Alena's Euphoric Quill

When the world admired the rain, She saw her own tears in them. When the world adored the flowers, She saw the mortal life in them. When the world praised the crystal sea, She saw a broken mirror in them. When the world asks her about life, She is shunned to silence. She feels the world a little louder, But the world says that she is pessimistic, Maybe to you but not to her. She sees the reality when you see the illusion, She sees the pain when you see the gain, I am not her and she is not me, But she is a part of me, A part of me that visits me, Not everyday but once in a while, When the world doesn't understand her, And she feels stuck in the middle of nowhere. She is part of every human being, Every human who feels heavy once in a while. She shouldn't be ignored, She should be embraced, Cause after all, She is human, A human being with humanity, A little more than others. Don't try to change her but, Show her that she is more than enough, She needs it, even if she doesn...

Wandering through the old campus lane, Where sunlight fall like whispered rain, Carving our prints through every little step, On the muddy trails and unspoken words kept. The Benches a hundred years old, Holds our dreams like every other soul, Who laughed, cried and lived their youth, Not realising, they ain't on a loop. One day it comes to an end, Just like every other trend, But the memories never fade, Even if it is millions on trade. The photographs that we never took, Of moments too pleasant to look, And a bag of chips we ate to class, Holding secrets, time could never pass. Exams and fears, Hopes and plans, Sitting in the hall with rusty fans, Oh, I didn't know it was a pleasure, And much better than a scroll leisure. Now time has packed it's final bag, Leaving only memories to drag, College ends but never leaves, It folds itself into our sleeves. It remains, it truely does, A gentle homely residue, Of people we grew into.

I learn new lessons every day, and today was just another where I got to learn from my mistakes. I am someone who studies hard, attends all classes, and usually writes exams well. But this time, for my first exam, I couldn’t manage my time properly, and I couldn’t score as well as I hoped. When I was writing my 8-mark question, I suddenly realized I had only 15 minutes left. My brain was jumbled, and I couldn’t think straight. I am often appreciated for my neat handwriting and I never overwrite but those 15 minutes were not the time to think about neatness. I tried to focus, but all I could think of was the time running out. I had studied so many quotes to use in my essay, yet at that moment, I couldn’t remember even one. I was so disappointed, not just because I knew I could do better, but because the professor for this paper has always encouraged and motivated me to give my best, and it was his paper that I messed up. I cried after reaching home. When I got the paper back, the marks ...

I will turn 20 soon,  Oh! Where did time fly to? Why is life rushing?  I'm not ready to step out of my teenage, I feel like a child by heart. Twenty sounds like a big number, Like I'm supposed to have it all figured out, Like dreams must wear discipline, And laughter must learn to hush. I still believe in the magic of Little things, Like raindrops, pretty smiles and hearty talks, If growing up means losing that, Then let me stay nineteen a little longer. I wish I could freeze time, I never had that cliché teenage love, Never explored being a carefree child, Because I was always a little too mature, For the usual immature teenage years.  I was always a good child, Listened to my parents and teachers, Gave my everything and studied my best, But I wish I enjoyed more than I did, Like every other kid who were naughty, In my dear old childhood days.  Yet, twenty knocks gently, Whispering of new beginnings, Of love yet to find, Of stories waiting to be written. It's time t...

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Today, when I was walking back to the bus stand from college, my professor unexpectedly walked along with me, and I had a hearty conversation with him about career plans. I had chosen to study MBA not because I like the subjects, but for the prestige and money that come along with it, I was just trying to be practical. Talking to him felt like a message from God. I remember him once saying in class that God sends people when you need them. He asked me why I had decided to go for an MBA, and I didn’t have a proper answer. That made me think and he said to me, Why choose a stressful life with a toxic environment and pressure when I could become a professor who gets to interact with young minds and positive energy every day? He said that I am a good writer and here’s the best part, he said to me, “If you become a professor, Alena, you will be a great one.” He went on to say that I am disciplined, attentive, and caring, qualities that I deserve a positive environment to flourish. He even t...

I do not know what to choose, I do not know if I am doing it right, I do not know whether, I am on the right path, I want to figure out soon, Wait, no, I need to figure out soon. I search for signs in silence, I wrestle with the weight of time, The future feels like a distant shadow, But the present trembles in my hands. Patience whispers, “breathe, don’t rush,” Yet urgency burns within my chest, I stand between fear and faith, Hoping one step will lead me my destiny

I tried to be the best one, I came second, I tried to get appreciated, the people around me got it. I smiled through the ache, wore my favourite colour like a shield, But no one saw the cracks I quietly concealed. I spoke with courage, though my voice trembled a bit, Still, the spotlight turned where the louder winds blow. I stood in the middle, clapping for them all, They say “you did good,” but not loud, not proud, Their praise like whispers lost in a crowd. I wasn’t perfect, but I was there, With words on my lips and strength in the air. But maybe I’m more than a rank or a cheer, More than applause that I longed to hear. For every stumble, every missed beat, Is a quiet anthem of my steady feat. So I’ll wear it again, not to hide the scar, But to remind myself, I’ve come this far. And next time, whether I’m first or unseen, I’ll still be the girl who dared to dream.

