Talking About Rain and the Importance of Enjoying It

There is just something supremely and inherently romantic about rain, and while I’m at it, I realise that I have also been extremely lucky to be able to love it when it rains. Until a few years back I wouldn’t have given a second thought about being grateful for the ability to love a natural phenomenon that comes around every year, but that’s what happens when you grow up. Amongst other important things like paying the bills and managing taxes, you also learn to appreciate things which previously you had taken for granted. And no, not just home cooked food, but also the privilege of being able to enjoy that food. You might now either be wondering why or might be cringing in apprehension about this being another long winded rant about how there are only a few of us privileged people out here in the world. While that is a sorry fact and as much helpless I feel just thinking about it, this is not what I’m going to talk about this time. (So, please read on) I’m just here to talk about beautiful rains. And dab a little into a teeny tiny something else.

I have always loved rain, and why not? I have been fortunate enough in growing up with a roof over my head, with kind parents who love me to bits and have always made sure that I never fall short of any worldly comfort (I now realise what a terribly difficult task that is, and I still wonder HOW you did it every single day these past years, mom and dad? Thanks is a small word), thus giving me enough time at hand to fall in love with all the small and beautiful things life has had, and will be continuing, to offer. And guess what?  The rain is right on top with a smug smile on its face. Yeah honey, the crown is yours. And if in case you disagree (which is completely acceptable and you might also have your own fair and valid reasons) and ask me why rain is so special, I would still say, why not? Rain is nostalgic, it’s beautiful, romantic, melancholy, and full of rhythm all at the same time. So many emotions in tiny of droplets of water. What’s not to like? No wonder it comes along with its fair share of lame love songs and cheesy romance novels, not forgetting difficult-to-get-rid-of pestilences, traffic jams that take forever, power cuts, muddy ditches, frogs, snakes, worms, ghosts, and a bazillion other problems that we’re better off without, but that still doesn’t take away the magic, does it? Okay, it does take away all of it, but what about when it doesn’t?

What about you splashing about in the rain with your sibling, your cousins, your friends? Or what about you making tiny paper boats with pages torn out of your notebook (almost always Math because who uses that anyway and also because the squares give a nice aesthetic to the whole thing). Remember how you used to open your mouth wide and just face the sky trying to drink some of that water? Or how about you splashing about with your new raincoat and umbrella on? Still doesn’t work? How about me reminding you of those absolutely marvellous rain time snacks? Hot pakoras and chai? I’m already smelling it. Aaaaaaah Perfection! Remember the song ‘Chhaiya Chhaiya‘? No? Aw C’mon! Okay, let me make it a little more special for you. Do you remember the first rain of the season? When the water droplets hit the parched earth and then wafts that beautiful smell of freshly dampened earth that also somehow quenches your thirst (which you didn’t realise you had until right then)? I bet there’s a word for that but where’s the fun in that? Taking you back to that time did more work than just writing ‘petrichor’ (yeah I Googled it for you, you’re welcome).

You might be wondering why I made such an effort in rekindling those memories for you. I’m a fairly sane human being, then why did I go through all this trouble? Why am I so hell bent on you reliving some of those happy memories? Why? The answer is pretty simple too. Trust me. You ready? Okay, here it goes. Simply because those memories were happy. Yes, that’s it. Still a little confused? Okay, let us make it a little simpler. They were happy memories, and they didn’t happen because they required you to score good grades or getting into a good college. They didn’t require you getting a job or a fat paycheck. These happy memories didn’t require you doing certain things, they just happened. So you see, life is not always a reward and punishment affair. It may seem like it mostly is, but no, not always. (Yes! And it is not cheating, its life, basically, anything can happen you know) So, good things also happen to you when you allow yourself the opportunity of choosing to be happy. And I’m not saying its easy, no sir it isn’t. But I also know that it’s important for you to allow yourself to be happy. Why? That’s simple too, trust me everything written here is pretty simple. Again, why is it important for you to allow yourself to be happy? So that you have enough happiness to last you if it doesn’t rain next time. Bleak thought. I know, right? Again, anything can happen you know.

