Alena's Euphoric Quill

As I sat staring at the pinkish-silver potted candle on my desk, the room enveloped in the quiet darkness of a rainy evening, a beautiful and profound thought struck me. We, as individuals, are much like ordinary stick candles—fragile, quick to melt under pressure, and challenging to restore once broken. Life's trials often leave us altered, a little less of who we once were. But perhaps, what we should aspire to be is like the potted candle. Despite enduring the same trials : the heat, the melting, the  restless flicker of life—it retains its essence, both in quality and quantity. The pot around it safeguards its core, preventing it from losing itself entirely, no matter how intense the flame or how prolonged the storm. In this metaphor lies a lesson: life will always test us, but our ability to endure without diminishing who we are defines our true strength. Maybe our "pot" is our inner resilience, our self-awareness, or the support systems we build around us. Whatever ...

Holding an umbrella, walking in the rain, Along the sidewalks of the lane, Intertwined with love on every side, Happy to walk, happy to abide. The raindrops dance, a rhythmic tune, Beneath the clouds, under the moon. Each step we take, a story unfolds, Of whispered dreams and hands to hold. The world fades out, it's just we two, A canvas painted in shades of blue. The rain, a blessing from skies above, An eternal echo of our love. Through puddles deep, we laugh, we play, As the storm becomes our hideaway. No rush, no worry, no end in sight, Just hearts alight in the gentle night.

A soft aroma, a distant call, The simmering pot, the spice's thrall. A taste imagined, yet so near, A craving sharp, insistent, clear. Golden crusts and melting cheese, Sweetened air from honeyed breeze. Steaming bowls of fragrant rice, Chocolate dark, or sugar twice. My tongue demands, my mind obeys, A feast of dreams in endless arrays. The crack of bread, the sizzle's hum, A symphony from where flavors come. But cravings tease, they never stay, A fleeting joy that slips away. For every bite, another need, An endless hunger we must feed. Yet in this chase, a truth so sweet, It’s not just food, but love we eat. A shared dessert, a midnight fry, The moments baked beneath the sky.

The air is cold, the skies are gray, The sun feels shy, hides half the day. Leaves are gone, the trees stand tall, Winter’s whisper touches all. Scarves come out, the breeze feels near, The month of magic starts right here. Candles glow, and hearts feel light, December’s charm is pure and bright. A time to pause, to dream, to see, The beauty of simplicity. With every chill, a cozy spark, December warms the coldest heart.

Kindness is one of the best things we can offer to others. It has the power to make someone’s day better or even change their life. But sometimes, being kind doesn’t work out the way we hope. It can lead to disappointment, hurt, or even a sense of being taken advantage of. Once, I came across someone who seemed very fragile and in need of help because she didn't have money for bus ticket. Her appearance made me feel sorry for her so I lent her money, believing I was doing the right thing. Later, I found out it was a scam, and they had tricked me. It hurt to realize that my kindness had been used against me. Another time, a little girl approached me with a keychain and begged me to buy it. She followed me around, and I couldn’t ignore her, so I decided to help. But instead of giving me the keychain after I paid, she ran away with the money. I felt cheated and heartbroken, wondering why she had to deceive me when I just wanted to help. The innocence that I had associated with her utt...

I hold my words, keep them inside, Afraid of what you’ll cast aside. A simple "no," a turned-away glance, Enough to shatter my fragile stance. But what if I speak, let it all show, And find there's more than fear to know? A chance, a smile, a moment shared— A world beyond the fear I’ve bared. So I’ll take the leap, despite the sting, For even rejection is a daring thing. It means I tried, it means I cared, And that, alone, leaves nothing compared.

I sat on the windowsill, the night wrapping around me like a thick, comforting blanket. The moon, round and glowing, hung low in the sky, watching silently. "Why do you always look so calm?" I asked, breaking the stillness. The moon shimmered faintly, as if amused by my question. "Because I've seen it all," it replied, its voice soft and steady. "Raging storms, quiet dawns, heartbreaks, and laughter. Everything passes, like clouds across my face." "Do you ever get lonely up there?" I whispered. The moon paused, its glow dimming ever so slightly. "Sometimes," it admitted, "but even in solitude, there is beauty. I find solace in the stars and in those who look up at me, seeking comfort." I sighed, resting my head on my knees. "I wish I could be like you, calm, unbothered by the chaos." "You can," it said warmly. "Let go of what you can't hold. Be present, as I am every night, and remember: even w...

