In the Balance
In the shadows of my heart, where whispers dwell,
A battle rages, one I know too well.
The past looms large, its echoes loud and clear,
Fear and hope entwined, drawing near.
I’ve walked this road, felt the thorns and the blooms,
Danced with dreams beneath the midnight moons.
But scars remain, reminders of the pain,
And I don’t know if I want to try again.
The sunrise calls, with promises of new,
Yet doubt persists, casting its muted hue.
The lessons learned, they weigh upon my mind,
A tangled web of what I seek to find.
Can I believe, as once I did before,
That there's a door, beyond this fearsome roar?
Or am I bound, to linger in the past,
Afraid to leap, to love, to truly last?
The heart is frail, yet resilient too,
But trust is hard, when wounds are still so new.
The light and dark, they dance within my soul,
Leaving me uncertain, questioning the goal.
Should I embrace the unknown paths ahead,
Or let the memories keep me instead?
I stand at crossroads, torn by doubt and then,
I wonder if I want to try again.
Heaven Lies in Me and You
In a room where silence screams,
Where shadows dance in dim-lit dreams,
Three souls entwined, their fates unfurled,
A mirror to the inner world.
No flames, no pitchforks, no descent,
But torment in the present tense,
A gaze, a word, a knowing glance,
Condemnation in a twisted dance.
Hell is not a place below,
It's in the eyes of those we know,
A judgment passed without reprieve,
A prison where we cannot leave.
In Sartre's world, we play our part,
Our truths exposed, our secrets bared,
We seek escape, but can't depart,
In endless loop, we're ensnared.
The self is lost, the other reigns,
Our essence bound in human chains,
In every look, in every sneer,
The essence of our deepest fear.
For what are we but our reflections,
In the eyes of others' projections,
A constant state of raw inspection,
A lifetime's worth of introspection.
We wear our masks, we play our roles,
In this theater of human souls,
Yet freedom lies in our control,
To break these chains, to be made whole.
So here we stand, our hearts laid bare,
In Sartre's vision, stripped of care,
Hell is other people, true,
But heaven lies in me and you.
To see beyond the other's gaze,
To find ourselves in life's cruel maze,
To redefine, to reconnect,
To find the peace that we neglect.
In every look, a chance to see,
The boundless depth of you and me,
For in this Hell, there's hope concealed,
A path to grace, a chance to heal.
To Whom It May Concern
Inside your head,
a storm rages,
a tempest unseen but felt with every breath.
You are a ship lost at sea,
adrift in the chaos of your own mind.
They say it's all in your head,
as if these words can dismiss the reality,
as if the torment is imagined,
a figment of overactive thoughts.
But you feel it, every day, every night,
the weight of a thousand shadows,
pressing down, suffocating.
To whom it may concern,
this is not a cry for attention,
nor a plea for sympathy.
This is your truth,
raw and unfiltered,
a glimpse into the abyss.
There are days when the light breaks through,
a fragile beam of hope.
But more often, the darkness envelops you,
a cloak of despair that you cannot shake.
You wear it like a second skin,
and it whispers lies,
telling you that you are not enough,
that you will never be enough.
Every smile is a mask,
every laugh a hollow echo.
Inside, you are crumbling,
pieces of you falling away,
lost to the void.
To whom it may concern,
this is not a choice,
not a weakness,
not an excuse.
It is a battle,
a fight for survival,
against an enemy that knows you too well.
You wake up to the same struggle,
the same relentless tide,
pulling you under,
drowning you in self-doubt and fear.
You try to reach out,
to grasp at anything that might save you,
but your hands find only emptiness.
There are moments of clarity,
brief and fleeting,
where you see the world as it is,
not through the haze of your mind.
In those moments, you remember who you are,
who you could be,
if only this darkness would release you.
To whom it may concern,
understand this:
You are not defined by your flaws,
but it is a part of you,
a part you cannot ignore.
It shapes your days, your nights,
your thoughts, your dreams.
But you are still here,
fighting,
struggling,
surviving.
You are more than your pain,
more than your fears.
You are human,
imperfect and flawed,
but still worthy of love,
of understanding.
To whom it may concern,
do not judge what you cannot see,
do not dismiss what you do not know.
This is real,
and it is a battle you face every day.
But you are still here,
and that is enough.