I know things were simpler back then. You didn’t have to worry about certain people in school, or in college, at your workplace, or anywhere else for that matter. I know that back then you didn’t have to worry about certain things at your home. I also know that back then you were healthier, happier. I know back then you were a little better, that many things that are now inside your head biting at you weren’t even there before. I know a lot of problems didn’t exist earlier. But you know what, of all the things that are different now, there is one thing that isn’t. What, you ask? It’s you, and your ability to be happy. So I hope that now you do realise that all those happy memories happened because all they needed was for you to open your eyes and embrace whatever good happened to you, be it just tiny droplets of water. It wasn’t so hard to do if you think about it, and oh it was so lovely too. You know you can be happy again, even if it is for a little while, that’s how you start, don’t you. One baby step at a time. So, my dear reader, if you could do it back then, could you do it once again the next time it rains? I know that you can, do you?


This Place Once Called Home

It was a day like no other when you were taking a look outside the window of your living room and you happened to notice me

Outside the tiny gates of your home, fenced on either side by bushes, overlooking the garden, stood there the tiny, humble, me

You see me, I seem respectable enough, not the type of person you see standing idly outside other people’s homes

But here I am, I don’t look lost, am not looking around asking for directions, and you wonder if I’ve somehow mistaken your home as my abode

You might be a little intrigued by my answer. You see, the house you call your home, someday used to be mine

Someday yes, years ago but someday nonetheless, your living room was my own, and as you see me standing there, my heart yearns to take me back, it yearns to…

Take me back to the days of past, when I was younger and the trees were older


To the house now lived in by someone else, I once used to sit and wonder

On the rusted swing set, I used to fly, oh the sweet rush when I could just snatch the sky

There wasn’t anything toxic you see, just whistling in my ears and wind on my cheeks

And how could I possibly forget those evenings when summer was just about to come

The air thick with the scent of mango blossoms, the distant cuckoo cry, and the buzzing of dragonflies a constant hum

I would very much like to stop now, for going back to those memories is giving me much pain

But how could I stop without mentioning the dogs that I used to feed and the butterflies that I used to chase

while feeling the brush of unmowed grass on my feet as I frolicked around in floaters, or how my ball almost always used to love the gutter

And my favourite of all, how when it was past bedtime and I would sit at the window and look out at the peaceful garden

Unafraid, unworried, looking outside just because I wanted to, for I believed in the magic of the stories I’d read sitting in that very place when it was bright

I could go back and take a look at this former home and lovers lost if you’d only be kind enough to extend to me an invitation

And I would gladly accept and maybe stay long enough for a cup of tea and some snacks and would tell you all about –

How the trees are older still, and the swing set ever the rustier,

How the mango tree now covers the whole verandah, and how the cuckoo still calls over with glee

I won’t care about making it a song anymore, you see I’m overtaken by indignation

How this place is not my home, but yours…. but I somehow compose myself and make efforts at polite conversation

‘The grass is not overgrown, you’ve taken good care of it I see’, I’d say to you putting down my generous cup of tea

My little beloved crooked home could be in ruins but is doing good thanks to you

The mango tree is artfully maintained, its ever reaching branches now touching the moon

The dahlias are now replaced by some more exotic flowers, the chipped blue paint of yesterday has now turned into a pleasant cream

And my darling old swing set, I thank you for not throwing it away to fend for itself

Yes, I had always believed it had a life of its own, like every other thing in this beloved house of mine, I’m sorry, yours.

The place of my childhood is no longer mine, what was once my personal kingdom is now someone else’s. My proud throne by the window, now yours.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no rancour, I’m happy you found this home, and happier still for this home to have found you

My house, now yours would be busy too, helping you in making your own stories, the mango blossoms blooming for you, and the cuckoo singing for you, and not for me

And if you’re worrying that I would bring trouble, that I’m not as well off as I seemed, that I might perhaps be a bit loony

You’re justified in assuming but need not fear, for I would not mean to intrude you see.

And I’m definitely not loony, just missing what this place used to be

I would want to stay longer, and gaze inside and look what has become of the other rooms

But in doing so I’d be more wretched than I’d ever would possibly be

For I don’t guess I could bear to see my father’s study replaced by yours,

And my mother’s kitchen, now yours

And the rest of it all bearing no resemblance to what I have grown up to be

So don’t take pity and invite me in. I’d be jealous of you, and would almost long to be in your place

Almost, yes, for at the end of the day I would still want to go back to the home now I come from

For this is now just a place that is my home

With my new kingdom and my own trees, dahlias, and cuckoos to sing

And also with my father’s study and my mother’s kitchen

It is just that rusty old swing set, that relic of my childhood that I wish once more to see

Pardon me for I cannot help but wonder, that some other day you would miss this place as much as I do right now

I assure you that I don’t mean you harm, it is confusing I know, and almost funny, ironical may be

How exactly you would miss this place when after some weeks, or months, or years, you would be someplace else and would be yearning like me


The Situational Paradox (Diary of a Lunatic #4)

There is something enigmatically beautiful about being in a place you’ve never been before, especially if you’re going to have to call it home for an indefinite but hopefully short period of time. You leave your own home with a concoction of anxiety of what is to come, and exhilaration for the endless possibilities you picture yourselves in at night just before going to sleep.