I wish my hands could hold the sun, To warm the hearts of everyone. To gather light and let it pour, A gift of love—I wish for more. I wish my voice could calm the sea, And soothe the storms inside of me. To speak the words, both kind and true, To heal the wounds, to start anew. I wish my time could stretch and bend, To be with those I call a friend. To mend the bonds that time wore thin, And keep the love that lies within. I wish my steps could tread so far, To touch each soul, a guiding star. To light the paths for lost and small, To lift them up—I’d give my all. I wish my heart could hold the sky, For dreams that fade and hopes that die. To piece the fragments, make them whole, To fill each life, each searching soul. But here I stand, with just my will, A tender heart, a longing still. Though small my deeds, my love is vast, A quiet wish to make them last.

Love, a tale both old and new, A feeling vast, yet interpreted. We weave it as immortal art, But does it hold such timeless heart? It isn’t easy, nor always kind, A test of will, of heart, and mind. Not grand gestures, nor spreading fire, But quiet acts that don’t expire. Love cannot fix what’s deep inside, No magic cure for pain we hide. Two souls must stand, both whole, complete, For love to grow, for hearts to meet. It’s choice, not just a fleeting flame, A steady course, not just a game. When thrill fades into steady streams, Love builds its strength in shared dreams. Unrequited, it leaves its ache, A silent lesson, hearts must take. For loving’s power, raw and real, Is not in getting, but to feel. It shifts, it grows, it learns, it bends, From passion’s heat to trust as friends. Not less, but more, it finds its way, Through every night and dawning day. But love requires a heart that's whole, To give, yet guard, your sacred soul. For empty cups can’t quench the thirst, Self-lov...

I fought each strand with every stroke, Dreaming of locks that were smooth and never broke. Brushed and brushed to make them straight, Unaware of the beauty innate. But time whispered truths so kind, Revealing grace I couldn't find. Now my curls, wild and free, Are the truest reflection of me. I fought each strand with every stroke, In search of beauty, my spirit broke. I envied the sleek, the glossy shine, Yet missed the magic that was mine. Each curl a story, each twist a form. In chasing trends, I couldn’t see, Years rolled by and time has changed, Now I wear my curls with pride. Curls, I love you ♡

A delightful bunch of purple, black, and green, Ever so gentle as it always seems, With jelly heart and outer fragility, As sweet as any other entity. Nestled in boxes or laid in a bowl, Whispering stories to delight the soul. Each bite a burst, a symphony of taste, A fleeting joy you’ll never waste. Grapes, the treasure of vine and sun, In their quiet splendor, they’ve already won. Purple as twilight, black as the night, Green as the fields kissed by light. Carry them forth to brighten the day, In every form, they find their way, A symbol of nature's simplest pleasure, An earthly gift, a timeless treasure.

Cold breeze caressing my reddish cheek, All I wish for is to seek, Seek something in contrast, Like red is for blue, white is for black. It is winter, the coldness in the air, A cup of hot chocolate around the fair, Freshly baked pies and cookies, The smell and heat fills up the air. The crackling fire, a warm embrace, A gentle calm in this icy space. Snowflakes dance beneath the light, Turning the world to a canvas of white. People's laughter, bells that chime, An endless joy frozen in time. With every moment, a memory made, In the fleeting frost, nothing will fade. So I wander through this winter's glow, Grateful for all it chooses to show. In the contrast, I find my place, A quiet peace in its cold embrace.

