A lucid dream #writephoto

Every fortnight they met. The moon, the tree, and she. Dressed in moonlight, her gorgeous locks flowing in the air, caressing them, she crossed the dark mystic field without a worry in her eyes. Upon gazing her, the moon and the tree sighed. 

Step by step she walked towards her, each step felt like centuries to the tree. Even though she had to wait a fortnight, the longest was after having her in sight.

The moon blinked. He knew how tree felt about her. They often talked about how she baffled their senses. They talked in whispers about their fear of not having to see her after another fortnight. Fear was but their expression of longing, of desire and desperation. They were helpless.

What were they to call it? Love was often taken as mating of bodies. But they were mating dreams. Together was when people were bound to each other, but they were free with each other. So this was neither love, nor togetherness. 
What is it then? 

A lucid dream, you two! She giggled.

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Write for Sue Vincent’s Thursday #writephoto challenge here. ❤️

Jolly


The most jolly existence in this world is that of the wind. Maybe its attributable to its nomadic lifestyle. Always blowing, somewhat cocky, shaking everything on its way. Making its presence felt not by form but by impact. 

Carrying with it the scents of earth, and roses and dirt. 

Does it envy us? Does it dwell homes? Guess we’ll never know! 
envy you, dear winds!

Word prompt: Jolly

A pluviophile’s panacea

Image by Danielle Dolson

While love is a universal panacea, for a pluviophile, rain means the same. 

It doesn’t matter how distressing the internal affairs are, catching a mere glimpse of dense grey clouds approaching the realm of sun, is enough to exhilarate us inside out. A forewarning in the form of currents of cold winds fill our hour with pure joy. 

The transition from bright sunlight to gloomy grey is nothing short of art. Everybody hides, they take shelter, and those who feel show themselves as mad men dancing in the rain.

Our favourite morning chore is parting curtains to the affair of rain. Our favourite midnight musings are reminiscing at the sounds of rain on our windowpanes. A stranded shower or one complete day of it, we humbly cherish that which our beloved tries to satiate us with because like earth, our thirst is unquenchable. 

Image by Liv Bruce

Daily Prompt: Panacea 

Holding on

Painting: Through River Trees, Tom Nachreiner

Do you describe yourself as a river, or the trees that stand at its bank?

For the river, the struggle is holding on. For a tree, the struggle is letting go.

Most of the people say, they wish to learn the art of letting people go. Well maybe you don’t, because when you get too familiar with the art, you can virtually never tell when to stay.

And I don’t know what is worse, holding on to the idea of a thing long after it’s gone or letting go of it when it’s still there. But the hard part is not being able to tell them apart.