On the power of a 'To do list.'

No, this isn't a 'To do list' that I'm planning to jot down, but just the reasons of why one should always have one ready.
To do lists are amazing. Not only are they easy to make, but they also end up giving you a reason to live! No. For real. Make a to do list, gawk at the amount of things you ought to do, and if you're a free bird, add things which pull you out of your comfort zone.
I have seen by experience, that a to do list, does really clear your brain. Not only does it succeed in keeping you busy, it also makes sure that you're always up to something that's going to benefit you, in someway or the other. Apart from this, when you have things to do, and you, by all means, just have to perform those tasks, what's better than a piece of paper which will always remind you to complete it?

With my exams done, it is finally time where I can embrace my love for the to do lists. Pencil's and rough sheets, here I come!

Slowly.

String by string, a needle's swing, dipped and pulled - slowly.

A fine violin, the strained tune, stretching it on - slowly.

A laughter quiet, a blaring cry, shifting the spirit - slowly.

A dagger thin; stabbed in, without a regret - but slowly.

An odd sort of compassion.

I've always seen her on that road, right under that particular oak tree. Huddled against the huge trunk, wearing the same light blue sari. Helpless - yet, patient. The old woman, who was perhaps in her seventies, sought for refuge around that place. It was her home, her world.

I never spoke to her. I never knew her name. Whenever I passed the street though, I never failed to look out for her. The four eyes met often, but the two lips remained sealed. Nor did she utter a word, and neither did I. What was I to say to her anyway?

A small silver bowl always lay before her dry bare feet. If not a lucky day, the bowl often remained empty. It was strange. She never looked like a beggar. She seemed too proud to be one. Still, a few people dropped a change or two as they passed by. She always remained quiet. Thankless. Patient.

It was a normal summer morning that day. A trip to the market required me to cross that street again. My hands shoved deep into the pockets of my jacket, I strolled down the lanes. The next few moments were going to be unexpected.

The lady was still seated there. Today, with her eyes closed. I stopped on my heals as I observed her closely. Her wrinkled hands were curled up into tiny helpless fists. Her slimmer form, seemed more weak then ever. Oh, how could have her children left her this way? Did she even have a family? I had thought of these things often, but today, I was just too curious. I pitied her.

I pulled out a few coins from my pocket and bent down low, wanting to drop them in the bowl as silently as possible. I didn't want to wake her up. But just as I leaned forward, she opened her eyes and hissed under her breath. I widened my eyes and froze. She smiled towards me and shook her head, pushing my hand away. "It's yours." she whispered, as she ushered me to continue on my path. Her eyes did recognize me. Perhaps she had noticed me before as well.

I remained silent, gave her a small nod, and hopped back onto the road. With a faster pace, I hurried down towards the market. The lady was so strange. She seemed too strong - too strong if compared to any other woman of the same age. The moment we shared was indeed weird. I suddenly didn't pity her anymore. She seemed like she needed none. I took a longer route back home as I returned from the market that day.

The next time I crossed the street again, I remembered to smile at her. She looked towards me with her usual blank gaze. Embarrassed, I looked away. The presence of an odd sort of compassion we held for each other was unmistakable, but I decided to stop thinking about it. Perhaps, that is what she really wanted. Silence, respect, and just a bit of compassion.

Unerring.

When trying to find solace,

the breath of light upon my face.

It’s tender feel, throughout my soul,

touch beyond, griefs console.

Light beneath the truth’s gleam.

Let alone, beyond control.

Shimmer the touch, sweet nothings,

perhaps a glow, and the lights acclaim -

to the mighty and strong - a chapter closed.

Yet it sings, the futile song.

Can you feel? Tonights pain?

The mighty light? The endless rain?

The stream shall flow, to reach its end,

light shall follow, in a gleam bent.

A fare truth, a nice game -

Perhaps you might, try again.

Her shoes.

Tall, long, sturdy heels.
When you walk, you walk with your chest puffed out, a smile - rather a smirk, with an air of complete confidence around you.

That’s how She feels when She walks in them. Strutting past you, giving you a smile, a wink, or a sad pout. Those heels, yes those shoes, they connect to her heart. With these imaginary strings of invisible colours, scents, that don’t exist - But She knows they do.

When She’s seated upon a bench, drenched in the rainy water, staring at those extended feet of hers, wriggling her toes that peep out curiously from her scarlet peep toes… You’ll never know or figure what She’s been thinking. She’s rather secretive about it. There’s something She’s always hiding.

A stumbling walk by the lanes, those heels, rather than the popular belief of stinging her shins, lift her up.. Up, not only by a few centimeters. But up above the clouds.. High in the sky. No, She doesn’t look down, She looks up, eyes fixed afar, on galaxies and stardusts that twinkle only for her eyes.

Those shoes. Those tall, long, heels. They complete her. And She’s thankful to the fact that She has legs.. That She can walk. Crouching down, bringing her knees upto her heart, She encircles her legs with her long thin arms, hugging them close. She’s glad that they make her feel beautiful.

Her legs, her walk, her stride, her shoes.