She no longer fears missing out, for she has learned that what’s meant for her will never pass her by. While the world rushes to chase trends, gatherings, and noise, she finds peace in her own rhythm. Her joy isn’t borrowed from what others are doing, but born from the satisfaction of being present where she is …
She doesn’t measure her life against anyone’s timeline. She knows that every soul blooms in its own season. She would rather miss a hundred fleeting moments than lose the one that truly belongs to her …
For her, the real richness lies not in being everywhere, but in being whole, right where she stands …
As a teenager, she would watch her sisters tilt their faces toward the light, their lashes casting long shadows over eyes that shimmered with beauty. When she looked in the mirror, her own eyes seemed smaller, plainer, framed by short lashes. It stung her heart a little, like a tiny splinter she couldn’t quite pull out …
Over time, she began to reclaim them. She traced deep kajol along her lids, soft & dark, like ink drawing a doorway. Her eyes lookd wider, more alive. People began to say she looked striking, and for the first time, her eyes felt truly hers …
Then life changed. Grief came quietly, like water filling a low space. In her reflection, she noticed it, the sparkle that once danced in her eyes had turned gentler, dimmer, like smoke fading after a flame. Her eyes began to carry stories of long nights and silent endurance. She didn’t always want others to read them …
So she reached for her sunglasses. The cool plastic rested against her temples, the tinted lenses washed the world in sepia. It felt like drawing a curtain over a window. Behind them, she had privacy. No one could see the sadness flicker and ask, “Are you okay?” …
She’s learned something through this little ritual, and that is, sometimes covering up isn’t vanity; it’s survival. The layers we wear, sunglasses, kajol, even a careful smile, are small stitches tht hold us togther until we’re ready to heal …
Sometimes, she still wonders: what would it feel like to step into the light barefaced, to let her eyes tell their truth, and to trust the world not to look away?
There was a small village at the foot of a mountain. The village was called Shantipur. In that village lived a little girl named Turona. Every day, Turona would gaze at the big mountain from afar. In the morning, the mountain sparkled in golden sunlight, and by evening, it glowed in a soft reddish hue …
One day, Turona decided she would climb to the top of that mountain. Everyone said, ‘It’s too high, you won’t be able to.’ But Turona smiled and replied, ‘How will I know if I don’t try?’ …
The next morning, she set off with a bottle of water, some fruit, and a notebook. On the way, she grew tired, her feet ached on the stones, yet she didn’t stop. Sometimes she sat down to rest, listening to the sound of the wind and watching the birds fly …
Finally, after noon, she reached the top of the mountain. Looking down, she saw how beautiful her little village was, green fields, tiny houses, and a silver river flowing gently through it …
In her notebook, Turona wrote, ‘The joy of reaching the highest place only comes when you refuse to give up.’ …
Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The air smelled of freedom, and inside her heart, there was peace …
She realized that the real mountain wasn’t outside, but within her. And that day, she had conquered both …
How we used to write short stories when we were young! I remember how every night I’d make up stories to tell my little sisters before they fell asleep. I used to jot down bits of them in my notebook too. Often, I’d go up to our rooftop with that notebook, gazing at the distant sky until my thoughts drifted away. I wanted to write, and sometimes, I did. Other times, I simply got lost in my own imagination!
I’m sure it happened with you too!
Anyways, now tell me, What is the ‘mountain’ in your own life that you’ve been afraid to climb? Or tell me, When was the last time you tried something even though others doubted you?
What broke your heart so bad That you had to close every door, That you say you have a dark soul And can’t utter the word ‘love’ anymore?
Sanhita Baruah
Quite heartbroken wounded words these are, yet so beautifully expressed, I think. So I sharedwith you all …
I loved these lines so much that I even tried to recite in my naive voice. About the recording and my voice, I think I sound too childish, and that makes me feel nervous about it. It might sound boring to some, and it’s a bit dramatic also, as if I was actually telling you …
Querencia / Spanish /kɛˈrɛnθɪə, Spanish keˈrenθja, keˈrensja/ (adj.) a place where one feels safe, a place where one feels at home …
Just thought to add an audio of these verses. Excuse my terrible voice and poor sound effects🙏 I took quite a few attempts for this and lastly I thought, ‘Okay, let it be.’ 🤷🏿♀️
I know you all are kind, compassionate and thoughtful.
Commuovere (Italian) /ko’mːwɔvere/ (v.) this word means you’ve been moved or touched or had your heart warmed, by someone. Specifically, it’s a story that has stirred your heart or moved you to tears …
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Sometimes I do feel a bit of strange when I find my mind chooses the words that tread the hazy line between romance, or emotions of two potential lovers or just someone who I may have met somewhere, in my imagination or real, or virtually, or anywhere in the universe, … then I feel that while writing it’s not necessarily solely about me all the time and it’s not what it seems as well and it’s just something that makes me feel happy when I can express certain feelings as it comes within; Often I know, through these words, I simply may portray someone else’s longing, or devotion, or heartbreaking phase, or someone who might be seeking solace from the world of separation, or someone who makes his love stronger even when it’s over … or just about me trying to find the right words to describe an indescribable feeling within ….
😊
Felt a quite chaos while painting it, so I named it CHAOS
Roksana Tales 