Rianna Shaikh's Blog, page 30

Aston or a train?

Monte-Carlo, Monaco – March 17, 2018: Shining New Aston Martin

Dearest,

If you could buy happy what would it be?

Would it look like you or me?
Would  it have been worth the pain, or the loss or the gain?
Would it be an Aston Martin or a train?
Et most importantly would it be bloddy insane?

I know, I know, I have got work to do, but I desperately feign

“OH not again!”

bonsoiR,

RS

Dearest Kay

Dearest you,

 

How abouts that?

Instead of my dearest diary I have  decided to change to my dearest Kay. As you see as a child it was my name. Middle. Silent name perhaps.
Apparently it was the first word I must of said.
So I think perhaps so as I am scurrying along my daily chores et my very tempered Roo, today I sit on the floors of my tearoom as I clean, oui, I actually do work, believe that et gasp

… thinking of , “Gee Roey thanks for the idea!”

I seem to think very much when my daily life is in le chaos!

So I hope your Sunday is brighter than your Saturday. This is where I listen to Chopin for  2 hours, I swear it’s medicine for the day et stories for my nights.
Good day my darlings,

RS

Dearest love

Dearest love,

I have waited all my life, all my days, all the nights, all the time. All of it, to tell you this isn’t a love letter, rather, rather a complaint.

You my dear May have messed up dear sir Hemingway, Sur Shakespeare, silly love crazy Jack, Monsieur Bonaparte, rebellious Hugh Hefner et many others. But not me. I am juste a little rebel on the inside reading tales in Valentino, well I lie, I write them now.
Because my life thus far hath seen only grey clouds stealing blue clouds, sunlight et frilly giddy laughter like I were a queen, or simply a Marie Antoinette.

You my dear must change, if you shan’t then there will be more letters, more stories, et more shopping.
But that’s up to you, Jôu are with Cupid, I am with stupid, et so it goes.

Galley on to tea,
Sophie Becks

There are many, beaucoup!

Dearest you,

There are many moments in your life that time has not gotten you quite ready foR. There are many things that has been hemmed in you for the right occasions.
There are many storms that will leave you shriveled inside.

There are many highs et many whys.
There are not so many that will wish you well.

There are not so many but a few that will wish you bliss et health, with a heartfull of it all.
There are many things in today that wasn’t there just yesterday.
There are many things my dearest that will find you, mend you, tear you, hold you, j’adore you, release you, trample you, torment you, teach you, enable you, show you, that in a world so grande, there is still a many waiting foR you.

bons lapins de jour!

your writer,

RS

Laisser aller

dearest self,

never hold on.
Never look back.
never weep over the peonies that withered in winter.

never allow them to hurt you.
never let the frailty of life get to you.

never let the rains soak its woes to your coeur.

never be sorry that they all want m0re  from you.

never let the sickness of humanity cloud your rightfullness.

never let them tell you, that you deserve any less.
never do dearest self, because you’ll end up like her. Et we all know her is not better than you.

Love with sensibility dearest you, Laisser aller,

RS

New book

 Dearest you,

Oui my newest book. Obviously taken on a stormy day. But everything shan’t be all parfait world. We are but human.

Hence book #8 of my privately printed collection. 400 pages. I think it’s 12by 12 which mean it has shoved my very grande Valentino of my table!

I laugh.
Because it’s exceptionally gorgeous. Et also I somehow wish that I could drop an isbn on this one, but you know they call me the “privileged writer” and if I were to print this one it may cost over 250, peR book.
Damm, what would my critics say?
I frown, because I don’t quite care.

Et they all think rabbits write my books, because I am not smart at all.
&jvuxvivkbivuc!

Well on with the hurrah, I have been reprinting #2 of Darling petit Roo again, et revising, I completely loath revisions.
But I must.

Je dois.

J’adore toi,

RS

#writingwoes

Broken till i mend

The Stroller by Claude Monet, 1887,

dearest,

I often am lost in the paintings of past memories, lost years et fervent thinkings. I sit up late listening to hours of cello et bathing my head in things that quite still remain the same. Of course, I am a writer, we dwell on things that most humans don’t look at.

I struggle to finding my path back to romance novels.

