
The dark half moons under her amber jewels
More pronounced than ever.
They are the I’ve-seen-it-all eyes,
Laden with experiences of numerous lives past.
She has no crow’s feet.
She’s young.
But her precious eyes tell a different story.
She’s lived through it all.
Those liquid gold eyes have been witness.
Numbness is her friend.
Her eyes know it even better.

-a-

Poetry

Tasting Him.

image

He brought with him the scent of the rain
The first shower of monsoon.
The decadent smell of earth permeated their nostrils.
They inhaled deeply as if it was their last breath and they were dying.

She couldn’t smell.
She wouldn’t smell.
Instead she chose to taste him.
Breathing him in was as detached as something could be.
She wanted to get so close to him she would feel his soul stir.

Eye contact.
Glances were exchanged, eye to eye.
Smiles were returned, mouth to mouth.
Messages back and forth, heart to heart.

She went up behind him and tasted his neck.
His skin tasted like the most delicious chocolate, a hint of wood, a pinch of bitter.
She could taste the passion wafting from the pores of his skin.
It tasted raw. It tasted real.

She found a drop of sweat ready to roll down the curve where his life beat met his shoulders.
Intermingled with his anger and aggression,
It tasted of his struggles and hard work.
It tasted of salt, grainy with a hint of satisfaction.
He was like the most delicious coffee she sipped on a Sunday afternoon while re-reading her favorite book.

Licking along the rhythmically beating pulse, she discovered his dreams.
He had his own personal universe hidden inside him.
Nobody had discovered it. Nobody had dared.
The rhythm spoke of days past.
It had been steady. It was galloping now.
He wanted her to discover him. He wanted her to know.

She felt the secrets evaporate from the top of his skin.
They were all around her now.
They were all in the air just like his smell.
Nobody realized. Nobody cared.
All they wanted was to soak in the smell of him.
His essence, only she discovered.

She knew she had stumbled upon something special.
It was a gift only she received.
Others weren’t privy to his deep thoughts and beautiful heart.
She was. She knew.

Staring deep into the eyes again,
They discovered each other’s galaxies.
He was ready to taste her now.
He was ready to discover her.
She was ready to be discovered.
She had been starving before.
The satiation came at last.

-a-

Poetry

Two Broken Wings.

imageSource: Google Images Source: Google Images
Source: Google Images

She had a lonely past.

Loneliness, her friend of choice.

The past had taught her lessons few.

Drunk mother taught her to keep her mouth shut.

Opening it resulted in insults hurled incessantly.

It was better to stay hidden.

It was better to stay quiet.

Depressed father educated her to never get attached.

The spirit bottles her mother guzzled had made him a broken man.

He did nothing. He said nothing.

It was better to stay aloof.

It was better to stay away.

Promiscuous sister was the next in line.

She taught her to never trust the divine.

She slept around in hopes of finding the one.

There was no one.

There was never one.

She used to dream of flying around,

Enjoy the sights and the cheerful sounds.

She was now a bird with a broken wing.

She couldn’t fly, she didn’t dream.

Then came he.

Filling her with hope and positivity,

He told her she was magnificent and free.

She believed him and started to try,

She was going to be the bird

With a broken wing who could fly.

She thought she got rid of the past that engulfed her.

She didn’t think she needed to stick with the lessons anymore.

She believed he was the one who would help her fly and dream again.

He was the last straw, he wasn’t supposed to be.

He promised to teach her to fly with one wing.

Instead, he broke the other wing.

She was now a bird with two broken wings,

that couldn’t fly.

She wouldn’t fly.

-a-