My life is a dream.

My life is a dream

A soft, hazy, misty dream.

It smiles and sings and wafts within

It ebbs and flows in a silver stream.

My life is devoid of all things real

Love and laughter my souls’ meal.

I feel unfit for its outwardly skin

My heart; it hums with happiness surreal.

From this dream, then why to awaken,

To harsh reality why be taken?

When a life beautiful is lived away from the din

Blissfully unaware, yet wise and unshaken.

Moments

A fluttery glance,
under lashes bent.
A flitter of a smile,
With love's intent.

Tender moments,
loony laughter,
impassioned emotions,
Rapturous banter.

A man transformed,
By love's gentle caress.
A woman cocooned,
By his eternal largess.

Love's bonds true,
Neither gospel nor fairytale.
A sonnet here in reality,
Stable in a colourful dale.

:D

Stacie was Susens.

A magical wedding past,

Love's made her Lee-Vee!

Haiku

They nod like puppets,
Pulled along by strings unknown
Yet, follow thy will.

Luckiest girl in town!

They fear the Thames might overflow...
There's rain everywhere I go
Following like an old foe.
Tempests swirl, ships drown
I stand like the boy on the burning deck,
But he's already gone and with the crown.
Amidst all the mist of this wreck,
I feel like the luckiest girl in town..
Sun kissed and caressed,
My heart's got a glowing tan
For I am in love with the most WONDERFUL MAN!

A Rap

They call me prude,

And I find that rude

I gotta say dude

That it changes my mood!

So I started a blog,

While I was high on the hog,

My mind's in a fog

And I'm rapping with the Dawg!

Now I'm working at Kenshoo

Loving what I do,

Part of a very cool crew,

See how the team grew!

It's all bout' the marketing,

And how the campaigns swing,

From PPC to social we bring,

While innovating with a zing!

:)

In brooding and cloudy skies,

There's a rainbow in my eyes,

Wonder and happiness anew,

It's almost like I always knew,

This dream coming true, like an inner sunrise!

Extreme Paranoia

Work. Work...work.

I walk it, I sleep it, I wake up to it and dream it.
I wake up at odd hours only to realise that 'that conversation I was having with my boss' was a dream.
I check my work emails while watching a funny movie.
I think about next months deadline while skipping out of work on a Friday evening.

I'm going to blame the recession for this. You see before 'it' happened I loved winning and it was all easy. I won and I was happy and when I didn't win I thought about the next time I would win.

The problem now, is that all's changed. Now I hate to lose.

Le nouveau autor

As far back as I can remember, no other place in the world has ever held higher appeal for me than a library or even better a book shop. Rows and rows of colourful spines with titles from the great and glorious stacked neatly in place. There is history in these places. You can sense the air of mystery and almost feel the invisible ideas and stories floating all about you. I remember always walking in eagerly and not knowing which way to turn first in the euphoric excitement of the initial moments. I eventually always made it to the racks that held the books written by my favourite authors. But just the thought of discovering new writers, genres, perhaps growing into reading titles I was still too young to grasp always left me with this hopeful feeling of endless possibilities and discoveries.

People, their thoughts, their ideas and the essence of their lives live on forever in their books. I know this is a much repeated line but if you just stand still for a moment in a library and let the line sink in to the very depths of your soul you'll be able to see wispy floating caricatures of Charles Dickens writing in his cozy study with a felt pen, Enid Blyton sitting in a green meadow and dreaming up her next adventure, Alexandre Dumas perhaps casually moving his sword in the air plotting the next fencing sequence and Sir Arthur Doyle creating Sherlock Holmes from thin air in the fictitious 221B Baker Street residence.

