Rianna Shaikh's Blog, page 2

Footprints in the sand

 

 

       Dearest diary,

Next on my books;

The way.Have you read footprints in the sand?     I remember my grand father having this on his wall. I read it when I was little and I smiled thinking how much I understood but didn’t understand it.    For those that need a reminder that we are never alone; though we feel like no one is in the world with us.“For at times in the depths of our desparity, it is only there we find him.”

One night I dreamed a dream.
As I was walking along the beach with my Lord.
Across the dark sky flashed scenes from my life.
For each scene, I noticed two sets of footprints in the sand,
One belonging to me and one to my Lord.After the last scene of my life flashed before me,
I looked back at the footprints in the sand.
I noticed that at many times along the path of my life,
especially at the very lowest and saddest times,
there was only one set of footprints.This really troubled me, so I asked the Lord about it.
“Lord, you said once I decided to follow you,
You’d walk with me all the way.
But I noticed that during the saddest and most troublesome times of my life,
there was only one set of footprints.
I don’t understand why, when I needed You the most, You would leave me.”He whispered,“My precious child, I love you and will never leave you
Never, ever, during your trials and testings.
When you saw only one set of footprints,
It was then that I carried you.”

 

            I was 11, reading this. 

 

 

                    Yours,               R Kate Shaikhps. I am not here to inspire you; I am here to let you know it’s gonna be okay

 

    Hold on: Chord Overstreet

I suppose you met her?

  “ am I still beautiful dearest though my face has more lines that a Vigée Le Brun?”   Kate

The humble pause.I imagine that if I was birth with a royal bloodline I would be considered everything that the world would ever want to be. Like the normal man standing on one side of the banks looking at the other with a house the size of an island. I suppose I would wish to be like you, be like him. Like that man with all the damn everything. It would be a blasted waste to ever think he could be unhappy, because everything is suppose to be good when it glitters, non? I use you be that human.  I use to think everything that glitters was gold to the heart. But then later down the road I met a fellow,  Monsieur Reality and he showed me how human we all are. I sigh. I cannot tell you how my soul echoes still. But there is a good thing though, no matter who we are, or whom we are birth by, no matter how many  plots of land or soil we own, madame time will chew you up and drawn lines on your face, and better yet she will call you old . Maybe not today but someday. And that someday I hope you shall ponder on, because when she reaches it’s like a blink of an eye. Awch, I am becoming that writer.     For my best friend et everything.                  Your Katey Kate. Il est où le bonheur-Christophe Maé

Watch video

Look around you

 

 

         “Sadness finds us et wishes so much to keep us, that she distinguishes herself in beauty.”

 

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It’s Been a while since I lost you; nothing is never the same. But I met a captain and he had a map and he said to me,“ you shouldn’t look back but forward towards a new normal.”  I was grieved really, so much so I felt like clouds of darkness over me. I could not find a happy. A light of hope. Nothing. I realized though that sadness has many levels, and you; if you keep walking you’ll see what I mean. Chances are if you feel me, you are in deep. So look around and start walking away from there because one more step in and you’ll never see your smile again.

They say you can’t choose sad over happy, yes?

No?But what you can do is choose to be better. It’s a fight, only one that you can win or loose.But what do I know I am just aPen in paper.

 

Your mind,      R Kate Shaikh

 

        Haux: homegrown

 

Your perfectly folded emotion

 

 

Dearest  Pages,     It’s not always a sunny day, it’s mostly rainy. I barely ever know what it’s like to run along and be like most of the world,  that walks across from me. But there are far more normal things than a day being May.   I try to not curse my existence by baneful thoughts, for I know something greater than my parents love once for each other made me. I know how brilliant can a little light do?    When I was little as most of the world at that moment, why, I think of what child I was. I never felt that normal level of lost, mine were universal.Do you even know what it’s like to feel more than you ever need to?  Sometimes I want to just say“ Self thanks for that order but today I am gonna be simple with my feelings.”Never works, I feel and feel till I FLUCKing  scream.Like, enough.
Profanity I know, I am not perfect. Sorry. What would my perfect graved grande parents say. That one word made me sigh of relief. So yah,  I am as rainy as May in December.    Go on run from your feelings,
who am I to judge? What I would say is remember that running from yourself is a dead end kind of task.         Letters from the lost book,

             May Perfect

Diamonds: Joe Rodwell        

The shoreline

My diary,

Yet another letter, from a lost book.“Her everlasting was never coming
to the sh0res.”

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The shoreline

At nights I come here and I wait
I wait for a
miracle, one that is the
first impossibly one.
I wait for your sails to sail
back to me. I can’t cry like
I did when they told me you
are gone like a stupid story
that I never asked to read or
write or even be a protagonist in.
I come by at 8:16 and I sit on
the edge of the sea and I hold
the ring you gave me; that old
emerald et I wish, so hard that
the lights I see flickering so
far on, was you.
I could cry if I had tried harder,
but I won’t.
Because I am yet to recover
from my delirium, I think you are
going to come
home soon.
So I sit here et I wait,
for I remember when I was
little grand mère told me,
“Silly girl all you have to
do is believe, and you’ll see,
it will happen.”
Well if you are there and you hear me,
i believe, but dearest if you are
with grand mère i best get of
the Sand and make my way
to A1a, as clearly you are forever
gone.
And I shall never recover.
But for now, I wait: I sit still
oblivious as I can, I will wait
another hour ‘till I accept that
I am never going to get over you
and your sails.

i suppose love hath left me winded as a piratewith his sobriety.J’adore you always,
Your simple Jane        A book of lettersQuietly yours: birdy

The war of innocence

“ To live in the essence of your youth, is so difficult to hold on to as wisdom steals her smile.”

