Reading in Progress - A poem


Photo by Amy Benton Blake on Unsplash

She sat there in a corner
On her favourite couch

With fog on her glasses
From the cup of tea in her hand

A book in another hand
As she deeply indulges herself in reading

She smiles as the characters
Talk and express among themselves

She cries as the book comes to an end
Dreaming of life the characters lived

She catches her breath
Each time the climax grows near

She is deaf to the surroundings
The book is all she can hear now

She is completely lost in the words
Black & white flying in her head

Sparkling and connecting the circuits
Inside her brain, shining bright

And each time, she found herself
Indulging in a new experience, the book took her along.


Author’s Note: Dedicated to all the readers and bookworms out there! Happy Reading!

Originally published in the publication The Cornered Gurl on 11 May 2020
©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Book Review of Ancient Toltec: Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz




Title: Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz

Language: English
Genre: Historic, Self Help
Pages:
Rating: 3/5

Excerpt:
This book is about the beliefs of the ‘Ancient Ones’ community who believed life is an endless dream — a world of illusion which is just like a smoky mirror that doesn’t allow us to see who we really are! The quality of the dream purely depends on whether your mind or soul is controlling your life. Smoke in between us keeps us from knowing what we are.

Miguel talks about four agreements we need to live by to achieve the life free of limitations, make profound changes to your life, help you re-create your existence — where you find yourself and learn how to be happy at all times in life no matter what life has to throw at you. The four agreements are :-
  • Be impeccable with your word
  • Don’t take anything personally
  • Don’t make assumptions
  • Always do your best
My Thoughts :

A must-read to improve the quality of thinking and way of life. The book is engaging to read about an idea depicting, life is a living dream and the analogy, we see smoky image of yourselves in the mirror. Despite this, in my opinion, if the writer also included "how-to" to imbibe these agreements into our daily lives, it would serve more benefits and help one break out of thoughts. While reading this book, it made me wonder and reflect on what we do in our day to day lives and how we can engage in conscious talking and thinking to spread positivity.
©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

All Tapped Out - A Short Story

Reflection into a new reality 

                                                                        Photo by Sidnei Maia from Pexels


I always loved collecting things, anything unique, interesting and cute — key chains, tags from clothes, coins, stamps, small toys, souvenirs, trinkets, etc. I had everything I ever collected in my cupboards stacked away, locked for years. It wouldn't be wrong to refer to it as hoarding. I hoarded not one, not two but different kind of things I thought brought joy to me.

With a heavy heart and fondness, before moving to a new city, I went through everything I owned and to my surprise I discarded most of these collectables. The things I collected and saved my entire life. What I thought is a great hobby to have, and felt proud of once upon a time. But what struck me hard is, by the end of clearing everything, what I most treasured and could not part with were the books my parents bought me, a few books among the one I had read for years as a part of the curriculum, the diaries and books I wrote in, my clandestine journals, my father’s books of early editions which in itself is an untradable treasure.

For years until then, I believed the collecting things bring joy to me. I was so wrong. I also felt I have too many clothes and things I did not need. I felt the need to stop buying clothes and be satisfied with what I have and carry whatever I could to the new city. Same goes for the shoes too. I now feel I will live a life of abundance ruled by values, I am going to live a life of content. I have everything I need in life.

I doubt I will ever be content with collecting books and notebooks followed by some stationery, though. They continue to remain my loved weakness. But I have fallen out of love for shopping, collecting or hoarding. I don’t count collecting books as hoarding. I guess this is what all books lovers are going to say!

Perhaps after so many years on earth, I’ve just learned what makes me truly happy. What I genuinely value and appreciate. But I know this — I will be forever chasing time to do things which awaken my soul, create a spark in my brain, and the twinkle in the eyes. I will strive to do anything different each time I sit down with the creative side of me by painting colours on a canvas or by pixeled words or ink a book with my thoughts by immersing myself into it. Only, because I can’t stay away from it.

"Surround yourself with people that push you to do and be better. No drama no negativity. Just living in a higher vibration, motivation, for good times and positive vibes. No jealously. No hate. Simply bringing out the best in each other"


©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

This story first appeared in  ShortStories101 on 18 May 2020

Tuesday’s With Morrie by Mitch Albom — Book Review

Source


Title: Tuesday's with Morrie by Mitch Albom
Language: English
Genre: Philosophical, Memoire
Pages: 192
Rating: 5/5 💗

Excerpt: Forgive yourself before you die. Then forgive others.

Morrie Schwartz— the old professor, heart and soul of this book, a doctor of sociology, was diagnosed with a neurological problem in his seventies. He had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) — an unforgiving illness that consumes a person — day after day, week by week, as time passes. By the end of it, a person is still alive- wide awake, making you lose all control, frozen inside one’s own flesh. The book captures Morrie’s last few months of his life when the realization of mortality is a source of enlightenment.

This philosophical book is written with great clarity, conviction and wisdom glorifying the rekindled connection of student & teacher, along with profound discussions.

My Thoughts:
I simply love this book and can't think what kept me from reading this marvellous book for so long.

