Here n back againSaid the wise,
Life is in the same shape as our earth,
Towards our inanity the wise sighs,
Why these fools chase when they , to the same place cometh.
Giving in to the false façade,
Forgetting all the essential values,
They locked themselves up in the name of civilization,
In the end turning themselves to hooligans,
Forgotten the values of true human,
Inherited the core of the beast.
For how long this race will go on,
For what this game being played,
There’s no winner in it,
Nor there will be any losers,
Yet!
We keep chasing ourselves in the same circle…..
Could not everyone ponder over this,
Hold that thought again,
Pause;
What do we do now.....
Just Pray For Everything ....
Live it to the Great One..
While we can,
be appreciative and greatful for everything..
self acceptance leads to a life filled with ,
love, peace, harmony..............
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
The Furnished Room by William Sydney Potter@ O' Henry.
Restless, shifting, fugacious as time itself is a certain vast bulk of the population of the red brick district of the lower West Side. Homeless, they have a hundred homes. They flit from furnished room to furnished room, transients forever—transients in abode, transients in heart and mind. They sing "Home, Sweet Home" in ragtime; they carry their lares et penates in a bandbox; their vine is entwined about a picture hat; a rubber plant is their fig tree.
Hence the houses of this district, having had a thousand dwellers, should have a thousand tales to tell, mostly dull ones, no doubt; but it would be strange if there could not be found a ghost or two in the wake of all these vagrant guests.
One evening after dark a young man prowled among these crumbling red mansions, ringing their bells. At the twelfth he rested his lean hand-baggage upon the step and wiped the dust from his hatband and forehead. The bell sounded faint and far away in some remote, hollow depths.
To the door of this, the twelfth house whose bell he had rung, came a housekeeper who made him think of an unwholesome, surfeited worm that had eaten its nut to a hollow shell and now sought to fill the vacancy with edible lodgers.
He asked if there was a room to let.
"Come in," said the housekeeper. Her voice came from her throat; her throat seemed lined with fur. "I have the third floor back, vacant since a week back. Should you wish to look at it?"
The young man followed her up the stairs. A faint light from no particular source mitigated the shadows of the halls. They trod noiselessly upon a stair carpet that its own loom would have forsworn. It seemed to have become vegetable; to have degenerated in that rank, sunless air to lush lichen or spreading moss that grew in patches to the staircase and was viscid under the foot like organic matter. At each turn of the stairs were vacant niches in the wall. Perhaps plants had once been set within them. If so they had died in that foul and tainted air. It may be that statues of the saints had stood there, but it was not difficult to conceive that imps and devils had dragged them forth in the darkness and down to the unholy depths of some furnished pit below.
"This is the room," said the housekeeper, from her furry throat. "It's a nice room. It ain't often vacant. I had some most elegant people in it last summer—no trouble at all, and paid in advance to the minute. The water's at the end of the hall. Sprowls and Mooney kept it three months. They done a vaudeville sketch. Miss B'retta Sprowls—you may have heard of her—Oh, that was just the stage names—right there over the dresser is where the marriage certificate hung, framed. The gas is here, and you see there is plenty of closet room. It's a room everybody likes. It never stays idle long."
"Do you have many theatrical people rooming here?" asked the young man.
"They comes and goes. A good proportion of my lodgers is connected with the theatres. Yes, sir, this is the theatrical district. Actor people never stays long anywhere. I get my share. Yes, they comes and they goes."
He engaged the room, paying for a week in advance. He was tired, he said, and would take possession at once. He counted out the money. The room had been made ready, she said, even to towels and water. As the housekeeper moved away he put, for the thousandth time, the question that he carried at the end of his tongue.
"A young girl—Miss Vashner—Miss Eloise Vashner—do you remember such a one among your lodgers? She would be singing on the stage, most likely. A fair girl, of medium height and slender, with reddish, gold hair and a dark mole near her left eyebrow."
"No, I don't remember the name. Them stage people has names they change as often as their rooms. They comes and they goes. No, I don't call that one to mind."
No. Always no. Five months of ceaseless interrogation and the inevitable negative. So much time spent by day in questioning managers, agents, schools and choruses; by night among the audiences of theatres from all-star casts down to music halls so low that he dreaded to find what he most hoped for. He who had loved her best had tried to find her. He was sure that since her disappearance from home this great, water-girt city held her somewhere, but it was like a monstrous quicksand, shifting its particles constantly, with no foundation, its upper granules of to-day buried to-morrow in ooze and slime.
