Perspective

It’s all very hazy when you look close enough. Faces drifting in and out like autumn leaves floating through the wind. The onrush of words producing a static in warp speed. Moments ticking by, vanishing like stars in a blackhole. There’s so little that we can hold on to, when compared to all the million moments that just fade into oblivion. In a vast universe made up of eons and galaxies, how many stars are enough to not feel lonely? I always thought that there’s hope. That there’s something out there, which will bring meaning to everything that is. Everything that was or will be. I open doors leading to different people, different worlds. It all depends on how you see it. What music is playing in the background? Is it a sad symphony or an adorable lullaby. What do you see when you’re not looking? What do you hear when you’re not listening? What is your perspective?

All these passengers roaming about on a platform, it’s like I’m standing still and the world is moving all around me in warp speed. Voices, faces and figures transmuting into epiphanies. I hear so many words everyday spilled out hastily by careless speakers, I hear people filtering their truths with lies of comfort. But where are we heading? On this journey of stars and green fields and gay blossoms. How many bumps can you afford? Did you take your head out to look at the beautiful scenery amid your journey or were you too busy whining about getting to the end. Did you let your hand sway in the dancing spring breeze or were you too stuck up and lost in your mp3 while your weary eyes fell asleep. Oblivious to all the experiences that were scattered all around you like raindrops in a monsoon. Experiences you never had because you were too busy focusing on how bumpy the road is.

And then once in a while, there is this serendipitious moment of clarity, when the storms cease to bother and you look past the hinging raindrops stuck in midair. Away from their beginning, not anywhere near their end. In retrospect, I’m standing outside a bookshop and it’s raining. And I can hear the beautiful song of the raindrops tiptoeing onto obliterating surfaces. The evanescence of the raindrops twirling into the nascence of music. We’re so hung up on being here, there and everywhere. And then we complain on being stuck. Why can’t we all learn to let go like the kindling in a fire. Why are we so scared of becoming a new person? Why can’t we let go of everything we’ve always held onto. Isn’t monotony a rather crippling force of destitution that strips you off all your dreams and imagination. Why can’t we just go back to being the little child who knows nothing but to question everything he sees? The child who dreams endlessly and believes in them, and thinks that the world is stupid for preaching otherwise.

Write as many words as you know, even if they don’t make any sense. Even if none of this gibberish made any sense just understand one thing: it doesn’t always have to. Because experiencing is more important than judging. And living is more important than merely existing. Look inside your heart, now tell me what do you feel? And ask yourself whatever you’re feeling right now, is that the last feeling you’d want to experience if you were to die the next moment? If it is, then this monotonous predication would’ve made sense. If not, then you should go down your memory lane and ponder upon all those times when the only loving companions you had were solitude and mother nature. And ask yourself how many times did you notice their presence in the absence of things and people. And how many times did you discover things that you normally never noticed.

We are all classified anomalies made up of the experiences we have. If you don’t know the answers when you’ve been seeking them too long, you’re either asking the wrong questions or looking in the wrong places. Or maybe you don’t know how long is too long? But the real question is are these questions important? Are these worth the last moment of your life? Are you asking too many questions? Like me?

Life lessons learnt from a fish bowl

It was a crackling crisp Tuesday morning, I woke up; still in my PJs, got up and headed to the living room. The unmistakable silence in the house was a harbinger of another lonely yet peaceful afternoon. Since my parents were busy at work and I was home alone, with nothing to do, *enjoying* what little was left of my lazy vacation days away from the hectic life of medical college. I walked carelessly across the hallway and suddenly a fleeting glimpse of something shifted right across the corner of my eye. I stopped to take a closer look and there; right before my eyes, on the dining table was a glass vase with five beautiful goldfish. They looked so happy, gliding past each other, taking absoluely no notice of my invading presence, lost in their own little serene world that consisted merely of a vase filled with water. In the beginning they were fed bread crumbs, my little sister made the effort to shift them into a wider and more apt fish bowl. Bread crumbs were replaced with expensive fish food. Their little fish bowl was lavished with flowers, leaves and roses. It wasn’t a grand aqarium setting but still we do like to lie to ourselves, right?