So you start your journey into the unknown with a bag full of clothes and a head hung over a cocktail of dreams, anxieties, and apprehensions. You take your first steps with a heart wide open and a naivete tight shut into a city which you know will teach you, break you, and build you up all over again. And then you fly. And then you stumble and fall. But you’ve done this before, you know what to do. So you pick yourself up, dust the dirt off of your new clothes which your mom so fondly got for you, and you keep walking, telling yourself that you’re a grown up now, that you will be fine. Of course you will. You just didn’t know that it would be this hard, that you’d still have trouble composing yourself despite of everything you are and after everything you’ve been through. But you do, of course you do. You’re strong. You have to be.

So you keep walking. Your knees are bleeding and your palms are bruised from catching your fall, but right now, at this very moment, you’re thankful for being able to hold it together. Everything here is strange, but you are doing fine. You are new here but you are fine. It’s going to be okay. You are even proud of yourself, you picked yourself up all on your own. You are a superhero.

Hours pass and then the sun sets on your day. You’re tired, sad, apprehensive, miserable, but you’re now a day older in this city, a day closer to your home, a day closer to your heart, to your destiny. And its not all that bad. You spent the day with your eyes wide open and didn’t you see that this place is beautiful? And think of your room, its got huge windows with those fancy curtains, and its clean.You’re doing good. You look around at the people, and oh no, not again! All you see everywhere are faces of strangers. Some of them look right through you, you’re invisible, a ghost. But some of them look you up and down with a frown on their face. They know. They know that you don’t belong here, you’re an outsider. But hey, that bunch right there, they look like you. You’re going to be fine. You got back up.

You are sitting in your room, feeling good about the cool breeze that’s flowing through the curtains. But you’re bruised and alone. But what’s so wrong about this? Haven’t you always enjoyed your own company? This is what you wanted. Right? Ah, you know what’s wrong. You just never imagined that it would be this lonely.

Suddenly, the room with the good curtains is not good anymore. The curtains are now still and you can’t breathe. Your vision blurs and you feel drops of moisture making their way down your parched face. And for the first time since being here, you’re thankful that you’re alone. Ha! Life has its own way of playing with you. You’ll always be one step behind, always too busy catching your breath to figure how it works.

Now what? You can’t just sit here being miserable. No one’s here to take care of you. So you wipe your tears, you look into the slightly stained mirror to give yourself a check. You look like crap, but you’re okay. Yes, you are. You’re fine, you will be. And then you grab your phone and go out.

An hour later, maybe two, your eyes are drenched, your throat is sore, but your heart is doing fine. For the first time today, you are fine. Haha, life again, you sneaky monster. You chance a look upon the night sky and you stand and stare. And you keep standing there and you keep looking, nothing was ever more beautiful, you’ve never experienced this epiphany before, because for the first time here, it feels like home.


I’m a little absurd today
Tell me would you still
Like to bear with me this day

I fail to look up and love
This beautiful day today
I want to sit in a corner
Stare down at my feet, just this way
Curled up, hair dishevelled, sights lost far away
Tell me, would you still like to bear with me this day

The wind knocked that picture to the floor
Making a breaking sound as it goes
But I don’t want to pick it up today
I want to wonder how the ‘whoosh’ changed into ‘shatter’
And for now, nothing else matters
Tell me, would you still like to bear with me this day

I don’t want to close the doors today
I want to see the pictures the curtains paint, dancing in vain
I want to imagine a horse in the midst of those sepia flowers,
A home in that brocade
Tell me, would you still like to bear with me this day

I don’t want to talk to you today
Would you still be willing to listen
To the words I did not yet say
Or would you rather prefer to walk away
Check in on me perhaps some other time, just not this day

But don’t you worry a bit today
For I don’t blame you, I get why you are being this way
For even I wouldn’t want to bear with me this day

You see, I’m just a little absurd today

The Little Brown Paper Bag

So it was one of those evenings on a regular summer day, when the sun dips low into the horizon and gives the sky that concentrated pink hue which reminds you of a burning fever you once had when you were a child. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you. You came back home from school one day, or probably after playing for hours in your neighbourhood, and then suddenly your world was taken hold by this fever which threw you in a kind of delirium you were too young to comprehend, and you kept dreaming about this place with a bright pink sky. No? Well, maybe its just me. But I hope you now have a fair idea of what kind of evening it was. Pink and delirious, and maybe such evenings bring with them a gateway to the uncanny, or maybe its just my excuse to look for the uncanny.