The furnished room received its latest guest with a first glow of pseudo-hospitality, a hectic, haggard, perfunctory welcome like the specious smile of a demirep. The sophistical comfort came in reflected gleams from the decayed furniture, the ragged brocade upholstery of a couch and two chairs, a foot-wide cheap pier glass between the two windows, from one or two gilt picture frames and a brass bedstead in a corner.
The guest reclined, inert, upon a chair, while the room, confused in speech as though it were an apartment in Babel, tried to discourse to him of its divers tenantry.
A polychromatic rug like some brilliant-flowered rectangular, tropical islet lay surrounded by a billowy sea of soiled matting. Upon the gay-papered wall were those pictures that pursue the homeless one from house to house—The Huguenot Lovers, The First Quarrel, The Wedding Breakfast, Psyche at the Fountain. The mantel's chastely severe outline was ingloriously veiled behind some pert drapery drawn rakishly askew like the sashes of the Amazonian ballet. Upon it was some desolate flotsam cast aside by the room's marooned when a lucky sail had borne them to a fresh port—a trifling vase or two, pictures of actresses, a medicine bottle, some stray cards out of a deck.
One by one, as the characters of a cryptograph become explicit, the little signs left by the furnished room's procession of guests developed a significance. The threadbare space in the rug in front of the dresser told that lovely woman had marched in the throng. Tiny finger prints on the wall spoke of little prisoners trying to feel their way to sun and air. A splattered stain, raying like the shadow of a bursting bomb, witnessed where a hurled glass or bottle had splintered with its contents against the wall. Across the pier glass had been scrawled with a diamond in staggering letters the name "Marie." It seemed that the succession of dwellers in the furnished room had turned in fury—perhaps tempted beyond forbearance by its garish coldness—and wreaked upon it their passions. The furniture was chipped and bruised; the couch, distorted by bursting springs, seemed a horrible monster that had been slain during the stress of some grotesque convulsion. Some more potent upheaval had cloven a great slice from the marble mantel. Each plank in the floor owned its particular cant and shriek as from a separate and individual agony. It seemed incredible that all this malice and injury had been wrought upon the room by those who had called it for a time their home; and yet it may have been the cheated home instinct surviving blindly, the resentful rage at false household gods that had kindled their wrath. A hut that is our own we can sweep and adorn and cherish.
The young tenant in the chair allowed these thoughts to file, soft-shod, through his mind, while there drifted into the room furnished sounds and furnished scents. He heard in one room a tittering and incontinent, slack laughter; in others the monologue of a scold, the rattling of dice, a lullaby, and one crying dully; above him a banjo tinkled with spirit. Doors banged somewhere; the elevated trains roared intermittently; a cat yowled miserably upon a back fence. And he breathed the breath of the house—a dank savour rather than a smell—a cold, musty effluvium as from underground vaults mingled with the reeking exhalations of linoleum and mildewed and rotten woodwork.
Then, suddenly, as he rested there, the room was filled with the strong, sweet odour of mignonette. It came as upon a single buffet of wind with such sureness and fragrance and emphasis that it almost seemed a living visitant. And the man cried aloud: "What, dear?" as if he had been called, and sprang up and faced about. The rich odour clung to him and wrapped him around. He reached out his arms for it, all his senses for the time confused and commingled. How could one be peremptorily called by an odour? Surely it must have been a sound. But, was it not the sound that had touched, that had caressed him?
"She has been in this room," he cried, and he sprang to wrest from it a token, for he knew he would recognize the smallest thing that had belonged to her or that she had touched. This enveloping scent of mignonette, the odour that she had loved and made her own—whence came it?
The room had been but carelessly set in order. Scattered upon the flimsy dresser scarf were half a dozen hairpins—those discreet, indistinguishable friends of womankind, feminine of gender, infinite of mood and uncommunicative of tense. These he ignored, conscious of their triumphant lack of identity. Ransacking the drawers of the dresser he came upon a discarded, tiny, ragged handkerchief. He pressed it to his face. It was racy and insolent with heliotrope; he hurled it to the floor. In another drawer he found odd buttons, a theatre programme, a pawnbroker's card, two lost marshmallows, a book on the divination of dreams. In the last was a woman's black satin hair bow, which halted him, poised between ice and fire. But the black satin hair-bow also is femininity's demure, impersonal, common ornament, and tells no tales.
