Rianna Shaikh's Blog, page 28

Dearest night,I suppose you haven’t met day. I often wond...

Dearest night,

I suppose you haven’t met day. I often wondered how it would feel like to be ordinarily free.
Pouncing my feet into fields of lavender et barefeet, giddy with the sunlight hitting my complex skin thinking of days that I had missed. Because missing days hath reminded me of France or the dance of daylight on the dunes looking out to the sand, thinking of what wild winds that ruptured the days.
Or such a distant haze.
Life often feels like a phase.
Maybe a sunny bout of yellow rays?

Only in the day.

When life was normal then. And people were kind then. And you smiled then.
But now I close my eyes et i count to 10.
dearest day, that was then.
Rest world, the story shall soon unfold…

bonsoir,

simply rhymes being told.

Forever your Writer,

RS

Read this again et again…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Go on, scroll down….

 

 

 

 

 

Darlings,

my best quote, but truth is truth, non?
some of us were born to be private.
Nothing else.

bonsoir,

RS

Where would I be?

Dearest Scarlett,

I was filled with fear when I first layed eyes on you. You were a creature of masculinity Yet an eye of beauty fierce femininity. Your stare made me think of when I first rode a horse, my trainer Elise told me that a horse feels the everything you fear.
I had feared a lot, mostly my own self. But I hopped on, saddle et all, held my reins et trotted forward, never letting the past play forward.
Today I sit miles away, oceans away from you, et I know that wherever you are, your eyes shall always, for always,  in my head travel oceans away to see  me scream, “Scarlett not today!”

I suppose I think of you solemnly today. It’s been a year et exactly 12 months since you my darling et I parted.

Time masters the art of Farewell, non?

J’adore you my girl, my favorite girl,

Scarly. Scarletti. Scar.

Yours forever,

Kays

To my young readers

 

Dearest,

Oui I am actually reading emails… hence, sorry for such delayment, I have been taken up en my own agenders.

To the young ones lost in the wilderness, ever so seeking solace in mere lostness, it is a possibility to find your path.
Some of you wants to be great writers.

I know that this may sound outrageously Silly et without sense, even Doltish. Far from sane to think such, but it is so:
One must first stumble.

Often you stumble a many times. Sometimes years. Some many stubble till eternity.

Most important is knowing that you are deep within you an emotionalist, a thinker, a sort of great mess,  see I think ever so, that is what makes you a writer.
my husband could bank on  that. I am quite the character. A neat mess when ready et my personality is like a colorful Mount Everest.
I say bonne chance to all.

But let’s be brave, et sensible, you will be far more lucky. My first admiration to you my readers, whom had left such letters to moi, believe in you.

In your emotion, in your story, in your journey, as you see there is absolutely nothing glorious about being called forth in life with a pen et a bottle of messed up yet often times,  hard emotions.

Real hard emotions.

Because the world only feels what you write.
We only feel what we write, we never write what we are told to, most important, write what you feel existent in you.
None of my editors could of persuaded me differently, but they will. Oh they will.
For they are holier than thou monks.
Okay I have went toooo far!

I am not JK, nor am I Hem but one things for bloddy sure, I am my own writer.

Success cannot rearrange my stories.

Never.

Jamais!!

Rule one, write what you feel. Nothing more or less.

First perfect the art of self truth, in writing what you feel, it’s most necessary.
I shall read et respond to your many letters,
I adore them, mostly the honest ones.

Forever your writer,

RS

To achieve, atteindre

My dearest,

The words that should make even the most non glowing  of human to smile. A glitter of hope.  Excitement of acceptance.
The staircase that you were taught you couldn’t  stand on, or perhaps be on so you MuSt.
Maybe that race they say you’d never quite be good  at, because you my dearest are not equipped with the skills to being an achiever.
How abouts, Maybe you are not materialistic et your dreams are not about living the vie somptueuse, that expansive life with the house on the hills Overlooking the lakes et golfers, or the yatch, maybe your own island. Or the Manhattan penthouse, maybe you simple wanted a gate, to lock all the world out. Or the Aston?

