Alena's Euphoric Quill

Oh, little square of pure delight, Rich and dark, a tempting sight. Fudgy heart with a crispy crown, You lift my spirits when I'm down. Born of cocoa, sugar's embrace, Melting warmth, a sweetened grace. In every bite, a story unfolds, Of comfort, love, and joys untold. Warm from the oven, a heavenly glow, Soft as whispers, as dreams bestow. With walnuts' crunch or caramel’s drip, You make life sweeter with every sip. Oh, brownie, simple yet divine, Your charm forever shall be mine. A treasure baked with care and art, You hold a place within my heart.

As I strolled through the streets on Christmas, I was mesmerized by the colorful lights that adorned my sight. The attractive school, beautifully decorated and adjacent to a delicately adorned church, tempted me to explore. The school's exterior shone brightly, featuring a towering Christmas tree with a blue-green glow that seemed to touch the sky. The entry arch, covered with fairy lights, exuded a warm and inviting ambiance. Four large, magnificent stars adorned with red, pink, blue, and green lights hung majestically, while golden lights enveloped the entire area. As I wandered through the grounds, I came across a live nativity scene model, complete with Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, kings, shepherds, angels, and more. Above all these, The Jesus statue that stood straight and tall, its grandeur and beauty amazed me.  Further exploration revealed a beautifully crafted fountain and another vibrant model depicting the night of Jesus' birth. The entire setting was thought-provoking ...

Oh my dear God, You are the reason for these pleasant streets, The laughter that echoes, the joy that beats. You are the reason for these happy faces, And hearts aglow in love's warm embraces. On this day, in a world so torn, A Savior, a King, humbly was born. Though crowned in glory, You chose the plain, To show the power of love through pain. You are the spark in every star we light, Guiding our homes through the silent night. The reason for hope, the season's grace, In every smile, Your love we trace. You are the reason our stars are glowing, For festive holidays, and hearts overflowing. Through every treat, every song we raise, We lift our hearts in endless praise.

In the warmth of home, where love resides, Where laughter echoes and peace abides, We gather close, a steadfast crew, In every moment, old and new. Through busy days and quiet nights, We share our joys, we share our fights. A circle bound by love's embrace, A sacred bond, a cherished space. The table set, the stories shared, The smallest acts show how we cared. In every hug, in every smile, Family makes each step worthwhile. Through trials faced and dreams pursued, Through loss and gain, in gratitude, We stand as one, through thick and thin, The strength of family comes from within. So let us treasure this blessed thread, In every word that's gently said. For family is life’s greatest art, Forever etched upon the heart.

Amusing me with its vibrant sight, Different colours and shades bright, Circles and squares all along, With brushes and handles long. My love for isn't just a childish phase, It is, It is but a beautiful chase. A chase it is, of dreams, All across the scenic misty streams. Painting the pallet is not what you think, It's not just colours in link, But it is a portrayal of reality, A portrait of realism. Let me be your a guide by your side, Paint, paint and paint all you find. Those pallets are not just colours, Those are representatives of the present, To the future of life forms. Be an historian and paint the reality Dark or light the canvas. Spread the pallet, explore life.

Are you really what they see? Are you really what they think? Do they see you right? Do they love you right? No matter their thoughts, actions, or visions, You are the person you are. You are the shining star, Glowing in places that matter to you. You love the light around you. But can you truly trust it? Won't it betray you behind those shiny curtains? What proof do we have? What evidence do we share? You are the Sun, and you are the Moon. It’s all a matter of perspective. To some, you are warm. To some, you are cold. To some, you are special. To some, you are not. Does that mean you are unworthy? Not at all! You are the Sun. You are the Moon. Don’t wait for others to approve. You know your light. You know your ray. Your hope and your work will save you. Trust yourself. Be your brightest self. You have your stars with you, forever!