And then he traversed the room like a hound on the scent, skimming the walls, considering the corners of the bulging matting on his hands and knees, rummaging mantel and tables, the curtains and hangings, the drunken cabinet in the corner, for a visible sign, unable to perceive that she was there beside, around, against, within, above him, clinging to him, wooing him, calling him so poignantly through the finer senses that even his grosser ones became cognisant of the call. Once again he answered loudly: "Yes, dear!" and turned, wild-eyed, to gaze on vacancy, for he could not yet discern form and colour and love and outstretched arms in the odour of mignonette. Oh, God! whence that odour, and since when have odours had a voice to call? Thus he groped.
He burrowed in crevices and corners, and found corks and cigarettes. These he passed in passive contempt. But once he found in a fold of the matting a half-smoked cigar, and this he ground beneath his heel with a green and trenchant oath. He sifted the room from end to end. He found dreary and ignoble small records of many a peripatetic tenant; but of her whom he sought, and who may have lodged there, and whose spirit seemed to hover there, he found no trace.
And then he thought of the housekeeper.
He ran from the haunted room downstairs and to a door that showed a crack of light. She came out to his knock. He smothered his excitement as best he could.
"Will you tell me, madam," he besought her, "who occupied the room I have before I came?"
"Yes, sir. I can tell you again. 'Twas Sprowls and Mooney, as I said. Miss B'retta Sprowls it was in the theatres, but Missis Mooney she was. My house is well known for respectability. The marriage certificate hung, framed, on a nail over—"
"What kind of a lady was Miss Sprowls—in looks, I mean?"
Why, black-haired, sir, short, and stout, with a comical face. They left a week ago Tuesday."
"And before they occupied it?"
"Why, there was a single gentleman connected with the draying business. He left owing me a week. Before him was Missis Crowder and her two children, that stayed four months; and back of them was old Mr. Doyle, whose sons paid for him. He kept the room six months. That goes back a year, sir, and further I do not remember."
He thanked her and crept back to his room. The room was dead. The essence that had vivified it was gone. The perfume of mignonette had departed. In its place was the old, stale odour of mouldy house furniture, of atmosphere in storage.
The ebbing of his hope drained his faith. He sat staring at the yellow, singing gaslight. Soon he walked to the bed and began to tear the sheets into strips. With the blade of his knife he drove them tightly into every crevice around windows and door. When all was snug and taut he turned out the light, turned the gas full on again and laid himself gratefully upon the bed.
* * * * * *
It was Mrs. McCool's night to go with the can for beer. So she fetched it and sat with Mrs. Purdy in one of those subterranean retreats where house-keepers foregather and the worm dieth seldom.
"I rented out my third floor, back, this evening," said Mrs. Purdy, across a fine circle of foam. "A young man took it. He went up to bed two hours ago."
"Now, did ye, Mrs. Purdy, ma'am?" said Mrs. McCool, with intense admiration. "You do be a wonder for rentin' rooms of that kind. And did ye tell him, then?" she concluded in a husky whisper, laden with mystery.
"Rooms," said Mrs. Purdy, in her furriest tones, "are furnished for to rent. I did not tell him, Mrs. McCool."
"'Tis right ye are, ma'am; 'tis by renting rooms we kape alive. Ye have the rale sense for business, ma'am. There be many people will rayjict the rentin' of a room if they be tould a suicide has been after dyin' in the bed of it."
"As you say, we has our living to be making," remarked Mrs. Purdy.
"Yis, ma'am; 'tis true. 'Tis just one wake ago this day I helped ye lay out the third floor, back. A pretty slip of a colleen she was to be killin' herself wid the gas—a swate little face she had, Mrs. Purdy, ma'am."
"She'd a-been called handsome, as you say," said Mrs. Purdy, assenting but critical, "but for that mole she had a-growin' by her left eyebrow. Do fill up your glass again, Mrs. McCool."
thanks to:
http://www.shortstoryarchive.com/h/furnished_room.html
Hence the houses of this district, having had a thousand dwellers, should have a thousand tales to tell, mostly dull ones, no doubt; but it would be strange if there could not be found a ghost or two in the wake of all these vagrant guests.
One evening after dark a young man prowled among these crumbling red mansions, ringing their bells. At the twelfth he rested his lean hand-baggage upon the step and wiped the dust from his hatband and forehead. The bell sounded faint and far away in some remote, hollow depths.
To the door of this, the twelfth house whose bell he had rung, came a housekeeper who made him think of an unwholesome, surfeited worm that had eaten its nut to a hollow shell and now sought to fill the vacancy with edible lodgers.
He asked if there was a room to let.