The deal of a century?

Maybe you wanted to marry a prince like Cinderella?

Or like me live on a farm with 1,000 horses, with 1,000 care givers for this 1,000 horses, you’ll spent 2 hours with daily

OR you dreamt of simply being well, well enough to be happy to be outside your walls, breathing fresh air et watching birds gather, with life en bloom, like Collins, in his mother’s garden. I watched this with Roo et I felt like, without words it made sense to him.

Not because he was a boy,  but he my dear, was in a wheelchair, his chair without the great ability to stand or walk. Like you the world. To a child like him, you are the lucky ones.
They say a pictures describes a 1,000 words, does it?
I think a picture can be much lesser of words or much more complex of words. It all depends on what type of person you rightfully are.
Like success. Like the need to be the bearer of your own achievements.
I think you can achieve somethings, if it’s sensible et if it’s meant for you. But dear monsieur determination plays an important role.
I never believed in being the biggest dreamer, I barely had any, I was  more of a thinker than the one holding endless balloons of hope to achieve.
Some may say it’s because you had it, I beg to differ, but I also ask you as the receiver to think with as many flaws as you can. It allows you to be a bit more unreasonable so, hence you may one day become a person with reason.
oui magnifique!
Well if you are reading this you are probably, actually thinking …. WHAT the heck in’s  

Bonjour le monde!

RS

Ps. Morning blather.

Oh hands of time

(Window with wooden shutters overlooking the violet rows of lavender, Southern France. Summer landscape in Provence – view through the window on a countryside with a lavender field and old house)!

Dearest world,

I know. You see the time.
I watch my wrist by half past six et I frown amidst the ferns.
We all must know that we shall grow to eventually end up in stone.

I know, I know, you think it’s dull, past the point of no return. You see my darling time runs et poor us we must catch up as we run as fast as a summer day, early not in May, trying to escape the rains of a summer past.
I guarantee you, hope for as long as there are hands, we shall grow up et be old.

Et I know this story has already been told.
So hurry up already, put your angst away, posture up, no elbows on the table, give it a go, smile as life tows you away.
Far away from comfort, far aways from youth, far aways from the things you were once so fond of.
…because sitting up late watching the hands of time fade isn’t a thing you do with a smile.
As i do recall, oui I recalled, a smart rabbit once saying to all,  maybe to me when I once did fall, “You may not be young forever as forever is a long time, but time my darling will come,  for the lines of time to  be carved on your face, with time  your inner beauty will not fade. And remember of the temper you’ll find yourself having as time never ages us well. But wisdom my dear, will erase all your fears for no man lives forever. Oh how I wish to tell.”

I sat under the Willow wiping a tear because I knew that somehow, somewhere this ole story made many a people full of fear.
So I sat et listened, see  I wondered away, I was my darling a very young girl, clueless et  lost in herself, maybe most lost en Prada  et Valentino lusting my days in Aston with  Martin dreaming of bentleys in France, BUT that was 20 years a day, ago….

Hence to say, we all know that dear lady of time, why  she’s as feisty and fury like a wife on jury counting pennies in her head. Well you should of thought of that before you ever did wed.

no I didn’t.
yes I did.

Off I go to bed

bonsoir,

Rs

ps. This bloody story may make sense if you are highly intoxicated with tea of course, or intolerant of sorts.

 

Wolf hunt 1

Dearest world,

Was there ever a time when you wanted to do something so great but you couldn’t?
Was there?

Was there ever a time that you spent most of a year locked away? Did you miss a thing? Did you miss someone? Did you think you missed your chance?
Was there a time when you realized you were at peace walking through the fields so green Et lush et you were so happy with bliss from within, never like this…

the sun shun so radiantly on your skin, your cheeks were colored in blush of pinks et sun tones, it made NARS envious of you.

oui il l’a fait. It was perfection. The day. The sun. The light from the heavens.  You felt at peace with your existence, finally. Then suddenly something happens, qu’est-ce que tu demandes ?

