There's something about being alone. It's your space. Nobody demands a share in it. Nobody seeks a response. No questions, no adjustments. You own it, command it.

Sometimes, noises don't matter. You want to be left alone. To do things yourself; to figure out, what really makes you or changes you. Your closest friends can't do it, nor can your folks. This is a power bestowed upon ourselves. When we're marked by reason, guided by instinct.

To travel alone, is probably the best ways according to me. You become one with the world. Yet, you control the reigns of what transcends into your subconscious and to what extent. The world becomes the landscape, you choose to move in.

By the beach side. Sunset. Waves playing around the lines. Calm.

Also, I rarely title my thoughts these days.

The gush of the winds is enough to bowl you over.
No love found, and none lost.
Yet, with every glance, every chance.
It will make its way through, to find you.
Beckon it. Embrace it.

She.

She stood calmed. With waves gushing in and out. Through the crevices of her toes, fiddling with the gray sand. Her skin, pastel, polished as it were. Beaten clean to a sudden awakened divinity. Her silhouette  glowing in the gloss of a dying red Sun. Dying, yet might; roaring its last beams of light before submerging itself into the depth of the horizon. The golden rays whisked through her hair, cradling the falls of her mane, that voluptuous sight. Her shadow dissolving in the inconstant waters. Yet her demeanor glowing with a certain unnamed charm. A deep desire. An uncalled mystery surrounded her. It made you forget the dark secrets. No vengeance, no war. To only understand, would be a disgrace almost. It had to be felt, honored, and felt again. And there she stood, calmed. 

Choose Beyond Fame

Why do people run after fame? How does it matter anyway? It's truckloads of momentary attention , maybe more power than you could have possibly digested in a lifetime, internet or media frenzy. And perhaps, more girls or boys running after you. But the question is, does all that really matter.

It's about an image you create after all.  A constructed proposition. You project yourself as a certain someone, mostly. You do that to gain attention and prance under the spotlight. But does that define what you are actually made up of?

Fame is such a short lived concept, if you ask me. Two months, two years perhaps. A decade if you're lucky. It takes balls to last a century. Not many of us have that in us, do we. The ones who do, hardly are seen pursuing fame. It comes naturally to them. The rare kind.

So why not make peace with it. Why not embrace normalcy. I don't mean to say that we give up our individuality. But I feel there is something special about anonymity. It gives you space and power to re-invent, recreate. You don't owe any explanations for the mistakes you make. You can laugh at them, on the contrary. I love this space.

Even the not-so-great-achievers possess a few qualities that we cherish and feel good about. Mostly, we don't share these ideas about ourselves. They are too deep. Too inward. Nonetheless, we know they exist.

For You.

To musings and ramblings. And unending thoughts of a lifetime. Of days with a special order spent normally, and normal days with exploding colors.
To chatter and loud noise.
To spilled coffee and stained stories, and calories never ending, always accumulating.
To those years lived.

To you. 

Fathers.

For most daughters, like me, fathers are too special. Maybe more than mothers. Or maybe the same, but somehow differently. There is a connect that can't really be explained. With mothers, perhaps, it's too much of a woman to woman dealing. Fathers for the most part, are full of endless love and pamper and fun.

Fathers never say no. They are there always. For anything. Everything. They never scold, no matter how much of a devil brat daughter you are. They smile to themselves when a cute looking guy passes a grin at you. But they won't ever say it. Fathers talk less. Well, mostly. Now the best part. They never complain of domestic chores. Or dirty rooms or messed up cars.Or overflowing wardrobes and credit card bills. Or broken head lights and cracked crockery.

For fathers, daughters are special. Maybe more special than their sons. I don't know why. But that's how it is. They'll seldom say it.But you can always make out. Men, not boys, talk lesser by the way. It's a new realization.

Or maybe, as Carl Jung said, it's the Electra Complex that functions between a father and daughter. And as I say, a girl can have as many boyfriends, but she will always have one father. The Father.

Starting With Words.

Blank words. Sometimes, you just want to write. Not for the heck of it, but scribble vague words or formations that maybe appear like words. Then, not really care if it makes sense. Sometimes, just shoot words on the paper - big small funny angry or useless. ( I like writing on paper rather than the laptop, just saying.) So put them together, maybe because they seem good together, or maybe because you like your handwriting on that bright sunny day. Or maybe because you just want to.

To not make sense sometimes, is important. It breaks the monotony of rationality. Writing about random musings or talking of castles made of hardened nutella, perhaps. Trust me, it's a great relief from the hustle of logic. Do people feel that a 24x7 logical routine would fetch them a Nobel? Well. 

Frank Dale. That's how I want it.

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PS- I hate the word random, though. It's exploited and beaten to death by everyone I know, or you know. You know what I mean, right. Also, why on earth do four in five people have a Facebook album called "Random". Okay, I'll stop being cynical. Later.