And then on one rainy Sunday morning, my little sister woke up to see one of her fish floating motionlessly on the surface of her little world. Her heart broke, a tear poured and then a hundred other followed. We kept on telling her that it’s okay, these things happen, we can never prevent such things. But she was insistent upon finding flaws in herself, constantly reprimanding herself after a dead fish that was long gone. She fed them well, replaced the water every now and then,

lavished their life with her little efforts but she couldn’t rejuvinate a dead fish with all her tears, no matter how long she cried. She had to let it go. And eventually she did.

Yesterday morning, I was just lost in my careless nothingness of a life and suddenly I noticed that another fish was, what it seemed like, circling the drain. I felt sad for a while but then I saw my sister literally flipping the world upside down just to save that dying fish. She changed the water, bought an even bigger bowl, planted more rocks and leaves, bought more expensive food and then when she had left no stone unturned, she just sat there obsessively looking at that dying fish. We tried to pacify her inner storms but nothing seemed to calm her. Then around 5 in the evening, somehow that fish just miraculously started swimming flawlessly like the rest of her folks. She looked absolutely healthy and she was eating fine and our little baby’s eyes lit up with joy. However just for the sake of caution, we brought the fish bowl inside in our room for the night. My little sister was constantly changing the water and carefully monitoring their food intake. But it was bedtime and no matter how much of a rebel she tried to be, she had to go to bed. Sleep came swiftly and she was lost in her little dreamworld where she didn’t have any fish to look after, no responsibilties, just her little carefree world of unicorns and toothfairies.

And then I thought to myself that somehow all of us have our own little fish bowls, be it relationships or fantasies, simply things that we put our heart and soul into. I looked at that fish bowl and saw my relationship in that dying fish. Because somehow I’m that little girl who keeps on hoping for that dying fish to stay alive, even though I know it won’t make it through. Still I try to hold on that moment when it almost died and yet it managed to come around. You and I, we’re on the brink of ending everyday. Still I, being the silly girl I am, keep on changing the water tirelessly, lavishing the fish bowl with more and more bright colors and rocks just to keep this alive.

Maybe sometimes, we adults grow too fond of the dead fish in our lives and even though we know better, we hold on to them and keep on believing that they will miraculously come back to life.

My little sister woke up the next day, she walked up hurriedly to the fish bowl as if she’d just been dreaming about it. She must’ve known it before even looking in, what she was about to witness because she looked prepared. There were only three fish in the bowl and she quietly went into the bathroom, got into her school uniform and we never spoke of the dead fish again. It’s easy when you look at a corpse and know they’re dead or even the absence of things that somehow gives a physical meaning to their death. But how do you look at a person and even though on the outside nothing has changed, you’re talking fine and everything’s fine but how do you know when to look at a relationship and say that it’s dead?

But I guess, there are still three fish remaining and there are plenty more life lessons I need to learn from that fish bowl.

A summer daydream

There’s this reverie that my mind loves to splurge on. Rooftop. 1 am. A starry night sky. On a very tall building, but there are no specific dimensions, because it’s a figment of my imagination. There’s just this zone of serenity and bliss, nothing concrete. No!  Why must we always look for numbers and figures to define everything we know? I could count the tranquil beats of your heart and tell that we have a plenty more till our little forever. And the breeze tickles our skin, don’t you just love the sweet chill of this breeze on a summer night? You can’t reckon the way it holds sway over the hush of the night. There’s no number for that, it’s like looking at your eyes and trying to tell how beautiful they are.

Do you have any idea that

how intensely your eyes pierce into my soul? Can I describe that? I hope someday they find a better word because all the synonyms of beautiful are too vague for the way you make me feel.

We’re floating on a cloud, that’s what it feels like when you’re lying next to me. It’s like walking on water, when you think about it too often, the waves carressing your feet keeping you afloat. A meticulous sense of calm in a menacing state of high.

A strand of auburn hair laying peacefully on my pink cheeks and you slide it aside with your soft, warm hands. They make me believe in the superstition that loyal people have warm hands. You make me believe in the superstition called love. The way your touch scintillates and sedates me all the same. It’s like the ebb and flow of waves in a high spirited river. You make me feel alive and full of colors, like a rainbow ending in a pot of gold. And when you kiss me, it’s like the waves breaking at the banks in sweet submission. You heal me and then you break me a million times, like a phoenix reborn out of ashes. And nothing but pure ecstasy driving out everything else.