Well you opened your eyes, et there it was. The finale or a beginning of true faith, you are surrounded by wolves.
You are afraid, you cannot even begin to think of how beautiful the rest of the sun making you blush to a full hue of simple happy.
The trouble is, this is life, everything you ever wanted you have to know there’s a price.
It doesn’t matter if you think you are privileged et you have suffered to get there, to the field of envie. Filled with green et you being carelessly happy.
My dearest, the wolves, the fear, the agony of being happy, it all crossed your mind then et there.
You even feel guilt of being the one to have opened that locked door that lead you to the Fields.
Grand mére always planted a seed Of caution in my mind. On et in my heart. In me. Hence, this is why doors remain locked.
——————

to be continued oui?

Well I adored this one. I do wish for you sensible thinkings as there’s someone up there looking at you. The silly of humanity is we dont think that God sees us, so we think we can get away with all sorts of things. Golly, life is a trickery my darlings

carry on!
Forever a writer,

RS

Tell me about you …

Dearest you,

Here we go…

I think not as much as I write.
I feel more than I speak.

I  am angered by most foolish of people.

I admire the things that scamper around seeking to be spoken to.
I daily tell stories.

I am most private.

I live for dark chocolats.

I chase rabbits.

I don’t seek Approval.
I shut the doors on people that are only along for the scenic view.

I listen to hours of serenity.
I talk to birds.

I don’t believe in love at first sight.

I drink lots of tea.

I love Renoir.
I admire Van Gogh.

Je déteste marcher sur l’herbe.
I don’t listen much.

I am most disappointed in people.
I don’t speak of my geography.
I don’t eat flour.
I don’t read much.

I collect books.

I own 5,000 teacups.

I am down to earth,
despite what they say.

I listen to the opera.

I cook daily.
I do sip tea with a made up real mouse at approximate 7pm daily, as the stories say.

Je crois en la grenouille verte.

Mostly, I am a mother firstly.

Et no I don’t have an Aston nor a Marton

Answering questions from emails.

yours,

RS

Dearest you,I think not as much as I write. I feel more t...

Dearest you,

I think not as much as I write. I feel more than I speak. I  am angered by most foolish of people. I admire the things that scamper around seeking to be spoken to.
I daily tell stories.

I am most private.

I live for dark chocolats.

I chase rabbits.

I don’t seek Approval.
I shut the doors on people that are only along for the scenic view.

I listen to hours of serenity.
I talk to birds.

I don’t believe in love at first sight.

I drink lots of tea.

I love Renoir.
I admire Van Gogh.

Je déteste marcher sur l’herbe.
I don’t listen much.

I am most disappointed in people.
I don’t speak of my geography.
I don’t eat flour.
I don’t read much.

I collect books.

I own 5,000 teacups.

I am down to earth,
despite what they say.

I listen to the opera.

I cook daily.
I don’t sip tea with a real mouse.

Je crois en la grenouille verte.

Answering questions from emails.

yours,

RS

Walk away

Dearest world, 

I walk past her home, small gates with no actual purpose, blossoming flowers with no smile, a door that has been built to keep the rough world out, when the poor actuality is, it is in.

Can you see she’s a wretched sin?

I numb myself with a hymn.
I tell myself that its okay some of us were born to pain, while others to simply live in disdain.
I am not one like the world, I live alone.
No hate, no prey.
But watch me as the wind blow away….
I may be out drifting abouts but within me, there’ll be no one to know the weight or the date or the gates.
For her heart was always filled with hate.
Though now it be quite late, I say to her, dearest lady of pretend oh you are juste so great, you cannot escape your tainted faith.

I frown with such debate.

Au Revoir Maman,

Simply Kate

Ps. A memoir