Musings

 I will forever be addicted to arresting attention through words, stopping moments through eyes, warming hearts through smiles.

Always.

Self missing

Feeling this urge to write something.. ..anything... There was a time when words were my friends, notebooks my secret holders, leisures my invitation to write. What I lacked was concrete thoughts.

My thoughts are more concrete (concreter???) now. Everything else is missing. Gone are those yellow paged journals. Gone are those truly leisurely leisures. 

Why does clarity make you prosaic? Why does everything soft slowly die? Why do you harden and not soften with time? 

I miss my philosophical self. I miss my artsy self. I miss me.