"Come in," said the housekeeper. Her voice came from her throat; her throat seemed lined with fur. "I have the third floor back, vacant since a week back. Should you wish to look at it?"
The young man followed her up the stairs. A faint light from no particular source mitigated the shadows of the halls. They trod noiselessly upon a stair carpet that its own loom would have forsworn. It seemed to have become vegetable; to have degenerated in that rank, sunless air to lush lichen or spreading moss that grew in patches to the staircase and was viscid under the foot like organic matter. At each turn of the stairs were vacant niches in the wall. Perhaps plants had once been set within them. If so they had died in that foul and tainted air. It may be that statues of the saints had stood there, but it was not difficult to conceive that imps and devils had dragged them forth in the darkness and down to the unholy depths of some furnished pit below.
"This is the room," said the housekeeper, from her furry throat. "It's a nice room. It ain't often vacant. I had some most elegant people in it last summer—no trouble at all, and paid in advance to the minute. The water's at the end of the hall. Sprowls and Mooney kept it three months. They done a vaudeville sketch. Miss B'retta Sprowls—you may have heard of her—Oh, that was just the stage names—right there over the dresser is where the marriage certificate hung, framed. The gas is here, and you see there is plenty of closet room. It's a room everybody likes. It never stays idle long."
"Do you have many theatrical people rooming here?" asked the young man.
"They comes and goes. A good proportion of my lodgers is connected with the theatres. Yes, sir, this is the theatrical district. Actor people never stays long anywhere. I get my share. Yes, they comes and they goes."
He engaged the room, paying for a week in advance. He was tired, he said, and would take possession at once. He counted out the money. The room had been made ready, she said, even to towels and water. As the housekeeper moved away he put, for the thousandth time, the question that he carried at the end of his tongue.
"A young girl—Miss Vashner—Miss Eloise Vashner—do you remember such a one among your lodgers? She would be singing on the stage, most likely. A fair girl, of medium height and slender, with reddish, gold hair and a dark mole near her left eyebrow."
"No, I don't remember the name. Them stage people has names they change as often as their rooms. They comes and they goes. No, I don't call that one to mind."
No. Always no. Five months of ceaseless interrogation and the inevitable negative. So much time spent by day in questioning managers, agents, schools and choruses; by night among the audiences of theatres from all-star casts down to music halls so low that he dreaded to find what he most hoped for. He who had loved her best had tried to find her. He was sure that since her disappearance from home this great, water-girt city held her somewhere, but it was like a monstrous quicksand, shifting its particles constantly, with no foundation, its upper granules of to-day buried to-morrow in ooze and slime.
The furnished room received its latest guest with a first glow of pseudo-hospitality, a hectic, haggard, perfunctory welcome like the specious smile of a demirep. The sophistical comfort came in reflected gleams from the decayed furniture, the ragged brocade upholstery of a couch and two chairs, a foot-wide cheap pier glass between the two windows, from one or two gilt picture frames and a brass bedstead in a corner.
The guest reclined, inert, upon a chair, while the room, confused in speech as though it were an apartment in Babel, tried to discourse to him of its divers tenantry.
A polychromatic rug like some brilliant-flowered rectangular, tropical islet lay surrounded by a billowy sea of soiled matting. Upon the gay-papered wall were those pictures that pursue the homeless one from house to house—The Huguenot Lovers, The First Quarrel, The Wedding Breakfast, Psyche at the Fountain. The mantel's chastely severe outline was ingloriously veiled behind some pert drapery drawn rakishly askew like the sashes of the Amazonian ballet. Upon it was some desolate flotsam cast aside by the room's marooned when a lucky sail had borne them to a fresh port—a trifling vase or two, pictures of actresses, a medicine bottle, some stray cards out of a deck.
One by one, as the characters of a cryptograph become explicit, the little signs left by the furnished room's procession of guests developed a significance. The threadbare space in the rug in front of the dresser told that lovely woman had marched in the throng. Tiny finger prints on the wall spoke of little prisoners trying to feel their way to sun and air. A splattered stain, raying like the shadow of a bursting bomb, witnessed where a hurled glass or bottle had splintered with its contents against the wall. Across the pier glass had been scrawled with a diamond in staggering letters the name "Marie." It seemed that the succession of dwellers in the furnished room had turned in fury—perhaps tempted beyond forbearance by its garish coldness—and wreaked upon it their passions. The furniture was chipped and bruised; the couch, distorted by bursting springs, seemed a horrible monster that had been slain during the stress of some grotesque convulsion. Some more potent upheaval had cloven a great slice from the marble mantel. Each plank in the floor owned its particular cant and shriek as from a separate and individual agony. It seemed incredible that all this malice and injury had been wrought upon the room by those who had called it for a time their home; and yet it may have been the cheated home instinct surviving blindly, the resentful rage at false household gods that had kindled their wrath. A hut that is our own we can sweep and adorn and cherish.
