#metaphorwrites

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To Life, with Love There is perhaps never enough of life to life. Even if we are given an infinite number of minutes to be, we would be thinking of a greater infinity, where we could do a little more, just a little. Well, some of us run all the time, like an invisible train is behind us and we are on the same track and even if we stop for a moment the train will hit us right then. There are some, as well, who like to think there is time, and sit just a little longer to see the sun disappear behind the hills or the skyscrapers (considering all of us don’t have the privilege of a sunset in the hills). Nonetheless, the point is the sunset is still the sunset. Looking it disappear, the red, sometimes yellow glow of the evening sky slowly receding like waves in a low tide. Darkness settling in, trying to defeat the artificial lights, but alas. What do we gain out of it, you may ask? (...) There is perhaps never enough of life to live, of course there isn’t. It is true, really unfair is it not? That we are given just so many sensations, potential and feelings, the trees do unleaf and spring comes, the sun does set, but there is a sunrise, then why must we leave this earth and not have the right to come back? Well, sigh, that is how it is. But you know, we are all given this, yes, it is there, the light! Within you and me. While we see the stars or the waves in moonlight, or let’s be real, come home all exhausted in the summer heat, we do feel, feel our hearts beating, our eyes witnessing the mundane things which makes us real. May be as long as that light, that love, that longing remains, we have enough of life to live. - Debarati #metaphorwrites To read the full article, head to my blog (link in bio) Photo: The Theory of Everything (2014) #metaphor #thetheoryofeverything #thetheoryofeverythingmovie #life #writings #writerscommunity #writersofindia https://www.instagram.com/p/Cc3SwHDvdll/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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I misheard the sound of the motorbike as the sound of clouds rumbling. That low, strong sound appearing from nowhere, slowly and fading into nowhere, slowly. I rushed to the open balcony from my closed indoors and the humid and warm summer night jokingly looked at me, as if it had deliberately planned the conspiracy. A certain longing for rain, for the thunder and lightning, for the evening storms reign in my heart. It’s a strange craving really for evening storms are neither in your control nor mine or are in the weather predictions; they just come like that, suddenly. In their suddenness lies their fulfilment perhaps, like a sudden gift or a person who stumbles upon our life like one of those evening storms and helps grow new leaves and flowers. What we can predict, often becomes so matter of fact, that perhaps even before they occur, our thoughts, our idea of the thing makes it partially real and palpable. Not so with the evening storms. An extremely hot day, the afternoon air feels like stagnant water, stuck in a place willing to free itself from itself. And then the sky grows dark, some days a darker shade of grey, others, a lighter. The wind rises like a sailing boat catching the right wind to go afloat and there’s rain and the thought of you comes pouring down in the initial drizzles and the heavy downpours, in leaps and in bounds. The smell of the wet earth, the touch of the rain and you. ~ for kalboishakhi -Debarati #metaphorwrites . Photograph: Pinterest . . #writings #writersofindia #writersofinstagram #writers #writer #write #writerscommunity #writing #writersofig #writersnetwork #storm #kalboisakhi #kolkata #weather #rain https://www.instagram.com/p/CcV3oWqvY0K/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

On observing a Stranger one Spring Afternoon ~ There was a bewilderment in his eyes, the kind when you hope the sky to be purple, open your eyes to find it's not, all the time being fully aware, that the sun only reflects the blue. There were not many people out that March day, he wondered why. But his solitary being in the garden corner which only had leaves and no flowers, with his solitary word on the paper circumscribed his mind too well to occupy himself with the thought of unknown absences. The sun felt a little strong when the wind was low, and soothing when it was high as if in its flow it carried away some of the heat of the afternoon. Kingfishers and parrots frequented the sky, and he wanted to blur their body contours so that their colours mixed with the sky. He almost hated their vibrancy, their starkness against the blue canvas. His friends ran across the ground with a football sometimes engaging in serious play, sometimes little pretenses only for bigger fights. How utterly stupid they were he thought. How could a person not sit and wonder and imagine amongst all this beauty? How could one be engaged so much in artificial rules and forced competitions, not looking at the sky even once? He again closed his eyes, covering them with his cap and imagined the colours of the birds mixing with the sky in spirals like Van Gogh's starry night. A long contemplation and then the solitary word on the page found its first companion. . #metaphorwrites -Debarati 11/3/22 . Photograph: Pinterest . #writersofinstagram #write #writer #writers #writersofindia #writings #springinkolkata #contemplation #afternoonthoughts #sky https://www.instagram.com/p/CbDbrmKvoCG/?utm_medium=tumblr