A must-read for everybody. The book will make you ponder on your actions, your outlook to life and wake you up to realizations.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

The Little known Cafe - A Short Story

Photo by Ashe Walker on Unsplash

For most of his life, he enjoyed living alone. He was kind, courteous and with a warm smile. He was a little over forty. He had no complaints. He had learned to enjoyed his forsaken solitude. He had to. He was a writer. His profession required him to sit for hours by himself staring at a blank paper or screen, building stories, and weaving it’s elements together. He was good at his job with a lot of publishers chasing him enabling a steady income. In a good mood, he painted words that felt like fine wine and soft music to his readers. He also kept himself in shape by going to the gym and you would often find him exploring different cuisines at restaurants and also trying them at home. He believed experimental cooking awakens all senses at once, enhancing his creative side and helping him write better.

Every day he sat down at his writing desk which stood against the wall in his study. It was a fine desk and a place that made him tick and stories came dancing out every time. A pile of books stacked one above the other, the books from all his favourite writers, stood there on the corner of the table. He always felt the books staring at him each time he sat down to write. Their voice ricocheting, every time he was struck by writer’s block, what he called the dead end.

Wednesdays were different. He would drive over the longest bridge running across his city, to go to a cafe which stood by the flowing river. It was a small cafe, unknown to many. It was just as he wanted. Tranquil, quiet that he loved and just a single sound — flowing river, clear water over rocks, with some distant chattering. The cafe was comfortable and found it exceptionally located. They did not play any music nor did they have comfortable soft cushioned chairs. But the chairs were perfect for him. It was perfect for reading. Not too hard or too soft. And there is nobody around. I don’t think you would find people on a weekday, a Wednesday, walking in and out of an insignificant cafe buying local coffee. Even if they did, they would walk up to the nearest Starbucks or Costa.

So mid-week, you would find him in the little known cafe, drowned himself in a book, from half-past ten to half-past one. And when the clock strikes, he makes his way to the nearest restaurant and savours a delicious meal all by himself.

On that particular Wednesday morning, he was reading, as usual, in the nearly empty cafe. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. He read it many years ago, and when he spied it on his old bookshelf, he decided to re-read it again. He loved doing that. Again, he found himself completely absorbed into the story, as though it was his first read.

After an hour’s concentrated reading, he puts his book down to rest his eyes, only to see a woman seated on the next table, who was also reading. It took him by a surprise. Imagine on a weekday morning, in a deserted cafe, two people sitting beside each other and reading a book unknown of each other’s presence. He had never met anyone like that. Not until now. This was a strange and startling encounter, which surprised both of them. He would always remember this day. The day he met the women with intellect, an avid reader and artist by profession. That is what he remembered. The woman was confident, smart and at the same time very intriguing.

They had lunch together at a nearby restaurant and shared their similar interest, reading. They had light lunch and talked about the books they’d read, and the author’s they adored. They spoke uninterrupted for hours until they realised they had to call it a day.

Next week again, as he sat at the cafe reading, she turned up. They sat across the room, and read with no interruptions until the end of their reading session. He walked over to her, and like the week before they to a nearby restaurant to have lunch. As they had their Ravioli pasta and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc wine, they talked about general things. Things, they usually do not discuss with anyone. Perhaps, it came out in his writing and hers depicting in her art.

This went on for a couple of months. Something had clicked between them. Not the kind of thing that happens all the time. Each time he went back home, terrible loneliness swept over him. He had never felt this way talking to anybody. He had not spoken to anyone so openly in years. He had always kept to himself in his world of writing.

There was something unique about the woman. She was not like any he met in his life so far. They liked the same books and writer, the restaurants, the same cuisines. The coincidence was hard to ignore. As usual, one fine Wednesday, he decided to share his feelings with her. He could no longer contain it in his heart. He was not able to focus on his writing, which is by in itself a rare occurrence. He had started having sleepless nights.

The day arrived, and he went to the cafe. But, she never turned up. Not that week, not the next, not the week after that either. She never returned. Without saying anything — without a warning — she disappeared.

Later some time, in the middle of the night, he woke up. The writer was suddenly gripped with fear. Maybe it was the moonlight or the fear of being distraught. No. It was something else. With every passing minute, he felt himself sinking deeper, into the sand, with no one to rescue him. His identity vanishing. The glow of real life was missing. He was alone once again, with no one to talk to, share things with, have lunch with, none. None at all. He was back to being a lost, lonely, loner, in the light of life. He felt barely alive. He did nothing to feel alive.

He looked around. He says to himself it was just a dream. Of course, it was. The thoughts were all in his head. He always lived inside his head. With all the made-up characters and the stories he wrote. Stop thinking. Stop thinking of dark thoughts, he told himself aloud. As if trying to avoid the fear of loneliness staring, ready to engulf him. You are just tired, overwrought, he thought. The wave of fear shall pass. The panic, the lucid vision from the dream shall fade.

He talks himself to sleep, in his head, again. My search will continue — somewhere. I won’t stop. I won’t stop until I find it. A search, a treasure hunt that will give me a hint to find me the missing element of life. Hoping search takes him where he’s likely to find it.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.


So.....I got published as a writer in Spillwords

Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado on Unsplash It’s published. My writing has been published. I have only published in Medium publica...