But these words don’t do any justice to what I feel in my reverie. The promise of a young blossom on a spring morning, the fulfilling feeling of the soil when it’s drenched to the core after a day of heavy rain. No words would do justice, no numbers would mark the value of that beautiful daydream. And maybe that’s why it’s so beautiful.

The worst ten

When you’re 11 and you’re savoring the delights your Mom baked you; knowing that your holidays have been extended and school won’t be reopening anytime soon. You should be all chuffed and delighted, you shouldn’t feel intimidated or scared. Your joy does not deserve to be vitiated by the wreckage of a war that you weren’t even acquainted with, in the first place. Bombs and terrorists, these words shouldn’t mean anything to you except video games and leisure. Knowing how to differentiate between a good friend (who’s actually going to give you his candies too) and the meh one (who’s only going to snatch yours). These are the accomplices that you should be made to choose, not good taliban or bad taliban. The most difficult choices you have to make should be Pizza or ice cream, not a living day at home or your last day at school. But unfortunately all of these are everyday realities that your little minds have to be acquainted with in a way only fairy tales deserved to be conned. And like gravity, these realities keep you fixed to the plethora of tragedies that this country has witnessed in the past few years. You can’t evade life, you don’t get to cull the magnitude of sorrows that will be shoved right into your face. You don’t get to choose the intensity of your pain. You don’t get to decide what kind of tragedy will shape your life but there’s still one choice that’s handed over to your autonomous entitlement.  And that is how you face it all.
When I was 10, I underwent this minor procedure called appendecectomy. And I remember going to this doctor for what felt like an excrutiating nerve racking pain in my stomach. And he asked me how much did it hurt on a scale of one to ten. And I wanted to say that it felt like a hundred and through clenched teeth I managed to utter a big ten! When you’re 10, you never think that it’s ever gonna get worse than that. But when you’re 20 and you see your bff’s Mom biting the dust and that too, because of cancer; then your mother’s bone cancer seems like a big 8. The pain that ripples across your bones everytime you see her looking at her blotched hands, the baneful reminder of her chemotherapy marks a meager 7. Imagining a world without her, that helpless feeling which makes you fall right onto your knees, knocking you flat out, feels like a 9. When you’re 20 and you’re sitting with your girlfriends who’re zealously discussing their wedding goals; the dress, the ambiance, the groom and what not. You should be dreaming of that beautiful red dress that you’ve always wanted to adorn ever since you were a little girl. And those happy little white flowers that you always wanted to be splattered across the floor you’d walk on. That’s what you deserve to wish for, not the agonizingly impossible dream to see your mother standing next to you. Nobody deserves that.
The mothers of those 142 children deserved better. My best friend deserved better. We all deserved to percieve that stabbing pain in the stomach as our worst ten. But maybe that’s what makes us special. The wounds we wear on our souls are medallions of the battles going on inside us. And our worst tens are nothing short of a war cry!

Dear Maryam.

Some people just leave you speechless. And he’s one of them.. Thankyou so much Shamir.

The Devastated Dreamer

I do apologize because this was long overdue, but I hope that does not affect in any way how much I want this to help you. So here goes.

Dear Maryam,

Those shoes you wear today were never made to be walked in. I know how they feel, how they make you squirm and suffocate every inch of your skin. Those shoes are claustrophobic, and they are too heavy to walk in. Heavy, with the burdens of a million hopes, prayers, expectations and emotions which weigh you down with such force, that the will to keep moving breaks you in slow, painful breaths. Every day of your life people will find you inching forward, dragging your shoes, emptying every last reservoir of strength, and then have the audacity to say “I understand.”
Very rarely will you find people who truly grasp the weight of the words or the worlds they…

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10 steps on how to be a better writer.

This.

Melancholy chilling

1. Write.

See the girl with the red lips, blue eyes and thick black hair sitting on the corner of a coffee shop. Notice the way she chews on the back of her pencil and jots down one word after the other line after line for hours. See her cry. Look at the way she delicately folds half torn pieces of paper into the back of her diary, shuts it and leaves. Look at the way the boy on the next table spends 5 minutes staring at the lipstick on her coffee mug. Do the same.