Benches Hold History, They Tell the Untold Stories of Generations Past. When I sit in St. Thomas’s Hall for my class, at Madras Christian College, a peculiar thought crosses my mind—these benches have seen it all. They’re not just pieces of furniture holding students; they’re silent witnesses to decades, even centuries, of life within these walls. The weight of history settles around me as I glance at the scuffed wood, the etchings of initials, and the grooves worn smooth by countless hands. How many students, professors, and dreamers have occupied this very seat? What conversations, secrets, and ambitions were shared in its presence? These benches have been here long before me, long before smartphones, laptops, and the hum of modernity. They were part of an era when ink-stained fingers scribbled on yellowing pages and voices debated philosophies under the echo of colonial influences. They’ve seen MCC evolve from its beginnings as a modest institution into the vibrant academic hub it i...

A whisper of colors, soft and bright, She flutters gently, chasing the light. Born from stillness, wrapped in a shell, A quiet miracle, a tale to tell. Her wings, like petals kissed by dawn, Painted with hues of dusk and morn. Each fragile beat, a silent song, A fleeting beauty, not for long. Through fields of blooms, she weaves her way, A dancer of spring in nature's ballet. No map, no guide, just wind to steer, She travels far, yet seems so near. Oh butterfly, a symbol of change, A life reborn, so vast, so strange. You teach us softly, as you soar, That endings lead to something more.

My last day of school remains etched in my heart as a cherished core memory—the day I truly felt that I had grown up. It marked the end of an era, a poignant realization that I was no longer a schoolgirl. I remember my best friend and I walking through the campus, savoring every corner, every memory, and every little detail the school held for us. From the vast classrooms to the tiniest moments symbolized by something as simple as a piece of chalk, we admired it all with reverence. Among all the spaces, one held a special place in my heart—the Communicative English (C.E.) classroom. That room wasn’t just a classroom; it was a haven, an emotion. It gave me a sense of peace and comfort I found nowhere else in my school life. Only five students, including myself, took the subject, and that intimacy created a safe space where I could express myself without hesitation. It was there that I formed a deeper bond with my English teacher, whose warmth and wisdom turned ordinary classes into life...

In the quiet of dawn, they softly bloom, Brushing the earth with gentle perfume. Roses blush with secrets untold, Tulips whisper of love, quiet and bold. Daisies beam like hearts of gold, Lavender hums in fields of old. Lilies bow with elegance rare, Sunflowers stretch to the golden air. Jasmine scents the summer night, Violets blush with soft delight. Dhalia in the autumn sigh, While orchids reach for the endless sky. Each blossom hums a silent song, A fleeting beauty that won’t last long. Yet in their fragility lies their might, A testament to life's fleeting light. Oh, flowers, you teach us to embrace, The fragile moments, the gentle grace. To live like petals, vibrant and free, A bloom today, a cherished memory.

Dear Alena, Hope you're doing well. This is your past self writing to you, with so many things I’ve wanted to ask and say. I really hope you've found success and are working in a job you genuinely enjoy.  I'm pretty sure you've made it there because I know how hard you’ve always worked, how dedicated you’ve been to make everyone proud especially Mom and Dad. Keep that strength going; they’re rooting for you, always. I also hope you’ve settled into a life that feels right, a good home, and maybe even a family of your own. Are you happy? Are you content? Those are the things I care about most. How is everyone at home? Are you still in touch with friends from school and college? What path did you take for your master’s degree? And, just out of curiosity, what’s your career like now? (I know—too many questions, but can you blame me?) If life hasn’t gone as planned, that’s okay. I hope you’re still proud of yourself, no matter where you are or how far you’ve come. Remember, ...

There is a weight I wear, Silent, steady, shaped by others’ dreams. It rests on my shoulders, An invisible cloak, woven from hopes not my own. Each thread, a whispered should, Each stitch, a glance that lingers too long. They tell me to be something more, something brighter, higher, better. I take each step carefully, Measuring my worth by their desires, Wondering where I end, and they begin. I walk their path, forgetting my own voice. But beneath this weight, A quiet part of me stirs, Longing for a place to breathe, to grow, To feel the lightness of choosing my own dreams, To be something softer, real, Not held to any mold, not bound by any thread, Just me, unburdened and whole.