The pink sky brought with it a stifling heat, and walking down the roads of my little town I soon began to look around for something which would make the walking a tad bit easier. Why was I walking in the first place if the heat was bothering me too much you ask? I agree with you too, it sure doesn’t make much sense, but I sometimes tend to be a senseless person. To forego reason and to give in to the desires of the mind is a testing temptation, and I quite often love to give in. Also, the delirious sky of my childhood was imploring me to get out and explore, just like my childhood self imagined I would do once I grew up. Now that I’m a grown up and free to do almost whatever I wish, I believe I owe it to the child that once dreamed. Silly dreams.

There is no better way of enjoying an evening than sitting in a park and breathing in everything. Also, you get to watch the people around you being themselves. Its one of my favourite pastimes, watching people when they are engrossed in their own intricately woven pieces of glory. But, sometimes, when they think that no one is watching, those carefully woven cloaks fall off, and what lies underneath is what interests me the most. I was busy thinking, happy in my own intricately woven cloak when I felt that my cloak was being slowly but steadily pulled away. I was being watched! The nerve! I slowly, surreptitiously moved my head towards the direction my senses were screaming, and found nothing. That’s odd. Is it the delirium acting again? I thought I was too old for that. But the feeling was still there! I looked around again, but nothing, just people milling about with their usual cloaks. Then I hear a squeaky noise. Someone coughs. I look down and find a little girl staring back at me. “Well hello there”, I bend down to her level and say. She looks back with her big eyes and a solemn expression and says nothing.”Don’t you recognize me, I live right next to you”, I meet with a set of blinking eyes, they blink once. I’ve seen her here a couple of times with her mother. This tiny creature always catches my attention with her bobbing piglets on each side of her tiny little head. This time she is wearing a red frock with matching rubberbands. For the bobbing head with the matching rubber bands, I try again,”Are you lost? Do you want help in getting home”?

“Yes, please,”she says in a sombre undertone.

“Oh so you do speak.”

I’m met with a cold stare. The girl starts walking, and I shove my hands in my pockets and follow her. So much for the delirious sky and everything. I sigh inwards and keep following the bobbing head with its matching rubber bands. Maybe she bobs her head to a song, I wonder. We snake out of the park and start walking in the general direction of the building where we live, the girl’s head bobbing all along and this becomes the focus of my thoughts. We have walked a while and I look up just as I’m wondering about what’s taking us so long and I find ourselves surrounded by trees. No, these were dead trees. Just as I start to panic, I spot our building in a distance. Looks like my little friend took a little detour, maybe she wants to explore and was never allowed to. Maybe the pink sky was acting out after all. I follow the bobbing head with the matching hair bands and for the first time, I’m actually curious about more than her little bobbing head.

She looks back once to make sure I’m on her trail, gives me a triumphant look, and skips ahead with a little brown paper bag dangling on her spindly arms. Wait, where did that come from. Maybe she had it with her all along, I was too busy with her bobbing head to notice anything else in the first place. The bobbing stops and now I see that something has caught her attention, something significant that has stopped the bobbing. She bends down and is now picking at something and shoving it in her paper bag. I wonder what could she possibly find worth shoving for in this wasteland where the trees smell like they could burn with just a little more heat. The pictures that come to my mind gives me a cold shudder. So I walk up to her and bend down next to her. She gives me a brief look and then resumes her task. Dreading to find something sinister, I steal a look. How could these possibly end up here? My tiny little friend is busy picking at mermaid tears and placing them very carefully in her paper bag. My natty little friend dragged me in a wasteland to collect colorful stones. Her face is lined with concentration. I almost laugh, oh the things I imagined, they are just pretty stones.

I wait till she is done with her task, and after she has made sure that she has got hold of every little stone, she gets up dusts her frock, holds the little brown paper bag carefully in both of her hands and looks at me. “Ready to go home?”, I ask her. She answers in a single nod and we head back, this time, her head not bobbing, being so busy with not spilling the contents of her paper bag, and me looking around and focusing on not getting lost again. We reach the compound of our building and she runs away to the play area, clutching the little brown paper bag to her chest, with her head bobbing with its matching rubber bands. I look around at the sky, it has now turned into its normal light blue, almost as if the dead forest had claimed it for itself in return of the mermaid tears we took from it. I sigh again and head back home.

