"When the stars go blue"

However impossible it may seem to know that there are somethings that are still sacred, and the heart's always scared of spoiling things, people and their spirits.

Lately, the pursuit of love - so synonymous with happiness - has become that. A fearful path. It is a fearful one because there's always a question.. a possibility what would happen if things went bad and what all things would be at stake when the destruction (that seems alarmingly possible) happen. It will become a catalyst to destroy a spirit - a yearning to do better and be better in life, because that is what the ultimate purpose is: to rise. Just, simply, rise.

We have often heard as much that life is a journey where we are supposed to make mistakes - and learn from them and try never to repeat them. If falling in love is a mistake, how does one avoid it? Why is this path the most difficult to walk?

The thing is, we can make mistakes in finding love... not look in the right places- but how in the world are we to know which place is right? They say the heart will guide us, but what happens when you start living so much in fear that you overpower your heart. Translate opportunities into threats. Risks, that will destroy other people's lives, emotions, perspectives, spirit if you were wrong.

That is a huge responsibility. I think it's a part of one's integrity, then, to be hated, or worse, to be misunderstood. You're just doing the world a favor.

Targets and Poetry

She comes as the rain, in a township of clouds.
The heaven tumbled upwards, waiting for a new ruler.
The brown earth could never make love to the green.
He was waiting for her to rain down.


Kritika looked at the random lines she'd just written. Lot of clouds, rain, heaven, she thought. Well what can you expect when you've been flying non-stop for over 72 hours, she lamented back. She sighed, looked around the almost empty flight. There was nothing much to notice on this afternoon flight. To her right sat a girl with long hair, and longer nails, presumably first time on her flight: she asked a woman sitting in front where the lavatory was.


In front of her, there was a woman with a child, a girl of about seven, paying devious attention to Kritika: she asked her about her lipstick, her finger ring, rows with blue trapeze diamonds, and her mystery-shade-of-blue shoe. To her back, sat yet another woman with a child, a boy of about ten, voicing the effect of the altitude on his stomach every time the plane gained or lost a few feet.


Kritika sighed. The window seat bored her; it was bright and sunny outside and most of all, her migraine was nagging her about her writer's blog. She soon spotted the problem: the businesswoman in her was handling her artist's targets. She sighed again. There was nothing she could do about it.

Coming up...