what are rains if not collective electricity breakouts,

what are rains if not impromptu jam sessions,

what are rains if not yearning,

what are rains, if not romanticising the darkness of your room

what are rains if not nature quenching your soul's thirst,

what are rains.

waste time -?

oooh... I wanna have wheat and sugarcane farms again :(

To see the softness in people. To see the kid waving bye to the street dog. To see the couple reading to each other. To see her explain her love. To soak in the light orange sunlight streaks on your bedroom wall. To sit under the sky and breathe like you haven't in a while. To admire the way she beams at the mention of crispello and the way he smiles. It doesn't take a lot to melt into this. To soak. To find home.

She called me the heart girl.

The romanticism of being known and seen. Green. Oh to have an impact on people. The romanticism of life. The joy in tiny tiny things. The understanding and appreciation of people. The softness of comfort. The pink of home. She called me the heart girl and it made my day.

You told me I look at your eyes quite a lot. And between you and me, i never realised it. And I've never been shy of eye contact, but, between you and me, I've never had a pair of eyes I've so wanted to shy away from and not stop looking at the same time. Between you and me.

apricity.

noun. The warmth of sun in the winter.

The apricity of the lunch hour. And the apricity of the car ride back home. The home in warmth. And the warmth on her face. The soft brown streaks of his hair. The yellowness of my room. apricity. home.

The art of flowers. The softness in picking a roadside flower for them. The art/battle of choosing the right one. The teasing. The keeping of flowers within your favourite book. The specs of your love's faint colour on my favourite pages. The dry flowers i treasure and the soft petals I see you in. The art of flowers. The softness.

you have kind eyes, the softest really. The kind that can melt someone. The kind that droops a little when you're sleepy but they droop in the most perfect of curves. The kind that scrunch up a lil when you're happy. you have really kind eyes.

and she was silent poetry. the kind of poetry that makes you bawl your eyes out on your bedroom floor. the kind of poetry that heals you. that is immortal. the kind that leaves an indelible mark on you. the kind that I wouldn't ever want to erase or unhear, or quite the opposite of that. she is silent poetry.

Because how do I speak when words in vain. How oh how do I speak when words ingrained. And how dare I speak of what wasn't in your plan. And how dare I feel what wasn't in mine.

I didn't really like the moon before i knew you. I didn't like the moon before i started seeing you in it. And between you and me, i didn't really like the night sky before you told me it was comforting to you, and somehow I started loving it for how comforting it is.

I think we like old songs because they're quiet, and immeasurably soft. The softer the song, the more soul-bewitching, heart-warming and gut-wrenching it gets.

I went there, and I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry in shades of the sky and the leaves so i could blend in. Be one. I wanted to cry because it spoke to me in memories. Memories of hills no more. And of tiny streams, with him on a call. It spoke to me in more feelings than words. In silence. In silence like in the memory. Silence of ambience. Silence of the unrelenting brain. To minimise me.

Fog had always symbolised hindrance to me. Gloomy. Eerie. And then it wasn't. It somehow was a blanket. A home. A home to protect me from what's next. A home to let me take the present in completely. A home without overwhelm. A home with a render distance of 6 chunks. A gorgeous haven.

Beige (Unburdened) by Yoke Lore

I love the word unburdened. It somehow explains a state that's otherwise inexplicable. A state so foreign to us. Yet so potent in our dreams. A state so tender, so soft, so innate yet so far.

people living in magical places don't know that they are.