The stage hums beneath my feet, its vastness swallowed by the quiet. Soft music rises, a breath, a murmur that wraps itself around me. Lights blind, yet I see everything: the still faces beyond the glow, the dark void that waits for me to fill it. I lift my arms. The music carries me like a current— my body moves, not as me, but as something lighter, something that belongs only to this moment. Every step is deliberate, every pause held like a secret. The sound threads through me, as if I am its instrument, shaped and reshaped by its tender command. Time softens at the edges. The crowd fades to a blur. It is just the music, the stage, and the quiet knowing: I am here. And when the last note lingers, hanging in the still air, I hold the silence like an exhale. The lights dim. The applause rushes in, loud and foreign, pulling me back. But for those moments, for those steps and soft notes— I was weightless. I was alive.

Isn’t it painful to watch memories being captured by you, only to realize you’re not in them? Isn’t it heartbreaking to stand on the sidelines for the sake of those you love? And doesn’t it make it all the easier to be forgotten in the end? In every group of friends, there's always one person who becomes the unofficial photographer. They're the one holding the camera, ensuring everyone is perfectly framed, smiles are genuine, and memories are captured for the future. But in doing so, they unintentionally make a quiet sacrifice, they're often missing from the very moments they work so hard to preserve. The Invisible Presence The friend circle photographer is an integral part of every trip, celebration, or casual hangout. They're the ones who document laughter, candid smiles, and even the funny mishaps. Yet, when the group looks back on these photos, they notice one person is consistently absent and that is the photographer. Their memories are stored in their minds rather...

The canvas waits, blank and wide, A void where dreams and colors collide. With strokes of verse, I dip my pen, In hues of joy, sorrow, now, and then. A golden sun in a lover’s sigh, A midnight sea in a teardrop’s cry. Each stanza blooms like a flower’s kiss, Soft and fleeting, yet wrought with bliss. Shadows dance in the ink’s embrace, Tracing the scars time cannot erase. But in the chaos, the art remains, A mosaic of heart, a portrait of pain.

If I were offered the opportunity to become someone else, someone flawless, wealthy, or universally admired, I would politely decline. Despite my flaws, imperfections, and the occasional chaos that defines my life, I would still choose to be me. My identity, shaped by unique experiences, relationships, and challenges, is not something I would trade for the world. I am a mosaic of lessons learned, memories cherished, and dreams nurtured. Every scar, every stumble, and every triumph contributes to the story of who I am today. Without my flaws, I would lose the humility that reminds me to stay grounded. Without my challenges, I would lack the strength to overcome future obstacles. My imperfections are what make me human and relatable, fostering genuine connections with others who are navigating their own struggles. Gratitude is the anchor that keeps me content with who I am. When I reflect on the blessings in my life, family, friends, and the opportunities I've been given, I realize h...

I write to express my present. In a world where time slips through our fingers, writing brings me to the present. It is my way of capturing the essence of who I am at this very moment, my thoughts, my emotions, and my experiences. Each word I pen is a reflection of my soul, a declaration that I am here, alive, and feeling everything with intensity. I write to show who I am. In a world filled with noise and expectations, writing becomes my voice. It is where I lay bare my vulnerabilities, my dreams, and my truths without fear of judgment. Through words, I reveal the layers of my identity that often remain hidden in conversations. Writing allows me to share my authentic self with the world, unfiltered and unapologetic. I write to feel the drift, the beautiful, uncharted flow of thoughts and ideas. There’s something magical about letting words take their own course, guiding me to places I didn’t know existed within me. In those moments, writing becomes more than an act; it becomes an adve...

I have a golden book filled with memories from school and family, and it is very close to my heart. That book has brought me more compliments than anyone has ever said to me directly. My friends poured out their feelings about me in it. Everything was so positive that it almost brought me to tears,I felt so loved. Here are a few quotes from the book that I absolutely cherish: "You will always be my Kookie, Alu, secret keeper, motivator, advisor, bestie, sister, and my other half." "You are cute, cuter, and the cutest!" "Thanks for making online classes not so boring." "You are one of my guardian angels." "Your smile is beautiful!" "I have never seen you angry." "I enjoyed every minute I spent with you." "I am lucky to have a friend like you." "There are no negatives to say about you." "Only after becoming your benchmate did I get to know your kind heart." "We, Communicative English ...

