Of Lines and Pages

I never had one notebook where I scribble my thoughts.

I have different ones, in various sizes and style. Like my pen, in different colours.

Lot like me, in different hues and moods. Soul dancing, my only anchor.

I feel deeply. Connected through the space of time and distance. Yet distant and detached.

Solitude, I hunger.

I stay home, most of the time. When not working on field or when writing or editing some materials. To do nothing but work on the things that I need to finish, but also to find time to stare on the blank pages, at the ceiling, at the floor.

Gaze into nothingness.

I do good at gazing and keeping my mind out there. I also do good at staying in bed the whole day, with a great book in hand or music to listen to. I love the sound of the chirping birds, or of the rain fall, the waves as it kisses the shore. I am always in awe of the orangey sky, the dancing leaf that greets whenever I travel to and from the city, and of the different hues of the rainbow.

My soul recognizes warmth. In a smile or a touch of the hand. Finding comfort in the strangeness of people and of foreign places. In communities that I have yet to know deeply.

The spark of knowing and of not knowing, of going places and of staying behind. In being on the flow. In stillness.

Wanderer me. I lay down on the footstep of ambiguity. Fully trusting life. It will take care of me. Or only because I believe that the people we meet are angels in disguise who take us in their wings and guide us in our journey.

They appear.

Sometimes, leave.

When they have fully written some lines. Guided the soul.

Like turning the sheets of the paper, or filling the space in a canvass or of putting words into a blank slate.

In different lines, curves and sizes.

These blank sheets give me an assurance of taking chances. In different forms. Life, it smiles at me, as it says, come write, bleed if you must.

Fill it in with words or silence. With music and poetry. With doodles and paints. With nothing but your heart.