I am nothing but fragile glass, Always on the verge of breaking, Hating how my tears gather fast, Spilling with each slight undertaking. My glass gleams, rich, and clear as crystal, Yet it’s still glass, brittle, finite, frail. One tremor, one slip, one misplaced whisper, And I might shatter, my strength grown pale. I’m the glass that holds a world within, Reflecting skies, both dark and bright, I am strong, yet paper-thin, Balancing shadows and streams of light. Each line, each flaw a silent story, Etched by time and fragile grace, A beauty born from fragility's glory, In breaking, still finding my place.

 The concept of a "lens of life" beautifully describes how each of us perceives the world through a unique combination of experiences, beliefs, and emotions, like a camera with an evolving filter. My lens has been tinted by various shades over time, influenced by family bonds, friendships, and the quiet wisdom found in life's simple moments. It's been a journey to recognize these influences and understand how they shape the way I see myself and the world around me. Growing up, I often felt a bit out of place. I wanted to blend in, to belong, so I adapted to the environment around me. I immersed myself in the culture I found myself in, adding a mix of admiration and yearning for connection. This phase taught me resilience and adaptability, and it introduced me to a newfound appreciation for diversity. With each new experience, my perspective broadened, and I began to see beauty in different ways of life. College brought another shift in my worldview, as I found myself ...

I step into rooms of laughter and light, Bright petals of crimson, but I’m the white. Their voices swirl, like winds through the trees, Yet none of their words ever reach me with ease. They speak in tongues I can’t seem to know, Names and stories that fail to show Any meaning or warmth to me, I’m a lone white rose where red should be. I nod and smile, pretending to hear, Telling myself I belong here, near, Yet my thoughts drift to simpler scenes, To open skies, to quiet dreams. I’m playing a part in a script I don’t know, Their laughter echoes, but I feel the hollow, Forced smiles in photographs framed and staged, A story told, but my soul caged. How I long to find a circle of kind, People with warmth and like-minded minds, Where laughter feels soft, and smiles are real, Where being myself is all I reveal. So here I sit with a gentle facade, A ghost in the room, apart and odd, Wishing to dance, to laugh, to belong, In a garden where each flower finds its song. All I want is to feel inc...

Little memories we make today, Are treasures in the most lasting way. Before we blink, the moments flee, As life unfolds its mystery. Then comes regret, a haunting refrain, For the past we let slip, again and again. Lost in the noise of future and plans, We missed the life right in our hands. But today is here, your moment to claim, Rise, live, and set your heart aflame. Embrace the beauty, let it stay— For today’s the gift in every way.

Have you ever felt this before? The feeling of pleasant emptiness, Where everything just feels light, And the rock in your head is gone. A quiet calm settles in its place, As worries drift to some distant shore, Leaving only a gentle space, To breathe, to pause, and to explore. The weight lifts, shadows fade, Thoughts like feathers, soft and slow. In this stillness, unafraid, You find a peace you didn’t know. I savor the lightness, the freedom to soar, Rising higher than I ever dared. With hope that no weight returns once more, No shadowed stone to leave me ensnared.

There’s beauty in the weight of ordinary things, in the clatter of tea cups on a tired morning, the gentle hum of voices in crowded spaces, each one a life, a quiet story whispered into the wide expanse of a single day. In the grind of bus wheels against gravel, And the rhythm of steps on busy sidewalks, I feel a kind of music, An unspoken song binding us all, as we pass, as we pause, as we carry on. Someone laughs, someone sighs, a child tugs at their parent’s sleeve, and we move through each other’s moments, our paths crossing briefly like shadows, leaving traces that linger, unseen. And maybe life is this— a thousand small things we barely notice, the warmth of hands, the pulse of breath, the silent courage of showing up each day, to live, to feel, to carry on. In the heart of it all, there is a quiet resilience, a delicate strength in the simple act of being, in meeting each ordinary day with the fullness of who we are— imperfect, unfinished, yet wholly alive.

Opinions scatter like leaves in autumn, Each one shaped by the hand that holds it. They arrive from different corners, borne by voices we know, and voices we don’t. Some press against us, sharp as thorns, insisting on edges we hadn’t noticed. Others settle softly, like quiet rain, seeping into places we didn’t know were dry. They twist and fold, mirroring fears, beliefs, hopes, and stories long lived. They ask to be held, examined, let go— not all are ours to carry. So we contemplate which to keep, and which to release back to the wind, finding the shape of our own truth among the countless others that float by.