Evening gave way to night and I had made peace with waiting for my pink sky again. Maybe someday it would grace my window again, and maybe I would again go out in search of my delirium, or whatever it was I was looking for. I go to my bed and find the same little brown paper bag sitting on my bed. I should be freaked I know, but I can’t help being curious and a little excited. I grab it and look inside. It contains nothing but a sheet. The sheet has a drawing of a park with a pink sky in a child’s hand, and the drawing is sprinkled all over with mermaid tears. I smile and turn the sheet over, expecting not to find anything but turning it over all the same, and on finding nothing, I smile again. I walk over to my window to look at that dry wasteland, and of course, find the building’s parking lot instead. Of course, it has been there all along, how could I expect anything else. Smiling, I walk back to my bed, place the picture and the little brown paper bag on my desk, and go to sleep.


A Day In The Life Of…Wonder

Breakfast, morning, and sunshine;

A skillet of eggs and a glass of water and lime.

Get up and about to start a pleasant day;

Even if my head is brimming with grime.


Lunch, afternoon, and laughter sublime;

A meal with friends and a glass of coke and ice.

Go out, laugh, tease, cry, and work;

For time and moments are little, so don’t stand around and smirk.


Dinner, evening, lying under a starry sky;

With a bottle of wine, it looks a beautiful sight.

In my mind’s eye, I hear a distant thunder;

So I close those eyes, and let the rains do their plunder.


This was the story of a day in my life,

A pocketful of happiness, some angst, and a bit of sadness too;

But most of all…wonder.


Diary of a Lunatic #3: Highway to Hell

I go through life singing and dancing, sometimes crying and crawling, all the same, all the while, it does go on.
Looking back at times spent yearning and trying and failing yet again and again and tirelessly ever again ; I can’t help looking back without feeling a sense of pride mixed with some dubbed disappointment. Then comes the confusion, the apprehension of what may happen and what may not, what may go wrong again and the inherent fear that says that just maybe I may not get up this time. It should make me anxious but this comes with a feeling of tranquil liberation, that maybe I’ll find some peace in the hopeless chaos that life would be. I wouldn’t need to worry any more about things going bad again, I wouldn’t have to worry about taking care of myself again, I would just sleep peacefully with those utter chaos taking care of me.

Diary of a Lunatic : #2 7800 Fahrenheit

One comes around certain instances in life when one’s temperature rises to quite a certain degree of intolerance and no, I’m not talking about having a fever. So, instead of ranting about how horrible some things in my life are and ending up sounding like an ungrateful, stuck up brat; I decide to disguise my rant (a failed attempt) with humour.

Getting to study in a lost and pretty much ‘good –for- nothing- much’ college sometimes has its own perks, some of which are mentioned below:

  1. You don’t have to worry about pairing up the perfect outfit and doing up your hair in the right way. You could just walk out of your bed and into the lecture room and still end up looking presentable as compared to some of your peers.
  2. You don’t have to watch your manners or your language for that matter, because people may confuse your politeness with flirting, or better yet, may label you downright weird. Who wants to bother with their tongue anyway? Such a pain.
  3. Your vocabulary of slangs increases a great deal.
  4. You either learn to practice the all-encompassing Buddhist patience or end up becoming cynical while wishing you were ‘The Terminator’, or may even become one if handed a machine gun. So much potential. A win-win situation nonetheless.
  5. You’re so used to dealing with compromising situations that you’re not worried about what life will throw at you in future.
  6. For all you introverts out there, here’s the catch: you don’t have to worry about not having a social life. What with all the assignments, classes, projects, recurring exams that last for weeks and even take place on weekends; the management makes sure that any life you may have had outside of your petty college comes to an end, or never starts.
  7. You have an increased knowledge of various forms of music available in the country. From the “desi lollipop to the red lipishtik which shakes the whole district”. You have it all.
  8. If you take up a hostel facility, the despicable wardens will inspire you to write a script for “Kill Bill Vol. 3”. This could bag you millions.
  9. Your immune system becomes super strong after consuming what they call hostel mess “food”.
  10. You learn to wake up even before the sun’s up on winters if you want to have a hot water bath. And we all know that old saying: “Early to bed, early to rise make’s a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” That’s three birds with a single arrow.

