In your own sense. Without approvals. A quiet, Seemingly indifferent, And inconsequential life. Short, may beBut beautiful. You , Bearing the pride of the creator. You, A masterpiece. You , The Him, Later.
Author: The Feeling Called Life
Shubham is the creator of The Feeling Called Life, a space dedicated to exploring the intersection of spirituality and real-world struggles. He shares practical insights, journaling prompts, relationship experience and honest stories to help you navigate the human experience.
A show of fire and Ice.
Fire cleanses, to the soul. healing hurts. but then that’s how the wounds close. sewing you up. fresh cells creating themselves from the universe. and with your will to survive. Believing is magic. let’s burn tonight. for the morning awaits. for a fresh you. and the snow , shall ease the burns. soothe you down….
The secret lives of bees.
And flowers. And the mountains you never saw. And the flowers never touched, Never seen. Nor heard of. What do you see in a dream? What would you want to? The why’s in your head. Is the question ever clear? Or are you thinking what to think. And then let the thinking part stay. Just…
When is it morning
Said the sloth from under the tree. Arm on face, Like a big disgrace, He lay in the afternoon of summer. Sometimes the Apple does wonders. Wake up and run. Whenever the drop is and wherever the thud is. Credits are for them and soil for you for now. Call it penance of your being…
Hanging by its own cobweb
Sometimes, just sometimes, we realise, how we are caught up by the own webs that we built around to comfort us, have taken us over. so much so , that the creater is no longer the artist but a mere dependent. Are we there yet? Home , home home.
Nights be like.
What a day and what a night. Seems like I am catching time. Like rainwater. Harvesting it. Lest it runs away. Living enough ? Yeah yeah yeah.
Outstretched.
What happens when the music ends. When you’re nearing the end of the track. Music fades. There’s a pause. Silence prevails. And in that very moment, Is there a whiff of despair, Of would be’s, Or a shine of labour, The next track plays. Music shall prevail. TBT the times in mountains.
Riding solo.
How much is freedom worth? Got a taste of it in the lockdown? How much are you ready to put at stake for your freedom? How free are you? How wild would you want to be? What is it to call a life?. What is your version of the primordial questions of existence? Too much…
Throwback to inception.
Thank you My yester self for having balls enough to choose. How could you think of crossing a river without getting wet. Of course you can choose the bridge, but then you would never know how cold the water gets. How did the bottom rocks felt on your bare feet. Did you get to feel…
Shine bright like a diamond.
Pick up your fuckin pieces,Wipe up the pity parade. It’s time you take the fourth birth,Enough playing dumb charades. The incubation comes an end with a drumroll.It took it’s time and now comes the phase, To shine back as you did,Swaying away from the Dusty haze. Change the skin that died ages ago,Refresh the hopes…