My books meant everything to me. Even today after moving at least two flats a year I have a small sized collection of about 15-20 books in my room at all times. It's my security blanket. It's my escape into a world that welcomes you with arms wide open. Even though each story is new and each scenario painted is novel, it all feels more familiar than any moment lived in the real world. The magic that my mind conjures in the moments of reading a scene live on as memories. I seem to look back upon my 'imaginative' memories sometimes with even more affection than I do the real ones, made of real moments. Am sure this is not a psychological issue but a quirk shared by all book lovers! ;-)

I seem to have digressed completely. What I wanted to talk about was my dream of being an author; or writing stories and essays and poetry that people would love to read; of being famous for the wild fantasies I'm able to make come true for my readers; of creating unforgettable 'imaginative' memories for them. I wanted to be on one of those colourful spines in a library or book shop. The dream lives on today and is irreplaceable on the top of my list of deepest desires.

There are millions of writers who blog today. Millions of voices with thoughts and ideas living their dream through a blog. One argument is getting lost in this sea 'typed' as another mundane voice. However, with the modern  day phenomenon of blogging the dream seems more real and attainable. Writing regularly on a blog and having a handful of followers can never make up for the beautiful fantasy of being a well renowned author but it definitely provides a platform to assuage that ambition, to hone the skill, to keep the hope alive of someday writing something worthy of being published.

It also makes the entire process of writing a book open to the common man. You and me can write and so can John Grisham and Phillippa Gregory. It's the birth of 'le nouveau autor' who is not magnificent and whose thoughts will not make generations stop and think. But this author will inspire immediate friends and find a confidence in his/her daily existence that the generations before never had.

Butterfly Effect

She sat near a window, watching the rain trickle down the glass. Over the din of human voices, she could hear the soft consistent sound of raindrops hammering the earth. She held the cup of Latte between her slim hands and waited patiently for him to arrive. At least she thought she was being patient. It had been months since they'd started meeting for casual coffee's, romantic dinners, regular movies, random walks... It was dating without actually acknowledging it to be dating. It was a relationship without actually being a relationship. She didn't know what it was. She only knew that she was falling for him. She didn't understand why as he wasn't her usual type. He wasn't romantic, he wasn't charming nor was he an easy-going flirt. He was just a guy with too much testosterone and an above average intellect. But she was in the deep end and she had to find out whether she would float or go under.

'Hey! Sorry I kept you waiting...', he rushed to her side and pulled up a chair.
'Hey!' They hugged. 'It's ok, I bought myself a coffee.'
As he went over to the counter to buy himself a coffee, she took a few deep breaths to calm her racing pulse and rehearse what she had to say to him. He looked over his shoulder at her and mimicked her tensed expression which made them both smile. She sat a bit straighter, shrugged her shoulders at him and and indicated to his empty chair.
'Missing you already', she mouthed.

'So, you had something to tell me? We better get it out of the way and wipe those tension lines off your face', he eyes crinkled as he smiled at her from over the rim of his cup.
'I met a man on my trip last month...'
'ok.'
'I...we...I can't do this with you anymore'
'Do what?'
'This...us...meeting'
'Aren't we friends? Why does us being friends have be affected by you meeting a guy. I'm happy for you!'
'But...you and I? Are you sure it's okay?'
'Ok? Why wouldn't it be? It's not like we're dating or anything. We're just friends right?'
'Right.'
They sat in silence. She couldn't bring herself to say anything more. He continued to look at her.
'Good. That's settled.When do I meet him?'
'Umm...I don't think it'll be a good idea. I'm meeting his parents tomorrow. It might be okay for you but I can't continue doing this. I'm sorry.'
She picked up her bags, dropped a light farewell kiss on his cheek and walked out of the cafe.

At dinner.
'My parents are going to love you babe. Just be yourself'
Nervously sipping on her champagne, she played with the strap of her shoe under the table. He leaned over, took her hand in his and kissed the palm.
'Oh here's dad!'
She turned around and stared into the eyes of just another guy with too much testosterone and an above average intellect.

Inner Call

The edge of the precipice

The sheer drop of height

The dip of my heart

The tear in my eye

A call to the skies

A plea carried by the winds

A tremor in my soul

A cry against all of the lies

To stand against the storm

To fight the inner call

To wade into still waters

To like a dove transform

It’s the reason to cease

It’s the desire to carry on

It’s the fire that melts

It’s the moment for a sweet release.