After four years of living in a state of constant degradation and surrounded by people who either love to pester you or are perfectly okay with the way things are, some of us find ourselves in a feverish and frenzied state of exasperation. Yes, it’s 7800 Fahrenheit and unlike Jon Bon Jovi, I don’t have a Tokyo Road to take.

But every cloud has a silver lining, mine being that it reminded me of my love for the written word, and inspired me to do a bit of writing. A real happy perk after all.

Diary of a Lunatic : #1. Lines, Vines and Trying Times

What is this thing? Another bit of my rambling mind trying to find a respite from my not so interesting existence. Well, yeah there are the books, those wonderful beautiful books which have so many beautiful things to offer. But, besides that, nada, nope, null. Am I frustrated about it? Surprisingly, no.  Have I tried anything to change this state of continuous ‘not so interesting existence’? Not exactly. What I have tried, is to change myself into something which is more acceptable. What is that? Perfection. Have I achieved it? Far, far, way far from it. Do I feel bad about it? Maybe. Do I have a definition for perfection? Yeah. Being the best version of yourself (emphasis on the word ‘version’ as I’m feeling philosophical today but more on that later). What brought about this need for perfection? Everything. Blame it on evolution, globalisation, or what not. Our society has evolved into this terrific system where anything less than extraordinary or anything less than perfect is frowned upon. Being good in something is not okay, you have to be the best. You have to be phenomenal. A while back I used to think that words like ‘perfection’, ‘phenomenal’, ‘extraordinary’, etc. are being used a little too freely because let’s be real, not everyone can be like that. But then I grew up a bit more and realised that most of the people are phenomenal, most of the people are perfect; they really are extraordinary in what they do. Now don’t get me wrong, I respect all of that, it’s something I haven’t been able to do. On the contrary, it seems a Herculean task to do the right thing all the time. And maybe that’s the reason why I feel invigorated when I look at all the perfection around me. How could I ever match up to that? Will I ever be able to? Do I really want to? From the perfect dress, the perfect hair, the perfect smile, the perfect manners, the perfect report, the perfect presentation, the perfect everything. It’s exhausting. To think about it, all this could drive any sane person paranoid. Or is it just me, hence the lunatic in the title. But ranting out about it makes me feel much better. We can’t let it get to us like a poison ivy, forever itching its way into us. We need to breathe and let our imagination fly a little once in a while. Life’s a beautiful song, and a song is played both by the black and white keys. Who knows, the black keys could never look so beautiful. And maybe in that gentle process, we could evolve ourselves into a better version of ourselves, not something which the world desires; a little something for us. A little something for the tiny good in us. A little hope. Step out of the line, do something for yourself. Detangle yourself from the vines which tell you ‘what to do’ or rather ‘what to be’. Do your own thing. Sing your own song. We just need to give it a try, no harm done.


It just so happens that life throws certain things at you. Like a book you keep seeing either in someone’s bookshelf, or in a train while someone is reading it, or in some other random non nondescript place. Life keeps throwing certain things at you until you finally give in to its higher scheming and just accept what it has to offer, in the case of books it has always been a beautiful experience for me.

But this time its not a book that life’s been throwing at me, not a dress, not a pen, no not a thing. A word. A ‘wildflower’. I stumble upon this word somewhere or the other, and call it wishful thinking or just an excuse to write, here I am thinking about what a wildflower means to me.

Now that I think about it, I ask myself if I could compare myself with one. Maybe, maybe not. I wonder if wildflowers feel bad when they look around themselves at those pretty bunch of roses, or even at a thicket of trees. What have they got to do all day? Watching everything from outside, maybe wishing for an escape into a beautiful world. Or maybe they look from the outside and see the world as it really is and feel glad that they aren’t a part of that beautiful show. I wonder if they see the thorns that come with those pretty roses or I wonder if they see how everything is pruned to fit someone else’s idea of beauty.

I would like to believe that they feel glad to not be a part of that world. I would definitely be proud to believe that they would feel refreshing in their wildness, that they would enjoy those generous showers of rains without having to worry about heavy drops ruining their petals, I would like to believe that they would love to stand tall in the summer sun, as if reaching out to kiss it, and I would be simply overjoyed if they’d bloom all over in the winter snow, shining bright with fresh dew. I would love to believe all that.

Would I call myself a wildflower? Maybe not, I crib about not having enough in life and get sad about things that had never been. But maybe yes. I’d like to stand tall and embrace my uniqueness, I’d love to think that I can’t be restrained like those pretty lilies, roses, orchids; the works. I’m a wildflower, and I’ll grow wherever I will want to, I’ll be everywhere I’ll want to be.