The sky is putting on its evening show, 
a soft golden curtain along the horizon, 
while the sun, in its slow descent, 
gives us a wink— 
a breeze arrives, cool but not too eager, 
and the world begins to darken 
like someone dimming the lights in a theater. 
I sit here with my tea, 
thinking this might be one of those moments 
you try to remember but can’t quite 
— a scene you want to hold onto, 
like a favorite song, 
but it slips out of your hands 
and into your heart, 
where it’s stamped with a permanent ink 
that only nature knows how to use. 

As the minutes stretch into a canvas, 
the sky shifts its mood— 
the gold turns to fire, 
and the purple rushes in, 
making its own royal claim, 
while the blue lingers, 
like the last guest at a party 
who doesn't know when to leave, 
and then, just when you think 
it’s all over, 
the dark curtain falls— 
the show complete, 
and it’s still a sight worth seeing. 

I’ll be back for this tomorrow, 
I’m sure of it, 
though it’ll never look the same— 
the morning sky is a different story, 
one where the darkness is the first to leave 
and the sun, eager to redeem itself, 
picks up where the night left off. 
But I’ll be there, 
watching as the light 
does its magic once again, 
another piece of nature’s artwork 
unfolding before my eyes.

It begins the moment you breathe in—  
that first, triumphant gasp,  
as if the lungs were made for it,  
and the world, taking a cue,  
welcomes you with open arms.  
A mother’s heart leaps,  
a father beams,  
and there, amid the hospital lights,  
a story is born.

From that day on,  
the blank pages of your life  
start to fill up, one after another,  
with the hurried scribble of years.  
There are first times  
scrawled in neat print,  
the inevitable blunders,  
awkward moments,  
laughter that rings like a bell,  
and quiet aches that never quite fade.

It's a remarkable thing, this book you're writing.  
I wonder, too,  
what my story will say  
as the ink runs out  
and the pages come to an end.  
It’s still early, of course—  
just a few chapters,  
not much to show yet  
but the promise of a decent plot.

But each life—  
each book—is a masterpiece,  
even the ones written in pencil,  
with eraser marks along the way.  
We’re all the main characters,  
whether we realize it or not,  
scribbling our own lines,  
thinking we’re not paying attention.  
But I hope, when it’s over,  
I’ll look back and say,  
"Not bad.  
Not bad at all."

How confusing it is, this thing that creeps inside me.  
I saw the starry sky that night, and I couldn’t help but notice the brightest one,  
shining down like a flashlight aimed straight at my confusion.  
That star—like her, I thought—  
gave light to the darkness, as though it had to announce itself.  
Suddenly, color seemed to seep into my dull little world,  
the past expressions I had stored away like old letters in a drawer  
all started to resurface,  
as though some invisible chain had just snapped inside me,  
and, of all things, joy—  
the joy I had carefully avoided—  
appeared like an uninvited guest at my door.  
But what is this, this feeling that goes beyond all of that?

Her smile, wide enough to make the sun feel insecure,  
and those eyes that twinkle like she’s hiding secrets  
send my heart stumbling like a drunk guy at a wedding.  
Her silly jokes? They’re like little pebbles that hit my chest and make me laugh,  
the kind of laughter that gets stuck in your throat,  
the kind you can’t hold back.  
And those stories of hers, sometimes dull as dishwater,  
I don’t even care—they’re her stories,  
and I’d listen to them forever,  
just to hear that voice.  
It’s like a magnet, I think, pulling me closer,  
and somehow, I’m okay with it.  
Am I crazy?

I used to be someone who didn’t want any of this.  
I was content—no, I was proud—  
sitting in the shade of my own company,  
a cup of coffee for a friend, a book for a companion.  
I didn’t care for the dates on the calendar,  
or the ones who tried to give me a reason to care.  
But now I’m standing at the edge of something I can’t name,  
ready to fall into a ditch I can’t resist.  
This feeling—  
what on earth is it?  
Is it love?  
If so, well, I suppose  
it’s time I stopped pretending I don’t feel it.