The young tenant in the chair allowed these thoughts to file, soft-shod, through his mind, while there drifted into the room furnished sounds and furnished scents. He heard in one room a tittering and incontinent, slack laughter; in others the monologue of a scold, the rattling of dice, a lullaby, and one crying dully; above him a banjo tinkled with spirit. Doors banged somewhere; the elevated trains roared intermittently; a cat yowled miserably upon a back fence. And he breathed the breath of the house—a dank savour rather than a smell—a cold, musty effluvium as from underground vaults mingled with the reeking exhalations of linoleum and mildewed and rotten woodwork.
Then, suddenly, as he rested there, the room was filled with the strong, sweet odour of mignonette. It came as upon a single buffet of wind with such sureness and fragrance and emphasis that it almost seemed a living visitant. And the man cried aloud: "What, dear?" as if he had been called, and sprang up and faced about. The rich odour clung to him and wrapped him around. He reached out his arms for it, all his senses for the time confused and commingled. How could one be peremptorily called by an odour? Surely it must have been a sound. But, was it not the sound that had touched, that had caressed him?
"She has been in this room," he cried, and he sprang to wrest from it a token, for he knew he would recognize the smallest thing that had belonged to her or that she had touched. This enveloping scent of mignonette, the odour that she had loved and made her own—whence came it?
The room had been but carelessly set in order. Scattered upon the flimsy dresser scarf were half a dozen hairpins—those discreet, indistinguishable friends of womankind, feminine of gender, infinite of mood and uncommunicative of tense. These he ignored, conscious of their triumphant lack of identity. Ransacking the drawers of the dresser he came upon a discarded, tiny, ragged handkerchief. He pressed it to his face. It was racy and insolent with heliotrope; he hurled it to the floor. In another drawer he found odd buttons, a theatre programme, a pawnbroker's card, two lost marshmallows, a book on the divination of dreams. In the last was a woman's black satin hair bow, which halted him, poised between ice and fire. But the black satin hair-bow also is femininity's demure, impersonal, common ornament, and tells no tales.
And then he traversed the room like a hound on the scent, skimming the walls, considering the corners of the bulging matting on his hands and knees, rummaging mantel and tables, the curtains and hangings, the drunken cabinet in the corner, for a visible sign, unable to perceive that she was there beside, around, against, within, above him, clinging to him, wooing him, calling him so poignantly through the finer senses that even his grosser ones became cognisant of the call. Once again he answered loudly: "Yes, dear!" and turned, wild-eyed, to gaze on vacancy, for he could not yet discern form and colour and love and outstretched arms in the odour of mignonette. Oh, God! whence that odour, and since when have odours had a voice to call? Thus he groped.
He burrowed in crevices and corners, and found corks and cigarettes. These he passed in passive contempt. But once he found in a fold of the matting a half-smoked cigar, and this he ground beneath his heel with a green and trenchant oath. He sifted the room from end to end. He found dreary and ignoble small records of many a peripatetic tenant; but of her whom he sought, and who may have lodged there, and whose spirit seemed to hover there, he found no trace.
And then he thought of the housekeeper.
He ran from the haunted room downstairs and to a door that showed a crack of light. She came out to his knock. He smothered his excitement as best he could.
"Will you tell me, madam," he besought her, "who occupied the room I have before I came?"
"Yes, sir. I can tell you again. 'Twas Sprowls and Mooney, as I said. Miss B'retta Sprowls it was in the theatres, but Missis Mooney she was. My house is well known for respectability. The marriage certificate hung, framed, on a nail over—"
"What kind of a lady was Miss Sprowls—in looks, I mean?"
Why, black-haired, sir, short, and stout, with a comical face. They left a week ago Tuesday."
"And before they occupied it?"
"Why, there was a single gentleman connected with the draying business. He left owing me a week. Before him was Missis Crowder and her two children, that stayed four months; and back of them was old Mr. Doyle, whose sons paid for him. He kept the room six months. That goes back a year, sir, and further I do not remember."