2. Realise you’re shit at it.

You can’t pull off lipstick. It’s all over your teeth. Your hair isn’t even thick enough to be put into a bun. You spill coffee on your pages. The eraser on the back of your pencil crumbles into your mouth and you spit it into your..coffee mug. You…

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My friends who martyred at the age of 10

10th October 2005. I was sitting in a temporary tent colony that was set up for the Earthquake victims of Oct 8th, nursing my maid; who’d broken her leg while collecting some herbs from the garden. I was only 10 back then. Two of my best friends died in that earth quake. Now that I recall it, that was somehow a major change in my life. Before that day I never knew what an earthquake was. Mom said God is angry with us and she made me recite some words so that God could show some mercy on us. I remember walking in the rain all night, drenched from head to toe, reciting the same words over and over, looking up at the sky and hands lifted in prayer. We couldn’t go inside because our house was rocking like a swing set on motion by a violent cranky kid. Whenever an aftershock came I shut my eyes as hard as I could, my heart raced and with that, my chanting got louder. I asked her why was He angry with us and she told me that when people sin, their sins mount up on the Earth, and when the burden gets greusomely huge, the Earth shakes like the body of an old man who insists on more labor than what his body can bear. Kashmala and Syed-un-nisa, my ‘martyred’ best friends, were the most innocent girls I could remember. They did fight over best friends, but I thought God didn’t concern Himself with such trivial matters. Mom used to say that God calls those, whom he holds dearest. I didn’t know whether to be sad or happy about that. So I just asked her that if I sin, I get to live long and those who didn’t, get to die because of me? Mom hushed me away saying I concern myself with things far beyond my mental capacity. But I was just curious and I kept on thinking through all these years, had they still been alive, my friends; Would we still be in touch? Because after 9 years, I have lost touch with almost all of the people that lived with me at that time, in that then wretched city. Even that maid I nursed for about two months, vanished somewhere. I have been an awfully bad friend, I wonder now. Never visited their graves in years, my friends who martyred. Never mentioned them in my conversations except a very select few. They were both very beautiful, you know. And at that time we were just 10. Puberty did miracles in my case and so of my many other friends of the time. But those two, they were the prettiest even then. They had delicate features and Kashmala, she was very good at making friends. She was my best friend at one time and Momina’s and Fatima’s and almost everyone who survived the eathquake, we all used to talk about her as our best friend. I wonder if I died today, how many people will say I’m their best friend. Probably everyone. Maybe that’s just how life is. The dead become your best friends. Best friends, whose graves you never visit. Best friends who’d never have visited your grave, had you died in their place. But you don’t think this story is important because it’s just my story. Or the story of my friends who martyred at the age of 10. Because we all look for our broken pieces in the stories of others. We think we can fix ourselves by making human connections. In their brokenness, we find home for our fears and our emptiness. But we’re all merely wretched souls, wrecking things around us and going about our businesses, in this obsolete carelessness we call life. We see the scars of others and only care about the fact that how ours hurt more. We’re selfish people, you and I. But this is not about you. Or me. This is about my friends who martyred at the age of 10. Who could never see this world for what it is. Maybe it’s a good thing. They went away as angels, untouched, pure and innocent. They didn’t get to see the technology of today, WiFi and smartphones. Maybe they’d been popular kids today, with many pseudoenemies who’d say good things to their faces and fabricate false lies behind their backs. I’m pretty sure they would’ve had many lovers, had they been alive, both secret and actual ones. They were innocent girls with impeccable hearts, maybe that’s why God took them. This world would’ve scavenged on their pretty hearts and would’ve left them broken, as damaged goods. Or maybe they would’ve survived. But they never got to see this struggle. Maybe it was a good thing after all. Their martyrdom was their salvation, perhaps. But you and I, we’re doomed still. We’ll go about our lives wrecking more people, ourselves, our innocent little hearts. And we won’t get the choice they did.  There’s never a choice. My friends who martyred at the age of 10, they didn’t have a choice. Life is only unfair. And we’ll only hear what we want to be told. You and I, we are more wretched than my friends who martyred at the age of 10. Our scars are more real. You and I, we’ll believe this for as long as our salvation. Our salvation, that might never come. Because you and I, we look for scars only to be healed. And we continue to bleed. For eternity.

