The pleasure hidden in keeping those simple things simple.
The pleasure hidden in keeping those simple things simple.
I want to write about it
I sit there, in my grandma's veranda, staring at the dark clouds that have fully occupied the sky now, pushing away the whiter cotton candy clouds and making the blue skies disappear in them, Giving away a warmth comfort amidst the waitings for those dripping sounds of rain drops. My younger cousin is listening to a song in the TV with volume levels making my ears pop out. My grandma is telling me about a distant relative, how he married off his love
And I think of all the beautiful things that i could have become, had I first put out the fear of doing them. And while I think about all these things,
About the past that could have put me in a different present now
And about the future that would have wanted a different past maybe
And then I suddenly think of making tea, just a simple tea, with the aroma filling up all of my senses and clearing out all my doubtful thoughts, paving a way for the certainties, rooting from all the uncertainties lying beneath my positive thinking brain.
And I want to feel the joy of writing different things, ununderstandable by just anybody,
Making me look so intriguing and interesting.
I want to write about all those things, and to show what I wrote to only those few people who try to understand the complexities lying behind this beautiful facade of meaningless expressions.
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