He thanked her and crept back to his room. The room was dead. The essence that had vivified it was gone. The perfume of mignonette had departed. In its place was the old, stale odour of mouldy house furniture, of atmosphere in storage.
The ebbing of his hope drained his faith. He sat staring at the yellow, singing gaslight. Soon he walked to the bed and began to tear the sheets into strips. With the blade of his knife he drove them tightly into every crevice around windows and door. When all was snug and taut he turned out the light, turned the gas full on again and laid himself gratefully upon the bed.
* * * * * *
It was Mrs. McCool's night to go with the can for beer. So she fetched it and sat with Mrs. Purdy in one of those subterranean retreats where house-keepers foregather and the worm dieth seldom.
"I rented out my third floor, back, this evening," said Mrs. Purdy, across a fine circle of foam. "A young man took it. He went up to bed two hours ago."
"Now, did ye, Mrs. Purdy, ma'am?" said Mrs. McCool, with intense admiration. "You do be a wonder for rentin' rooms of that kind. And did ye tell him, then?" she concluded in a husky whisper, laden with mystery.
"Rooms," said Mrs. Purdy, in her furriest tones, "are furnished for to rent. I did not tell him, Mrs. McCool."
"'Tis right ye are, ma'am; 'tis by renting rooms we kape alive. Ye have the rale sense for business, ma'am. There be many people will rayjict the rentin' of a room if they be tould a suicide has been after dyin' in the bed of it."
"As you say, we has our living to be making," remarked Mrs. Purdy.
"Yis, ma'am; 'tis true. 'Tis just one wake ago this day I helped ye lay out the third floor, back. A pretty slip of a colleen she was to be killin' herself wid the gas—a swate little face she had, Mrs. Purdy, ma'am."
"She'd a-been called handsome, as you say," said Mrs. Purdy, assenting but critical, "but for that mole she had a-growin' by her left eyebrow. Do fill up your glass again, Mrs. McCool."
thanks to:
http://www.shortstoryarchive.com/h/furnished_room.html
Saturday, March 20, 2010
listen to the heart not the mind.....
this all about the heart, it never wanted to be bad.
we follow our mind and do silly and hurtful things , sometimes realising it and sometimes wouldn't even know that our deed is right or wrong.
well if we do such a thing, we might as well repent from our actions.
before doing anything, we should ask our heart, and not our mind. because the mind just wants to keep itself busy, it couldn't be bothered about the do's and don'ts. wherelse the heart is not such a thing. for i believe it is the residence of our soul and therefore it will not lead us into any darkness.
it will lead us to the light.
follow your heart, now and always, because it is the best thing we all have to forsee the future, to live in the present harmoniously and to accept the past.
heart doesn't know about evil, it only knows about goodness.
that is why it gets hurt when being wronged, because it is not accustomed to abusive words, treacherous thaughts, and vile deeds.
for all our heart knows is goodness. the goodness in me, the goodness in you, in us!
the heart can forgive easily.....
the heart never planned for a war, but the mind did.
the heart only wants peace and love to be spread around, so shall we all do so , by first, listening to our heart! ;)
we follow our mind and do silly and hurtful things , sometimes realising it and sometimes wouldn't even know that our deed is right or wrong.
well if we do such a thing, we might as well repent from our actions.
before doing anything, we should ask our heart, and not our mind. because the mind just wants to keep itself busy, it couldn't be bothered about the do's and don'ts. wherelse the heart is not such a thing. for i believe it is the residence of our soul and therefore it will not lead us into any darkness.
it will lead us to the light.
follow your heart, now and always, because it is the best thing we all have to forsee the future, to live in the present harmoniously and to accept the past.
heart doesn't know about evil, it only knows about goodness.
that is why it gets hurt when being wronged, because it is not accustomed to abusive words, treacherous thaughts, and vile deeds.
for all our heart knows is goodness. the goodness in me, the goodness in you, in us!
the heart can forgive easily.....
the heart never planned for a war, but the mind did.
the heart only wants peace and love to be spread around, so shall we all do so , by first, listening to our heart! ;)
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
come clean...
there will be this day,
my dear,
when the rain from heaven above
will wash away,
all the sins that i've done and realised and accepted,
the very day,
when i'll be weaned,
off from the stigma,
that i have been imposed on..
on that day i'll be lighter,
less burdened,
less sad,
less angered.....
as the truth will be revealed,
that twas i whom you have been using,
twas i whom you have trusted to be your companion when in need,
and that i have kept my word,
to stash your secrets away..