Funny thing called time

I read somewhere over the internet that if you want to travel in time, read a book. If you want to escape time, listen to some good music. And if you want to feel time, write. Strange thing called time. They say time flies and I disagree. I feel like if you’re keen enough, time is a fabric made up of moments that you actually lived, intensely. And it is eternal, if you know how to look at things. Like a necklace of pearls, each pearl carefully tucked into its entirety. Ever looked at a flowing river and seen past your reflection into the waves, pure water glistening against the Sun? With the wind whispering in your ear, and leaves dancing in glee over your head. All the universe in its entirety contained in a single water drop. A reflection, a painting, a picture, a masterpiece. And each waterdrop, unique in its individuality but harmonious in its entirety. And all the waterdrops contributing to the reflection. None contesting to stand out, but every single one of them crucial to the beauty splattered across the canvas. Ever looked at a baby fast asleep, obliviously lost in his dream world, carefree and angelic. Like I said, every moment lived intensely, a pearl, a treasure, a piece of heaven. Some moments, they just stay, you know? They say time flies but I believe some moments, they just stay as if they get engraved onto your soul. Like I still remember the first time I fell off a bicycle and scraped my knee, pretty bad. And I believed back then that it has to be the worst thing that can ever happen to someone. I used to look at the wound and my Mom would say just give it some time, it’d eventually heal. And it sure did heal, leaving just a tiny hollow scar and the lingering realization that there are far worse things in life and most importantly it left another eternal pearl into the necklace of time. And then there was this time when I couldn’t take a bite of my favorite ice lollies and my Mom used to say it’d take time and that when she was little she used to lick it as well and now that she was all grown up, her teeth were all good and strong and she could easily take a bite of the coldest things (Which I later figured out, she wasn’t exactly referring to ice lollies or any material thing, for that matter) I grew up and I still can’t take a bite of my favorite ice lollies. Tada! Sensitive teeth, non possumes, nature’s way of telling me that time just like everything else envisioned by the human mind, is relative. Like two people can look at the exact same thing and have two entirely different notions. Similarly, to a man standing on a platform, the train appears to be moving but to a passenger inside the train, it appears to be stationary. A pretty obvious fact that most of you, know already. Similarly, for someone walking down the alley, with clenched teeth and a wounded heart, time would be ticking by, ever so slowly like a merciless assault. However, for everyone else around him, time would be running along its regular, everyday course. All those strangers hustling along their busy routines and monotonous lives, unaware of the fact that they are wasting their pearls, following the watches they wear on their forearms when in essence; time like the particles of sand, keeps on slipping away from their hands. Fast approaching their end, unconsciously engaged and getting wasted by the second. Except for those two lovebirds standing in the middle of the alley, oblivious to the passersby, who’re seeing each other after a long period of separation. For them time has stopped. Their necklaces have been intertwined into the garland of love, where everything becomes whole. Time and love are one and the same thing. It’s just that you need to overlook the concept of seconds, minutes and hours and start looking at things the way they are, the way they’ve always been, before time, before clocks were invented, before time was ever a concept and when time didn’t exist but love did. And life was measured not in terms of years but in terms of memories. When it was more of a qualitative approach rather than a quantitative one. Moments were relished in love and vice versa. Now whenever you go out and look at things, imagine yourself as the child who doesn’t know how to tell time. And that along with many other things, is the reason of his pure ecstatic joy. He’s never bound to any clock or any other system of enslavement. He knows how to live in the moment. Just sitting there by the sea, making sand castles at the beach. I am not asking you to give up on world entirely and just sit along the riverside all day but take a moment from each day and dedicate it to something you love. Take a moment today and make it magic. For that one moment, just BE. That moment could either be a pebble lost in the sea of nothingness or it could be a pearl in the eternal necklace of time. The choice is yours, so live well and choose wisely. So that when next time, if some one asks you what time is it, make sure that you reply in all honesty, “A good one!”

The girl that drowned

They say love is like a river. That pale face in white linen, lying on that sterilized hospital bed, looking out at the sun and feeling cold. She seems lost, like drenched in water. Drowning. Voices echoing inside her head. Like waves hitting back and forth. Gushing rivers and ever so beautiful tides rising and falling inside her heart. It’s such a heavenly view. Her eyes, the pain in them, is beautiful. They speak a million undecipherable words. Can you hear it? The song of the river? When you close your eyes, can you see the waves approaching and drifting away, creating that sweet symphony of love. Of parting and reuniting, but never-ending. Do you hear that noise? Does it not sound like music? Do you see that chaos? Does it not look like heaven, itself?