 My uncle once gifted me a coin collection album, where I could gather coins from all around the world. My dad, who traveled extensively to foreign countries for work, became my main source of coins. I would eagerly ask him to bring back coins from every country he visited. Each coin fascinated me with its unique designs, often featuring representative symbols that beautifully captured the essence of the country it belonged to. Over time, my collection grew, becoming a treasure trove of stories and cultures. Each coin had its own tale, a reminder of a place, its history, and its people. Some coins showcased national emblems like eagles, lions, or flags, while others depicted cultural landmarks, historical figures, or even flora and fauna. Holding those coins felt like holding a piece of the country itself, a tangible connection to lands I’d never seen but dreamed of visiting. This hobby not only nurtured my curiosity about the world but also deepened my appreciation for the diversi...

Jack and Mittu were my best friends. Jack, a brownish-gold dog with sparkly eyes, lived at my grandparents' home in Kerala. Mittu, on the other hand, was a cute snowy-white cat with a black tail. The memories I have with both of them are etched deeply in my heart. I fondly recall playing with Jack whenever I visited Kerala. His favorite treat was milk rusk, and I loved feeding it to him. Jack had this special way of comforting me—whenever I felt sad, he would follow me around, nudging me to play, as if to cheer me up. He truly had a heart of gold. Mittu was part of my life for nearly ten years, and I practically grew up with her. My parents, though not particularly fond of pets, allowed her to stay because my brother and I adored him. Mittu had a calming presence—she would often sit on my lap while I studied, which helped me focus and avoid distractions. She loved milk, and it was always a joy for me to feed her, her favorite treat. Both Jack and Mittu brought immense happiness int...

Oh, my love! Oh, my love! In the quiet cadence of the moon’s glow, You are the echo within my veins, A whisper in the forgotten corners of time, A symphony of stars, only I can know. Oh, my love! Oh, my love! Beneath the veils of the restless sky, Your presence lingers like an ancient dream, Carved in the stone of forgotten realms, Where shadows and light eternally entwine. Oh, my love! Oh, my love! You are the pulse that stirs the seas of my soul, A tempest caught in the stillness of my heart, Each word you speak, a tempest of wonder, Each breath a promise that binds us apart. Oh, my love! Oh, my love! Like a river running through the fabric of time, You weave through my thoughts with delicate grace, A tapestry of passion, both bitter and sweet, A landscape I traverse, no end, no space. Oh, my love! Oh, my love! Can the heavens hold our eternal story, Where shadows fade into the arms of light? In the labyrinth of your eyes, I find my meaning, A journey endless, in love’s endless fligh...

Scared am I? Yes I am definitely, Scared of being the villain of the story, That scary story of me and my people, Where nothing is about I, me or myself. Am I being the side character, A side character of my own story? I write the lines for the protagonist in me, It twists to bring out the villain to see. I am what I am, I am who I am! Can I ever change the script? That script that differs to each eye, To some I am the hero, to some I am the villain. Okay! But not okay? Who can ever explain it? That feeling of being the villain of your own script? Only one solution! Just one. Be Kind, be empathetic, be your better self.

A vivid memory of my first 'kitchen toy set' lingers in my heart, intertwined with memories of my cousins. My cousins and I used to meet often during vacations in December at my home in Chennai. We would dance together, sing songs, go on rides, play countless games, and eat whatever we craved for. My cousin sister and I exchanged clothes and accessories, enjoying every moment of each other's company.  I remember having a small, cute table adorned with a series of numbers and alphabets. We loved sitting at that table alongside two little chairs for lunch and dinner. My dad would take us to so many beautiful restaurants and ice cream shops, which remain in my heart as cherished and amazing memories. We visited places like the Robot Restaurant, Barbeque Nation, Ibaco, coffee shops, and many more popular spots. Once, we met in Kerala for their housewarming function. My brother, cousin sister, cousin brother, and I spent time together then. We played a cooking game with the kitc...