I am not Shakespeare I shan’t allow myself to think that love can ever so last.
I mean, look around.

la romance est impossible!

But what I know of as a person, a woman, a lady In training is that no woman should be so doltish to think that a prince, a man, another being could fulfill another.
oui, I said it.
It’s why I cannot, I cannot, like ever so finish

my 3rd novel. I have strayed away from thinking that I could make a woman out of pain. 

I know, it’s seems quite A complicated, but being a woman is most ever so terribly honestly complicated.
I hope you are simple.
être bien,

ps. Novel 3 in the completion, impossible it is.

Yours
RS

 

 

 

 

Worn manolos à la campagne

   Dearest,

   It was day when she held her silver brush given to her by a somebody that became a nobody. The kind of person that were somebody so important that ventured past the brim of betrayals.

She stood by the gold glided renaissance door brushing her hair looking out at the gardens, the greens et hues of vivre, the birth of spring.

elle se sentait vivante.

She knew what her another had said to her about the pyramids of life.  The higher you climb the less people you are surrounded by.
Ever had a wiseman tell you so?

Well now today you are told. Her hair glistened bronzed gold et brown from the chlorine that she swims in daily, en the heat of new life budding, It exhausted her proper thinking I suppose
She exhaled holding her silver brush, extending her twisted bun down fallen past her shoulder et then slipping on her kitten heels.
Thinking alas of how lonely it was  to be her.

To be loved, to be unloved, to be loathe, to be envied, to be troubled like a teen repenting her sins foR the things her parents knew not.

Her feet adorned in exhaustion, from the tiresome walks around the gardens, whispering to the birds and fearing for herself.

Her life. Her past. Her present.

The oath of I do.
The loss of  her innocence, but the rein of her title. The ones you dream of as you eat your silly toast et butter with grand mére’s jam at the age of 7.
Like the doltish prince in his cape of masculinity, oh how sweetly he corrupts non?
She was beguiled by her love for a happy ending. But today she knew that, that was when she  was little et filled with the fantasy of not real.
She exhaled counting backwards from 10, knowing that soon, soon she’ll need a whole lot of Médicament to deal with the reality.
Slipping her Manolo et trotting to the balcony, then down the steps to the garden, she smiled looking at her Cartier, what she really needed though was a reverso, oui par Jaeger LeCoultre to undo what she was abouts to do.

A woman’s heart dearest are as weak as her dreams when she  was 7, triste vraiment non?

——
A mini story as I am working on another book, re reading for 4th time et my brain refuses to take that jaunt around again.
I like this story, it makes me feel like she’s about to commit a sin et blame it on the flowers in bloom.

Welcome to my head.

Back to work, I refuse to really, sitting in my tearoom screaming, “Oh my dammmmm!”

RS

My dearest Ahsan (book one)

 

 

dearest,

Look at it, your most adored writer has gotten a page to herself. Haha!

Yah look at that it’s my book of course, a 399 page  book of my husband’s  story, oui he’s had an incredulous travelled childhood so am yah it’s terribly big!

Why I had to show you a snippet,  I will give you previews on my books at times. Back to work!

J’adore you!

Yours,

RS

 

Mother dearest why were you not fairest?

 

Dearest,

It must of been hard, bearing her, carrying her, growing her in your womb.

It must of been hard when dearest father loved you never. It must of been hard when he thought not twice of what you were to deliver.

I frown, with no crown.

It must  of been hard, oh all of the long wintery nine months of hail. You wept et wept and yet no one cared when you were to have her.
But you did et to a child you never quite ever like ever, did quite love.
I would say out of the rest she were the best, yet you showed no care.

But like every tale there’s a fairy et most know there’s quite no mother like a Fairy God Mother.
So dearest mother, worldly mother,  oh darling mother…  did you regret your story so old, oui the one the lies that you told?
I know it must of been hard when Father walked out on you, crushing your gold, et the little girl she oh she grew weary et utterly cold and forsaken she felt  in this very world.
But her heart, her little heart dearest Mother et noblest father, her heart was, why it was pure as gold.

———
Up writing a book on Mother why were you so bloddy cold

True book!

I kid not.

Your Writer,

RS