His eyes make you envision all of that and so much more. When he looks your way, it’s like the waves hit the shore and numb your feet. And your body embraces that sweet fleeting joy like a little child with wings. And when he looks away, it’s like the chaos which follows the high tide, breaking the banks. But it’s still a beautiful chaos. Because he’s beautiful and his love is like a river flowing through her heart. And she willingly steps into the water. And the first step is always exciting and simultaneously intimidating. She is scared of what harm might befall her, if she goes on any further. Because she’s heard stories of how merciless the river is, even though it looks beautiful. How this charming promise has engulfed many, the drowning victims that never came back. But she’s in control and she’d retreat if she sees any danger. She takes another step. It’s not so bad after all, the river is beautiful. The cold wind brushing past her fine body, playing with her hair. The view is breathtaking. She takes another step and now she’s walking without any precautions. And she thinks how foolish she was for doubting, something as appeasing and fulfilling as this, in the first pace. She detests herself for being so reserved for this was what she had been missing out on, for so long. But now that she’s here, all worries are gone and the river embraces her like she’s a part of it, and as if it is the only place in the world where she belongs. She takes another step and then another and another. She is now that little child with wings who doesn’t notice the cynical eyes looking down upon him, for in his eyes he’s always flying above all of them. The world keeps on telling him that you’re foolish but the little child with wings, pays no heed to their words, whatsoever. He is stuck in his wanderlust and he has unshakable faith in his mighty wings, which only he sees. People say his wings are an illusion and he should see the world for what it is. He is after all a child and so is the girl who willingly let down her guard. They’ve been foolish, for she forgot that you can never walk on water. Or fly with imaginary wings. Because wings get broken, and the walking ground ends and all of a sudden you’re falling, drowning. She should’ve watched her step. After all, it was a merciless river and she was not the first one who’d fallen for it’s beauty. But now she’s drowning and the water is strangling her. She’s desperate to breathe. She struggles to get to the surface, but she never learnt how to swim. How foolish she’d been, to step into the river of love without learning how to swim. How foolish to put faith in broken wings when flying in the winds of whim!

Sometimes, if you’re lucky enough, someone comes along the way and saves you. Holds you by the hand and drags you out of the river’s merciless hold. She turns away from the window, her reverie interrupted by the call of the familiar world that she used to be a part of. It has once again spread out its welcoming arms for her, to be embraced as the girl she used to be, before. She walks down the pavements of the same old familiar neighborhood, but nothing feels the same. She is always drenched in water, though she appears fine. She’s always drowning and struggling for air, dying on the inside. A cloud follows her and it’s always raining, wherever she goes. And they ask her why does she always wear a raincoat and why does she always have her boots on, even in summers.

They say love is like a river. I say, be careful enough to learn how to swim, before you go in.

Prologue

You. You are a clear page in the story of this universe. And as you push ahead in life, with each action of yours, you adjust the story; however immaterial you consider it to be, yet everything you might do is a word in the story. And a writer knows that every word, from the verbs to the conjunctions, the metaphors to the euphemisms, every word plays a part in making the story, complete. Indeed a single word can change everything. And the presence of each word contributes to its entirety. Also it’s alright if your words don’t bode well, at this moment for this might be the halfway of a sentence. You might be a clause right now or you might be a phrase. Anyway the story goes on, and it keeps on divulging. New faces emerge and some old ones blur, along the way. Yet everybody has impact. Someone becomes the center of your story and you’re a part of someone else’s story, too. Your role to each other has been served.

But even when you feel like your story has reached its end; it’s just the end of a chapter. As worn out as it may sound, it’s simply a tragic chapter, not a pitiful story. You. You are not a dismal story.

You’re lying here thinking the world’s a gloomy place and life’s unfair, seeking the appraisal of someone who never bothered to see how utterly unprecedented you are. Yet, you don’t see that there’s so much to praise around you. If you look at the moonlit sky at night and how it doesn’t need to compete with the stars, or dull their sparkle, in order to shine. It doesn’t need to stand out. It just shines and plays its part in the entirety of this beautiful universe. And complements the stars and the sky. If you see closely, you are somebody’s moon, and you wish to be a star. There are a million stars in the night sky however you, you’re a moon.

What’s more at this point, you understand you’re not only a blank page in the story of this universe. You are a story of this universe. Furthermore a delightful one, for sure. Simply stay Beautiful.