Deep within, it beats, unrelenting, a rhythm neither asked for nor controlled. It carries the weight of longing, the ache of loss, the fierce swell of joy that almost splits it in two. It does not pause for breath, even when you wish it would. It does not ask for permission, even when you beg it to stop. It remembers everything— every whispered hope, every scream that tore through silence, every touch that left a bruise or a balm. It breaks and rebuilds, shatters and mends, over and over, a cycle of surrender and survival. There is no peace in its existence, only the endless tension between life and silence, a war fought in crimson tides. And yet, even when it falters, it is relentless. Not because it must, but because it chooses to.

Hunched low to the ground, these humble architectures, silent witnesses to the soft theater of living, stand unassuming, yet resolute. They bear the issues of crayons, half-erased smudges of chalk, rings of condensation left by teacups, artifacts of fleeting rituals. How many hands have rested here, hesitant or bold, pressing life into their grain? The chairs, spindled spines curved like question marks, hold the weight of generations, a child’s careless swing of legs, an elder's deliberate rest. They carry the symphony of creaks, as though their joints conspire to remember the rhythm of every departure. And the tables, steady witnesses, know the sacred in the mundane: a folded napkin, a stack of letters, a forgotten book left open, its words breathing into the room’s quiet. Together they anchor us, draw us into the orbit of their stillness, reminding us that in their simplicity, they hold the complexity of a thousand lives pressed into the wood.

When I was around ten years old, a small but delightful surprise found its way into my life. It came in the form of a tomato ketchup bottle, which at first glance seemed ordinary. But this bottle held a little gift—a tomato-shaped lid, adorned in a vibrant red hue and crafted with such charm that it immediately caught my attention. What made it even more special was the seeds tucked inside the lid. My curiosity was piqued, and I couldn’t resist the urge to plant them. At that age, I had no expectations of what might come of it. It was just a fun little project, something to observe and care for. To my surprise and delight, those seeds sprouted into a tiny, beautiful tomato plant. I nurtured it with all the excitement of a child discovering the wonders of nature. Day by day, I watched it grow, its green leaves unfurling and its stems stretching toward the sun. And then, one magical day, the plant gifted me its first tiny cherry tomatoes. They were perfect—small, round, and vibrantly red...

In the chime of pleasant red, where sunsets softly tread, a melody hums through the air, painting whispers, vivid and rare. Crimson waves on autumn leaves, dance to the rhythm the wind weaves. A scarlet thread through twilight's seam, a tender glow, a velvet dream. Ruby moments in fleeting skies, where every shade of scarlet lies, the warmth of dusk, a silent hymn, a fleeting fire on the horizon's rim. Oh, chime of red, your gentle spell, tells the stories the heart can't quell. In your embrace, the world feels whole, a vivid hue for a weary soul.

Plum Cake: A Sweet nutty Dilemma When it comes to cakes, plum cake has always been at the bottom of my list. It’s not that I despise it, in fact it does carry a unique charm but it’s simply not my first choice. My heart skips a beat for moist marble cakes, their delicate swirls of vanilla and chocolate blending into perfection. Yet, every December, when I’m in Kerala, the reality is far from what I crave. December in Kerala means one thing in the cake world: plum cake. It arrives in abundance, filling homes with the rich aroma of dried fruits soaked in rum, spices, and caramelized sugar. Plum cakes are synonymous with the festive spirit, a dessert staple that evokes nostalgia and tradition. The moment someone walks in with a cake box, I secretly wish for marble cake but prepare myself for the inevitable slice of plum. Despite my preferences, plum cake has a special place in my heart because of the memories it carries. It reminds me of my grandparents — their warm smiles, gentle laughs,...

Tiny orbs of golden hue, Draped in dreams, a starlit view. They flicker soft, they hum a tune, Dancing secrets to the moon. Threads of magic strung with care, Weaving wonder in the air. A glow so warm, a heart’s delight, They paint the dark with borrowed light. Each tiny bulb, a story told, Of whispered wishes, young and old. Of laughter shared, and tears that dried, Beneath their watch, where hope resides. In stillness, they illuminate, The corners time dares contemplate. A simple string, yet so profound, Binding hearts where love is found. Oh, fairy lights, you softly sing, Of fleeting moments, joy you bring. You cast a spell, and we abide, In your embrace, the world feels wide.