Jasmine and Rain
Beneath the monsoon clouds that engulf Old Dhaka,
with the sound of rickshaws clattering and cobblestone whispers mingling,
is Mira's homemade of clay and bamboo,
infused with the scent of jasmine and nestled against the sound of rain.
When the city is still dreaming, at the first sigh of dawn,
With her fingers writing the day's events with smoke and unsaid hopes,
she awakens the hearth.
Wearing a variety of colored sarees, she makes her way toward her purpose.
A tricky balancing act between responsibilities and dreams.
She carries earthen pots, laden with the promise of the day,
down busy lanes teeming with stories and spices.
Their contents, each drip bearing witness to her silent sacrifices,
are as valuable as slowly melting ice.
In the market's raucous heart, her voice—a tender vine—
Twines through the tumult, a soft yet enduring grace.
She peddles spices, each ground seed imbued
With the essence of her soul, a subtle, enduring trace.
Her hands, painted with turmeric’s ancient gold,
Sketch unseen tales in the vibrant air,
Echoes of ancestors whose spirits, bold and unyielding,
Shine through her gaze, fierce and clear.
As the expanse of the city is enveloped in twilight,
Mira retraces the fragrant pathways of the day—the sway of cumin, the call of cardamom.
Returning to her hearth, where silent plays are hosted by shadows,
And her dreams scale the walls, reaching for the silent stars.
She finds comfort in her small haven beneath the thick blanket of darkness,
her spirit's troubles lifted.
As the Ganges speaks of routes, beneath the moon's soft touch
Her story is intertwined into the timeless fabric of people who shape, not simply endure, as she winds down to the morrow.
An Ocean in a Drop
Above, a slate sky grumbled, its belly full of tempest. Below, the ocean heaved in sympathy, tossing and turning with restless waves. Amidst this turmoil, a single drop of water began its descent, plucked from the heavens by the pull of an unseen hand.
As it fell, the drop saw the world in a blur—an array of shifting colors and shapes. It felt the thrill of the dive, the rush of the wind, the anticipation of the impact. Then, with a soft sigh, it touched the cheek of a child.
The child, with eyes wide and sparkling with joy, looked up at the sky. Laughter bubbled up from within as more drops joined the first, a chorus of tiny voices singing against the skin. The drop, now a part of this joyous assembly, lingered on the child's smile, a moment of pure, unbridled happiness.
The journey proceeded, with the drop, now a part of a stream, meandering through meadows and woodlands, telling secrets to the stones it passes. It nourished the thirsty earth, watched as seeds sprouted, blossoming flowers, and life in all its forms dancing to the beat of the changing seasons.
The drop traveled farther, joining rivers, flowing past cities where it quenched the parched throats of the weary, washed away the grime of days. It became a part of lives, a momentary respite, a drop in the endless cycle of existence.
Finally, the drop reached the ocean, its journey coming full circle. It joined the vast, unfathomable depths, becoming one with the multitude.
And as the night embraced the world, the drop, now the ocean, whispered to the stars above, its voice carrying the memories of its journey—an ode to the beauty of existence, a reminder that even the smallest can touch the hearts of many, a drop in the ocean.
From the Corner Table
I'm sitting in the corner of Café Léon, a quaint spot that’s a stone's throw away from my apartment. The wooden floors creak underfoot. I'm supposed to be working on my novel, but the blank document on my laptop screen mocks me. Instead, I find myself lost in the steam swirling from my coffee cup, a tempest in a teacup, you could say.
Café Léon is my sanctuary, a place where I can disappear into the background and observe the world in its raw, unfiltered state. The barista, a young woman with tattoos crawling up her arms like ivy, knows my order by heart - a small cappuccino, no sugar, with a dash of cinnamon on top. It's the little things.
The café is buzzing with greater energy than normal today. The large table by the window is occupied by a bunch of college students, with their textbooks and laptops strewn around like pieces of a puzzle they're all trying to solve together. Lost in their own little world, a pair whispers softly to one another in the distant corner. Then there's me, the perennial bystander, taking everything in.
My phone vibrates, breaking the spell. It's a message from my editor, no doubt a gentle nudge about my looming deadline. My aim has been to write a book that encapsulates modern living, the interconnectivity of human experiences, and the beauty inherent in ordinary moments. But the truth is, I've been having trouble. Seeing life is one thing, but putting it into meaningful words is quite another.