but its sad my dear,
that the deed have been done,
and that neither of us can change the past,
nor for me to accept the blame,
but for you and only you ,
to carry the scare of your action,
and my skin shines back to its pure self...
for all the blames,
for all the lies,
have been on me,
for all the days i wonder alone for help,
but none came,
those days will be paid for....
but,
fret nay my dear,
for i do not loath thee,
and only my love awaits thee.
cause...
twas you who turn me into a saint,
twas you who turn me into an angel,
twas you who braught me closer to god,
for bearing you ill name...
and its that day,
that everyone will know,
twas you whom did the wrong,
and that i was wronged....
if only you realize,
that if you accepted your flaws and faults,
you would be whole,
away from fear,
away from pain,
away from guilt,
and all the vile thoughts that crosses your mind,
just to close you shameful work...
be and let be,
for all your deeds will be known one day,
and it will hurt,
that day,
as you accept too many of your wrongs,
gathered by time...
repent my dear,
for you might use me now,
but then not for long,
as one day,
i will fade,
from your life,
and to whom do you go then??
hence my dear,
if you care for anything,
if you care for anyone,
come clean of your sins,
as you will be forgived...
but till then,
my dear,
you'll weep,
you'll scorn,
you'll torment,
in burning rage of your own...
come clean my dear,
come clean.............
my dear,
when the rain from heaven above
will wash away,
all the sins that i've done and realised and accepted,
the very day,
when i'll be weaned,
off from the stigma,
that i have been imposed on..
on that day i'll be lighter,
less burdened,
less sad,
less angered.....
as the truth will be revealed,
that twas i whom you have been using,
twas i whom you have trusted to be your companion when in need,
and that i have kept my word,
to stash your secrets away..
but its sad my dear,
that the deed have been done,
and that neither of us can change the past,
nor for me to accept the blame,
but for you and only you ,
to carry the scare of your action,
and my skin shines back to its pure self...
for all the blames,
for all the lies,
have been on me,
for all the days i wonder alone for help,
but none came,
those days will be paid for....
but,
fret nay my dear,
for i do not loath thee,
and only my love awaits thee.
cause...
twas you who turn me into a saint,
twas you who turn me into an angel,
twas you who braught me closer to god,
for bearing you ill name...
and its that day,
that everyone will know,
twas you whom did the wrong,
and that i was wronged....
if only you realize,
that if you accepted your flaws and faults,
you would be whole,
away from fear,
away from pain,
away from guilt,
and all the vile thoughts that crosses your mind,
just to close you shameful work...
be and let be,
for all your deeds will be known one day,
and it will hurt,
that day,
as you accept too many of your wrongs,
gathered by time...
repent my dear,
for you might use me now,
but then not for long,
as one day,
i will fade,
from your life,
and to whom do you go then??
hence my dear,
if you care for anything,
if you care for anyone,
come clean of your sins,
as you will be forgived...
but till then,
my dear,
you'll weep,
you'll scorn,
you'll torment,
in burning rage of your own...
come clean my dear,
come clean.............
Sunday, March 7, 2010
These little things
ever wondered,
what life would be like,
when we,
seize not simpler..
that smile you just gave,
to an old wearied mother,
a wink you gave,
to a little child,
going through agony,
to get what he wants...
aha,
that little school girl who helped you,
when no one seems to care,
for all she taught that you needed someone,
to clear the mess you've made by dropping your
grocery bags.....
did u thank her??
and all that child could think off,
' i have helped somebody'
for all the times you prayed,
not only for yourself,
but also for others..
those thoughts,
those actions,
those feelings...
all brought together,
to bring new meaning to life,
learn to be kind,
you learn to love strangers.....
and these little things,
that gives contentment,
gives happiness,
gives joy....
may all be safe and well,
may all be loved,
may all be cherished!
and these little things that make wonders...............
what life would be like,
when we,
seize not simpler..
that smile you just gave,
to an old wearied mother,
a wink you gave,
to a little child,
going through agony,
to get what he wants...
aha,
that little school girl who helped you,
when no one seems to care,
for all she taught that you needed someone,
to clear the mess you've made by dropping your
grocery bags.....
did u thank her??
and all that child could think off,
' i have helped somebody'
for all the times you prayed,
not only for yourself,
but also for others..
those thoughts,
those actions,
those feelings...
all brought together,
to bring new meaning to life,
learn to be kind,
you learn to love strangers.....
and these little things,
that gives contentment,
gives happiness,
gives joy....
may all be safe and well,
may all be loved,
may all be cherished!