The sun's back out, smiling like it knows something we don’t,  
no clouds to crowd its face,  
as if it’s finally done with yesterday’s storm  
and is ready to show off a little.  
I stand there, gazing up like a kid  
seeing the sky for the first time.  
The grass is waving, happy to be here,  
and the trees—good grief—are downright dancing,  
with birds singing along like a chorus  
that has no idea how good they sound.  
It’s like a time machine in the air,  
taking me back to those days  
when I ran through fields of grass  
as if the world could never end.  
I remember climbing trees with my best friends—  
our laughter, the only music we needed.  
Everything felt permanent then,  
as if joy lived in every pocket of the universe,  
just waiting to slip out.  
But, of course, time,  
the ultimate party crasher,  
came along, as it always does.  
And yet, isn’t it strange how  
those days still manage to sneak in?  
The memories sit there,  
like old photographs in a drawer,  
always ready to make my heart laugh  
when I pull them out.  
So, yeah, it’s not so bad,  
growing up,  
not when the past still gives me a wink  
now and then.

Late afternoon, caught between the grip of night and day,  
I lie here, drifting in the soft current of my thoughts,  
listening to the rain perform its solo,  
a steady, unhurried melody tapping the windowsill.  
The trees are on their feet, swaying to the beat  
while the sky pounds out its drums,  
a little gloomy, like a mood that’s settled in for a while.

But I don't mind—it’s chilly, sure,  
but there’s always a blanket handy,  
and a hot cup of tea if I’m feeling fancy.  
The show reaches its crescendo,  
each instrument—wind, rain, thunder—growing louder,  
like nature’s band is playing its final number.

The wind, like some wild soloist,  
whistles into the night,  
and the rain, with a little more bravado,  
sings its heart out.  
The sky, well, it’s thundering now,  
making sure no one forgets its role.

It’s a storm, a performance so intense  
you can almost hear the crowd holding its breath.  
And then, as quickly as it began,  
the storm takes its bow,  
leaving behind a scene of broken branches and soggy lawns.  
The audience, too, seems to weep  
in the aftermath,  
as though they’re mourning the end of something grand.

But that’s the thing with nature’s orchestra—  
you know it’ll come back,  
with or without an encore.

I’m standing here, staring at a tree  
with its roots buried deep, like an old memory  
that’s lost its sense of time.  
The leaves tremble a little in the wind,  
as if remembering all the storms it has weathered—  
the lightning strikes, the floods,  
the nights so quiet you could hear the soil sigh.

It didn’t ask for any of this,  
just like you don’t ask for a lifetime  
with its little joys and little sorrows,  
its moments of pure joy  
and the long stretches of rain  
that seem to last forever.  
But it stands there, unflinching,  
as though it’s accepted something we all know  
but can’t quite face:  
nothing lasts.

And yet, there’s a strange beauty in that,  
like when you look at your reflection  
in the dark window of a train  
and see a life already passing,  
but you don’t look away.

Now the tree is older,  
its bark a little worn,  
its branches reaching out,  
as though it might hold onto the sky  
a little longer, just in case.  
And when it finally falls—  
as all trees do, eventually—  
it won’t regret the winds it fought,  
the sunburn it endured,  
the way it held on to every raindrop  
like a secret.

There are saplings around its base now,  
little versions of the tree,  
still stretching toward the light.  
And in that way, it doesn’t quite leave,  
but remains,  
in the quiet memory of what once was  
and what is still to come.

It starts like a slow leak in the roof,  
a drop here and there, a stain on the ceiling,  
but after a while the whole room is damp.  
The world, once so sharp, begins to soften-  
the faces blur, and the names slip away like  
sand through a sieve, and even the clock  
on the wall seems unsure of itself.  
  
The future, of course, keeps going,  
marching on like an indifferent parade,  
while the past grows quieter, like a radio  
that you never quite manage to turn off.  
You might remember something-
or not-and the line between now and then  
becomes a faint smudge on the horizon.  
  
And then, just as you think you've lost  
your grip on everything, the circle gathers  
and weeps, not knowing whether it is for you  
or for themselves,  
for the person you were or the person  
who is still sitting there, somewhere,  
but has left the room.