I take a sip of my cappuccino and feel the comforting warmth from the cinnamon. I turn to look around and see that the source of inspiration I've been looking for is right in front of me. Every person at the café is a character with their own backstory, set of challenges, and victories, making it a microcosm of life itself.
With renewed purpose, I begin to type. In my piece, I portray the barista as a striving artist who finds comfort in the routine of brewing coffee. I write about the students, each carrying the weight of their dreams and fears. I write about the couple because, in a world that frequently appears dark, their love is a light of hope.
After several hours, the café begins to close. The barista wipes off the counter and smiles knowingly at me. "Inspiration struck?" she asks.
I return the smile and shut my laptop. "Something like that."
I exit Café Leon and the cold evening air welcomes me. The world appears slightly more appealing and less overwhelming. In my book, I've tried to portray a little bit of modern life, but more than anything, I've rediscovering the joy of writing. And that's more than enough for now.
Under One Sky
Two souls, Adriana and Leo, who were unknown to one another but profoundly connected, resided in the center of the city, where skyscrapers kissed the sky and the streets buzzed with the beat of the restless. Their paths crossed every morning as the city awoke in a cloud of golden dawn; it was a brief moment of closeness, a near touch of destiny.
Adriana left Westside for the 7:45 AM train, her dreams nestled under her arm in the shape of a well-used notebook. Her days were spent creating the images that light up the city's nights in a cubicle on the twenty-fourth level. The same train left Eastside at the same moment as Leo, a photographer whose heartbeat in step with the heartbeat of the city. His mornings disappeared into the maze of streets, seizing moments that revealed the secrets of the city in whispers.
Their lives were a series of near misses. Leo went over his morning's work at the busy coffee shop where Adriana scribbled thoughts on napkins while their tables reflected images of each other. They would walk the same route around Central Park in the evenings, their footfall a silent duet on the meandering trails as the city painted itself in hues of dusk.
Up until the day the clouds parted, bringing with them a deluge of rain so intense that it became impossible to distinguish one place from another, the pattern persisted, a monument to the city's unwritten code of silence. Without an umbrella, Adriana ran under the bookstore's awning and huddled her notebook to her chest. Moments later, Leo, shielding his camera under his jacket, ducked beside her, both seeking refuge from the unexpected storm.
A spark of recognition ignited between them as their eyes locked—a recognition of spirits that had danced around each other for far too long, rather than just faces. The symphony of the rain fell about them, a curtain closing off the outside world.
"I've seen you before," Leo said, his voice a blend of curiosity and certainty.
"In the reflections of the city," Adriana replied, her smile a bridge spanning their worlds.
During that conversation, they found a common rhythm for their lives in the middle of the metropolis as their words flowed through the gaps between their nearly-meetings. Even after the rain stopped, they stayed put, unwilling to return to the flow that had kept them apart.
The city appeared different when they eventually parted, as if recognizing their newfound bond. Adriana and Leo rode the 7:45 AM train together the following morning and every morning after that, no longer traveling in separate directions but rather as friends on a journey altered by destiny.
One Day of Snow
A blanket of snow dampened the city's usual sounds as it awoke to an unfamiliar peacefulness. The sight was as stunningly gorgeous as it was perplexing for a place unaccustomed to winter's touch. With their faces pressed against the glass and their eyes wide with awe, they walked from the high-rise apartments to the old quarter's small lanes.
Breath clouds formed in the chilly air when Mara, a barista at a downtown café, stepped outside. The city seemed to have been born again, its hard edges softer and its relentless pace slowing. She observed children and adults alike, who were hesitant at first, as they ventured out into this unfamiliar environment and left their mark through footprints.
Across the city, Tom, a taxi driver for thirty years, sat in his cab, parked at the side of the road. The snow had rendered his job unnecessary for the day, but he felt no irritation. Instead, he marveled at the silence, the absence of the constant hum of traffic. For once, he wasn't racing against time; he was merely an observer to the unexpected pause in everyone's lives.
In the heart of the city, under the shadow of tall buildings, an elderly man named Mr. Chen walked his dog through the snow-covered park. The usual green had vanished under a layer of white, transforming the familiar into the magical. Mr. Chen smiled as his dog bounded ahead, kicking up flurries of snow. This was a day to remember, a stark contrast to the monotony that had seeped into his golden years.