and these little things that make wonders...............
when i first saw u
ha!
twas that day i remember,
on the morning of march,
2005,
at its 13th day.
there i was,
sobbing in my heart,
melancholic;
to depart from my bloods,
though for only months of three.
with all those sadness,
went in to the bus,
only to find,
left none other seats,
except by the front,
near the driver,
a single seater.
was it fate,
i shall not knowest then,
but now,
i think it wast.
opened up the book in my hand,
should have just read it,
instead,
my instinct made to peep out.
why oh why,
till today i wonder,
twas you,
i found,
smiling at another.
looked straight in to your eyes,
oh lord,
you were so familiar;
have we met before,
i couldn't recall,
and then your face is all i remember.
so gentle,
but old,
wise,
yet jolly;
the sorrow in my heart left,
a glee,
exicited,
for thought,
i saw someone whom i know,
as deep as your eyes,
it was familiar in me.
my mouth baffled,
should i call?
but alas,
what is thy name?
sigh....
my heart ached again,
this time for thee,
oh how i wish,
to jump of that bus,
and to hug you,
oh heavens,
gladness would surely fill my heart,
but who art thou?
i knowest not!
did i so thus,
you would have taken me for a zanny,
there i hold myself,
weeping again,
will i ever see you again,
will my fate just ends here,
will god meet me with you again....
oh dear,
bless my soul and yours,
is this what called,
love at first sight.....
i pray we be together again....
you seem to be such a joy!
your family would loved you dear...
may happiness, love and success greet thee...
only if i could and atleast,
kissed your hand.....
o great soul,
sent by god.
twas that day i remember,
on the morning of march,
2005,
at its 13th day.
there i was,
sobbing in my heart,
melancholic;
to depart from my bloods,
though for only months of three.
with all those sadness,
went in to the bus,
only to find,
left none other seats,
except by the front,
near the driver,
a single seater.
was it fate,
i shall not knowest then,
but now,
i think it wast.
opened up the book in my hand,
should have just read it,
instead,
my instinct made to peep out.
why oh why,
till today i wonder,
twas you,
i found,
smiling at another.
looked straight in to your eyes,
oh lord,
you were so familiar;
have we met before,
i couldn't recall,
and then your face is all i remember.
so gentle,
but old,
wise,
yet jolly;
the sorrow in my heart left,
a glee,
exicited,
for thought,
i saw someone whom i know,
as deep as your eyes,
it was familiar in me.
my mouth baffled,
should i call?
but alas,
what is thy name?
sigh....
my heart ached again,
this time for thee,
oh how i wish,
to jump of that bus,
and to hug you,
oh heavens,
gladness would surely fill my heart,
but who art thou?
i knowest not!
did i so thus,
you would have taken me for a zanny,
there i hold myself,
weeping again,
will i ever see you again,
will my fate just ends here,
will god meet me with you again....
oh dear,
bless my soul and yours,
is this what called,
love at first sight.....
i pray we be together again....
you seem to be such a joy!
your family would loved you dear...
may happiness, love and success greet thee...
only if i could and atleast,
kissed your hand.....
o great soul,
sent by god.
i'm a spiritual tree hugging self knower
I took the 43 Things Personality Quiz and found out I'm a
Spiritual Tree Hugging Self-Knower
Saturday, March 6, 2010
letting know
its good to let people know about them, because this helps them to improve on themselves. this avoids the person from doing the same mistakes again in the future. if we help them by doing so, we would be treated in the same way too. imagine your close friend doing something wrong, what would you do? do you just sit and watch, then later comment on his or her action. now, that wouldn't be nice at all! what should we do is aknowledge them, let them know what will be the cosequences of such action. help them commit no sins, help them to educate. a real friend would bother! but you would wonder, what if they diss our advise or opinion? that my friends should be left for the 'creator' to save them. but you have to do your part. make it a golden rule to do so!
my dear friends, we must also realise that when we do point out our friends mistakes, do it without being bossy, because this will only ends with our friend being annoyed. Should never sound pushy but we must let them know and bring them to light about their mistakes. give them the clear picture, but let them decide... if they still persist on what they want to do then...... its out of our hand, but atleast we tried!
my dear friends, we must also realise that when we do point out our friends mistakes, do it without being bossy, because this will only ends with our friend being annoyed. Should never sound pushy but we must let them know and bring them to light about their mistakes. give them the clear picture, but let them decide... if they still persist on what they want to do then...... its out of our hand, but atleast we tried!
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