My dad loves me a lot, and I think his love language is buying me my favorite treats. Since I was young, whenever I wanted something specific to eat, my dad would make sure I got it. He would bring it home so often that eventually, I'd have enough of it and end up not wanting it anymore. I had a habit of waking up at 4 o'clock in the morning to study for exams, as I was often too tired to study after a full day of classes at school. Whenever he saw me studying in the early hours, my dad would smile, gently pat my head, and encourage me. Then, when I’d return home after my exams, he would arrange all my favorite treats on my table as a reward for my hard work. I remember one day when I came home feeling really down because I hadn't done well on an exam. My dad could tell right away that I was disappointed. Without saying a word, he brought me a whole pile of chocolate cookies, the kind he knew I loved. Somehow, his quiet way of being there for me and comforting me, even with...

When I was younger, we had a beautiful tradition that we kept and followed every year during summer vacation. It was like a reunion of cousins at our grandparents' home in Kerala. My brother, two little cousins, and I would meet up and have a lot of fun together. Since we lived in Chennai and they lived in Bangalore, we met only once a year, so we counted down the days until our reunion.  Our bond was strong. We shared immense joy, exchanged tons of gifts, bought each other our favorite treats, and much more. One of those treats was the usual Milky Bar that my mom bought for all four of us. We all loved Milky Bar, especially the puzzle it used to come with, as a carving on the bar. We eagerly awaited the moment when my mom would hand us our Milky Bars. I had a habit of saving the best for last, savoring every bite of my Milky Bar slowly. When the others had finished theirs, they would all set their sights on getting a share of mine, often managing to convince me with their puppy ey...

In small, sweet tasks each day we find, The simple joys that ease the mind. A made bed, dishes put away, A quiet start to greet the day. A gentle touch, a thoughtful deed, These little acts fulfill a need. Though often small, they fill the heart, In quiet ways, they play their part. So let us cherish what seems small, In little duties, life stands tall. For in these moments, we can see A world of calm and harmony. Butterflies, flowers, and birds in the trees, Each one’s busy with gentle ease. A flutter, a bloom, a song that they sing, Quietly doing their part for spring. The sun casts warmth, the breeze hums low, With little duties, they help life grow. So like the flowers and skies of blue, I’ll fill my days with simple truths. In whispers soft, in humble ways, Life’s beauty shines through small displays. For even the smallest hands can weave, A world of wonder when they believe.

There it is, my unknown feelings, I don't know what this is. My heart flutters, a soft tremor, a quiet ache. It holds me in the silence, A presence I can’t define. Neither joy nor sorrow, but a mixture, a mystery. It sits somewhere deep, in a place words cannot touch, only felt, only known in the shiver beneath thought. I reach for it, try to understand, yet it slips through my grasp, leaving only traces, a lingering warmth, a shadowed light. What is this, I wonder, this echo of something I cannot see? A truth waiting to reveal itself, or just a feeling meant to be? Neither joy nor sorrow, but something in between, a quiet presence, an unmarked territory of the heart. It feels like warmth and weight all at once, a gentle pressing, a distant echo. A place where thoughts drift, unformed, where dreams live and yet to be.

"Your Face Is the Result of Thousands of People Who Loved Each Other". This is a beautiful quote that I came across today and it made me think widely.  The beauty we see when we look in the mirror isn’t just about what’s on the surface. It’s about the generations of love and connection that brought us here. The quote, “Your face is the result of thousands of people who loved each other,” reminds us that each of us is a product of those who lived, laughed, and loved before us. Our faces, our personalities, even our quirks and habits, these are all part of the love that existed in the lives of our ancestors. When we understand this, our sense of beauty becomes deeper. We realize that we’re not alone; we’re part of a long line of people whose love and hopes flow through us. Each smile or trait we see in ourselves is a link to the past, a little piece of the dreams our family held. We might have a parent’s gentle nature or a grandparent’s laugh, or we may love music because an an...