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     My dearest you,I write yet another page to you from yet another book.

La Promenade, by Auguste Renoir, 1870, French impressionist painting, oil on canvas. Woman in a white dress stands out as her companion merges into the shadows, both enveloped by Renoir.

I stand back to the banks, thinking of you. You were once there, standing at the lake a moment that Renoir would have added to his portefeuille. A happy resemblance to a girl that had lost nothing in her life. Her heart was new to this earthly dance. She was kept by innocence. Had you had met Mona Lisa you could  know her heart had stains of a love that was not requited. I smile as perfect do exist on the banks of Bois de Boulogne.   Never mind his bliss,
she was full of an untouched happy.
Unlike the world so impure.
Her smile did nothing but anger me;
because I knew then et there that
your heart made hers full to the brim.
I like to call this voice of rubbish
I write of, the canotier.
For you began as hers and
you ended as my last story
of malheureux.
     I know you’ll never read this, but I must of loved you Heron the never hero.      1901        Pagei Petton        A book of letters

 

Girls like me:  asaf avidan 

 

 

Her darkness

 

“Her pain isn’t your win, it’s beginning to feel real, your nightmare, non?”

 

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    Dearest diary,

 

I sat et wrote this letter in
hopes you read between the lines.

On the road to Falco, near Palermo, Sicily. Created by De Wint and Wallis, printed by McQueen, publ. in London, 1821. Ed. on Sicilian Scenery, Rodwell and Martins, London, 1823

Your return It’s been 2 years. The longest journey to stay alive, some think my existence is not real, as all the others that are trying to destroy my life, well they are the best at what they do.Forgery to humanity.I think frankly, no one can see him like I can. The dead cannot live in and the living cannot die if he wants us to live on. So why the Fudgert mess with a good thing? I personally look at dark clouds daily, even if the sun shines his brightest, I see darkness. For my heart is so full of grief and sadness, I know not why existence is what. So if you are part of that sorcery I feel, watch your steps, for there is something  greater than your darkness; there is light. And that light that shines through her darkness, is God’s.       I beg your pardon,
but this was my message to you.     Kib Keaton   A book of letters

My reaction:

 

Faouzia: born without a heart

 

A woman uncouth

Nanny and Child, by Eva Gonzales, 1877-78, French impressionist painting, oil on canvas. Gonzales was the only formal pupil taught by Manet. This painting was shown at the Salon of 1878

 

              Dearest diary, another piece;

 

“ most women romanticize love, but love is what leads us to motherhood.”

 

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  When I was little I looked at you as a woman uncouth.
Your ways made me uneasy,
your touch with that brush
made my head unravel with
thoughts of a 40 year old
unhappy Madame with her last
name unhappy. I wondered why God made me and why on earth he placed us near to each other. As you belonged in night as I did to day. You were the sky, I were the seas. No one’s better, yet everything is where it ought to be. You were bad to me as I am to the world. Wonder no more; we stay where we remain for love cannot live here anymore, 

oui like father et you. 

       Writing woes,         R Kate Shaikh   A snippet from my letter book.

 

all woman: Lisa Stansfieldps. This was my favorite song as
a teenager, honestly I was a different
kind.

 

De gournay I see

Dearest diary,

I write a sad note  yet I feel happy to be your writer.

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  I ran and I ran and I could feel all the hearts beat from the walls. I think there’s at least one of you that dreamt to be freed.

But I know at least 3 of you were in love with him. And I could see the heart in his eyes thumping as you exhaled to hold fast to the fury  that he is. You too think he could love. I feel a heart but I see a soul lost amongst the hearts that once hath beaten through these walls of bare empty but merely beautiful,   De gournay.

 

       I fear that’s  all I got
tonight dearest,

         Rianna Kate Shaikh
Pause: Eddie de pretto
One little waltz tonight;
andrea Vanzo

The road not traveled

 

           Dearest, The road one shall travel;  It makes no sense any of it. Sometimes I sit awake thinking of the possibility of ever not being a traveler. Does one live in stagnancy even if they not have seen the great world so big and so busy and ever so full of worry. Am I called to practice life like a Carthusian? Heck I cannot be a nun. Young as I feel I have cruised
the ledger of deep innocence. Far deep have I beheld.My roots of experience have crossed to the lobes of far solemnly ever so traveled.    To live life in such magnitude one must first live in. The rest they say is a figment of your treacherous mind. That son of a packer takes you to the far lengths of destruction without you even fathoming such. Like read it again, that’s not a bloddy word. Remember this as I remembered my greatest friend, the hermit;We are lost on this earth and non of us ever so hath comprehend that our existence are to exist feeling it all and then like experienced pirates, we loose it all, only to end up at a scene talking about it with an eye patch and a drunken behavior. Misleading this chapter you are in.     Never mind my attitude, its your story I tell,Rebeck A   R k ShaikhThe flame: cheap trick(The book of letters)