The initial reluctance gave way to play and laughing as the day went on. There were snowmen everywhere—on parks' pathways, on balconies, and in varied shapes and sizes. Unplanned snowball fights erupted, bringing complete strangers into momentary fellowship.
Having never seen snow before, Mara closed the café early to help a group of kids construct a snow fort. Their laughter brought her delight; it was a sound so pure and contagious that it helped her forget the troubles that otherwise weighed her down.
Tom, on the other hand, had left his taxi behind and was now wandering the streets capturing moments of joy and surprise on his phone. The city, which had always seemed so familiar, had changed to become a place of joy and exploration.
And when Mr. Chen got home, he sat with the snow falling outside his window. With his wife gone for the last five years, he thought of how much she would have enjoyed this day. He felt connected to something more than himself for the first time in a long time.
The city shone under the streetlights as night fell, the snow turning the light into a million diamonds. The day served as a gift, a reprieve from time's unrelenting advance and a reminder of the wonder and beauty that may still astound and bring people together.
The snow would begin to melt tomorrow, and the city would resume its regular schedule. However, they would always be reminded of this day and its fleeting enchantment; it was a shared experience that brought them together and taught them to appreciate the beauty of the present as well as the unifying power of shared wonder.
In the rain, an old man visits two graves: his wife's and son's. Alone, he returns to an empty house, echoes of laughter long gone. Silent dinners, photos gathering dust. Tears blend with the rain. "Happy anniversary," he whispers to the cold stones, heart heavy with memories, aching for lost embraces.
The Illusion of Still Waters
From where I stand, the lake is a mirror, reflecting a sky so vast and untouched it might have been plucked from a dream. They say water has memory, that it carries the whispers of the past within its depths, swirling beneath the calm like secrets waiting to be told. I used to believe in the serenity of its surface, in the illusion of its stillness. But that was before.
My name is Alex, and my life, much like this lake, was once a portrait of tranquility. Or so I thought. I had a routine, a path so well-trodden it could have been carved into the earth: wake, work, sleep, repeat. The occasional ripples caused by family dramas or minor inconveniences never seemed to disturb the overall calm. But beneath the surface, something was stirring, a current strong enough to pull me under without warning.
It began with a photograph, an old, faded snapshot I found tucked away in the pages of a book at the local thrift store. The image was haunting—a lone figure standing by the edge of a lake, so much like this one, under a sky bruised by the setting sun. There was a familiarity in its composition, a sense of déjà vu that clung to me like a second skin. I bought the book for the photo alone, driven by a curiosity I couldn't quite explain.
Over the next few weeks, the image became my obsession. I researched every detail, traced the location to a secluded lake a few towns over, known locally as Still Waters. The name was a misnomer if there ever was one. The more I learned, the clearer it became that the lake was anything but still. Legends of its haunted past, of lives swallowed whole by its depths, filled my nights with restless dreams. Yet, I was drawn to it, compelled by a force as inexplicable as it was irresistible.
So here I am, standing at the edge of Still Waters, watching as the sun dips low, painting the sky in shades of fire and gold. The air is thick with the scent of pine and something else, something faintly metallic. I step closer to the water, the photograph clenched in my hand, and as I do, the surface stirs, as if awakened by my presence.
A whisper floats up from the depths, a voice so faint I might have imagined it. But then it comes again, stronger this time, calling my name. Alex. The water before me ripples, and in the reflection, I see not my own face, but that of the figure from the photograph. Our eyes lock, across time, across realms, and I feel a pull, a longing to step into the water, to become one with the image, with the lake itself.
But I resist. The illusion of still waters has been shattered, revealing the chaos that lies beneath. The voice fades, the reflection distorts, and I am left alone on the shore, the photograph slipping from my fingers into the lake. It sinks slowly, consumed by the darkness below.
As I turn away, the calm returns to the surface of Still Waters, as if nothing had occurred. But I know better now. The lake is a keeper of secrets, of stories untold and lives unclaimed. And mine, for now, remains my own.
The road back to the life I knew is long and winding, shadowed by the trees that line the path. I walk away from the lake, from the whisper of voices and the pull of unseen currents. The illusion of tranquility is a siren's call, luring the unwary to their doom. I've heard its song, felt its embrace, and emerged wiser, if not unscathed.
And in the darkness, the lake whispers one last time, a farewell, or maybe a warning. I don't look back.