The Yellow Chair

It was sunset. Perfect for a writer's tale to commence. Perfect for an artist's canvas to illustrate. Perfect for poems rhymes and lullabies. There was calm in the chirping of birds, mild motion in the river stirring by. The world was at bay, peaceful in its routine. To retire after the toil. Submerge in sleep.

And there stayed, the brown golden cottage, outlived by a inhabitants for decades now. Rustic yet strong. Laden with canes and beams that held it up. Its drooping shelter bowed by benign canopies of trees, old hay that glossed during noon. It was perfect in its existence. Neither too small for a crowd, nor too big for the lonesome. It was welcoming, comforting and warm by the fire that burned all night. It smelled of vegetable stock and spices that brewed in the kitchen, a blessing on rainy evenings. 

But there was something that made the cottage even more special than it could possibly be. It was the existence of that yellow chair. 

The yellow chair. Neither too bright, nor too haggard, but yellow. Wooden, sturdy. It rocked if you cared to rock it. It comforted if you sat. It lulled to sleep if you stretched your arms and let loose yourself. The yellow-ness of it emitted radiance, charm that felt pernnial. It made one feel a sense of never dying belongingness. The yellow somehow made it special. 

It was magical. Allowed for fancy dreams to be visualized. Of dragons and lilies. Of sunshine in rain. Of possibilites and joy and candour that was so everlasting! It made imagination and dreaming the most loveable past time, during short afternoon naps.

The yellow chair was special. More special than being at the cottage. More special than being yellow. The chair was special because it belonged to my grandmother. She was too fond of it. She treated it like an extension of herself. Her lifeline. 

Seated on that yellow chair she envisioned the beautiful life she lived, with the ones she loved. She smiled on the peace that surrounded her now. Beckoned the settlement she had attained. Sedated, as she rocked the chair midly, she gently laughed at how she carried out her chores rather slowly now, and how her little grand daughter played with her silver hair. 

The yellow chair is a recollection of my grand mother. Of how she is the most beautiful person at heart. Of how her beauty rests in her experience and unending love. 

Much love to the yellow chair. Much love to grandma. Happy Birthday. 

Becoming Of The Dream.

How far do you trust your dreams? Can you pinpoint at them in darkness?
Can you talk of them if you're woken up in the middle of the night? Do you practice dream construction, so that perhaps your dreams look a certain way they should? Do you ever feel the power of those dreams deciding the channel of your life?

No, not out of a motivation book do these questions arise.

Breathe your dreams, like its air. Let it be the most obvious thing that will happen to you. Dream as if there was no way out. Wear your dreams on your sleeve. Work magic up.

Dream on.

The Boy.

That boy, who?

Under the sun. Smoking the dying stubs of a cigarette. With aviators on. Striped shirts and loose linen pants. An air of calm bestowed upon his countenence. A composure derived from complacence. Of control over past clouds and future torrents. An effervenscence in his smile. Sly, as it were. It caught the passing glimpses passed at him. Beckoned them.

He walked down the yellow street. With dangling strings of his guitar. His hat twisted. His hair awry. His pace lazy. Coins jingling in his pocket as walked. Entered the blue walled town. Rustic in its appearance. Welcoming however. He walked down further. Passed vendors selling tribal beads. Passed artists painting the landscape of a drowing Sun. Passed the canal.

Reached the obscure little settlement. Brown tents laid with mud. Canopies of bougainvilleas weighing down at every nook. And met the little boy. Scrouging for coins in a torn pouch his mother gave. Called him a name, and brought him aside. Asked him what would he buy with those coins. Nothing, said the boy. I'll make music with it. Music, he thought to himself. Patted him and asked him to fetch him some ale. When the boy returned, he found none. But the guitar, and a few more coins. And a note that he could not decipher.

It read, 'Never doth the coin depart from thee. In you it foundeth solace. In you the ultimate of music.'

Story through the glass.

Through the glass window. Everything is calm and orderly. Everything crude is crushed. Everything beautiful is restored. In place, the greenery, the lights. In order, the food, the coffee mugs. In position, the woman and his man.

The glass window bestills all. Mutes the chaos that interrupts the art. The transparent veil on to the world.
It soothes with peace and traquility. It soothes the mind. 

What If ?

what if i tell you your dreams tonight? and enchant you with your own creations.

would you let me travel through them?

what if i sing the song you hum each night? and spread your wings in the whiff of air.

would you dance the dance of illusions?

what if we sat all day, under the glistening sunshade? and gorged on cheesecakes, and played on shadows the tree threw on the ground?

would you recall how our childhood passed by?

what if we gaze at stars all night? and marvel how they glitter.

would you distract me with ghost stories?

what if we splashed paints on white bedsheets? and pour the hues in the backyard lawns.

would you complain if i splash some color on you too?

what if i tell you my dreams then? and smile upon each of them.

would you travel through them with me?

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.