To Whom.

To the ramblings of a procrastinating mind.
To the beauty of lazy dreams.
To unending peace and palpable joy.
To the silence of a cellphone laid to rest.
To the world shut out from chaos.
To a seeming victory over lesser mortals.

To brewing romance.
To past times.
To leisure and everything orderly.
To the summer breeze.
To calmed sensibities.
To joy.
To you.
To me.

The Woman.

It's the scent of that woman that you'll remember.
It's the wind that whisked through her hair that you'll recall.
And when she passed the twists and turns, playing under the beam of the fading sunlight.
In the drinks she spilled over leftover conversations.
In the smell of coffee that brewed across her favorite bistro.
Her broken trinkets in the corners of your window sill.

And how she talked of faraway castles, dreams of treading unknown lands with her lover.
You'll fondly remember her for her unendling flowing drapes.
How she jumped at the thought of trading through bazaars.
You'll reminisce her chain of advices, pumped at times when you dipped low
For all that she did or said, that flashed joy across your countenance
For all that she was, that make you think of her
Between hours, odd or fair

Because she made you feel what it was to feel
She made you run through your own emotions that ran deep down
Because she appeared in the brightness of the day, to make it brighter than it could
Because she made you fall in love. 

White or black. No colour in your becoming.

How do you manage being so utilitarian at all times. You think of the need, the utility, the outcome. It’s charted, marked at every hour. You give no scope to create, reinvent, explore. No scope for words to mould dreams, or the other way round. There’s no walking in-between the black and white contours of your thought process. In fact, there is no thought process. Because the route is marked.

What happens to my dreams then? What becomes of those I dreamt in the day, under the bright light of the Sun. Under the gushing winds of a summer afternoon, that took me to places you couldn’t even think of? 

Because there is no thought process for you.  Of any form.You don’t weave dreams or steal ideas. Is it so badly programmed in your routine? There are no changes, no impulses. No last minute reactions, or calling back to reflect what you thought could be different. So, is that to say, there are no mistakes? That it’s a fool-proof plan?

Because mine is laden with errors. I stumble upon them almost every morning. I reflect on them at the hour when your protocols are being called out. I make changes, I alter routes. I walk on my impulses, not thinking whether it’d evoke judgment. Yet, I am able to walk between the black and the white. And those contours are rather colorful. Because, there is a thought process. At all times. 

Notes to the cribbers in town:

1.Stop writing talking expressing about anything that's gloomy or melancholic. 
2.No, your grumpy status messages don't extract the sympathy from my heart to reach out and comfort you.   Maybe a whack in time, could've shaken and stirred the normalcy in you.
3.You're not allowed to be crybabies after the age of four, even mommy won't entertain your fits. 
4.It's not fair to consume all the philosophical and profound chatter provided, all by yourself; other cribbers get insecure and might cause deeper problems.
5.You can't be exploiting the limited time of beauty at hand of those poor, seemingly considerate youths. You don't care about your own depleting charm, you're allowed to let it perish. 
6.Last, please please stop using public platforms to wash your dirty linen. Get a life, move beyond  Facebook.