Dear Friends, I will miss talking to you, I will miss hugging you, I will miss those long walks, Not Knowing where we'd end up, Just lost in time and each other's company, I will miss holding hands, I will miss the shoulders I curl up on, When the world gets too heavy, I know nothing lasts forever, But I wish this did, We fight, We cry but we end up-- Together, loved by each other. A year from now, this day,  we might be miles apart, But I hope that distance only exists on the map, Not in the spaces between our hearts. I know I’ll miss you. But sometimes I wonder, Will I ever find friends like you again? Even if I do, Your place in my heart will never be replaced. That I know for sure. I know that, I will miss you, Again, Again and Again.  To the people I love, forever. I love you the most! 

Let them enjoy it all, Envy can ruin you after all, Let us dance it away, In every possible way, Let us dance, when it is impossible, Also when it is possible, Cause after all, Joy is never too small. Let the music mend what’s torn, Even if the night feels worn, Let our feet forget the ache, And our hearts the paths they take. Let us twirl through heavy rain, Find rhythm even in pain, For life was made to be felt, Not just endured, but deeply dwelt. So dance when no one claps, Dance through triumphs and mishaps, For every step, fast or slow, Is a freedom we bestow.

I wish I had it all figured out, But I'm stuck in the middle of the road, Confused between left and right, Unable to choose between sweet and savour. I wish I had it all figured out, To know what to hold and what to let go, To understand myself a little more, What I truly love, and what I don’t. I wish I had it all figured out, So I could smile without a mask, And walk freely without the weight Of the scars I quietly hide. I wish I had it all figured out, So I could bring joy, not pain, To brighten someone’s cloudy day, Without the fear of hurting again. But the truth is, I don’t. I’m learning as I grow, Taking one uncertain step On a road I do not fully know. Maybe that’s what life is, Not always having a plan, But finding strength in not knowing, And still doing the best I can. So even if I stumble now, And carry doubts I cannot name, I’ll keep walking with hope in my heart, And love myself just the same.

A Crybaby is not always weak, She just feels the world a little louder, Maybe, a little deeper. She hugs with her whole soul, She breaks silently in corners unseen. They say, “Be strong,” as if softness is a sin, But strength wears many faces, Sometimes, it looks like trembling lips Still daring to speak kindness in return. She doesn’t cry for attention,  She cries because she pays attention. To pain, to beauty, to the things others miss, To voices unheard and wounds unkissed. She is not weak for feeling it all, She is powerful, Because she survives it all, And still believes in love. She sometimes bursts out, Out of pain, ending up hurt, But she rises up and learns, Learns from her mistakes. She knows that she is flawed, But she tries.  At the end of the day, She is just a sensitive human after all.

Every handwriting is a confession, A silent unveiling of self. Each one, in its own way, Truely is beautiful.  Not always to the world, but always to someone, To a loved one who knows the story, Between the lines and its flaws. Some scripts are gentle, Pleasing like a soft breeze across calm waters. Others are wild, Chaotic like crashing waves With ink that forgets to follow the rules. I began with neatness, With letters that stood like soldiers in a row. Over time, it crumbled, the lines faltered, the strokes wavered. My words lost their shape. But then, quietly, they found their rhythm again. I never truly had a handwriting, just strokes and sketches, drawings of words that barely knew themselves. Until one day, I traced the lines back to me. And in that steady form, I met my own reflection. Now, I hold it with pride. Imperfect, evolving, but unmistakably mine. It may not be flawless, But it is honest, It is me, My treasure, My fingerprint, My deepest identity. To you, maybe rand...

People say heart is fragile, Easy to crush and easier to rush, To the deepest ocean of lively tears And to the happiest islands of fairy treats, I love it all, I know it all, Says the very heart, It beats with hope and tropes, Maybe it's all an illusion, Maybe it's illiterate with reality, Because all it knows, the poor old heart: Is to sing and be free, To trust and not be rude, Reality strikes and tears rushes down. I call it crispy like the snack, Thin, easy and breakable, Crumbling bits of easy pieces, Just like a shattered glass More like, One broken heart. It is crumbled, crusty and left, After realising it is not full, But just a drop of an ocean.

  Words have the power to brighten someone’s day or completely ruin it. They can uplift a person or leave them in sorrow. That’s why we must be mindful of every word we speak. Unfortunately, I learned this lesson the hard way. One afternoon, my friend and I went to the stalls to grab something to eat. As we arrived, I saw her talking to someone she hadn’t been on good terms with for a while. Without thinking much, I blurted out, “You guys started talking again? Wow!” My voice was louder than I had intended, and the impact was immediate. Both of their smiles faded, and an awkward silence settled between us. It was then that I realized they weren’t exactly friends again; they were merely being polite to each other. Guilt settled in as I watched them exchange glances, clearly uncomfortable. My words had unintentionally exposed a fragile situation, possibly making things worse instead of better. I wanted to take back what I said, to clarify that I didn’t mean any harm, but the damage h...

Pearl+Lena corner vlog link: Vlog interview: Books vs Movies Pages vs. Pictures: Why Are More Young People Choosing the Screen Over the Page? Last semester, I had the chance to interview people from different backgrounds for my CA 2 vlogging assignment. I asked them a simple question: Do you prefer books or movies? To my surprise, most of them chose movies. I expected at least a few more people to side with books, but apart from Megha and Libi, almost everyone leaned toward films. Even Pearlina’s friends had the same response. This made me stop and think. If I had asked this question ten years ago, the answer might have been different. Books were once the go-to escape, the doorway to new worlds, and the source of so many childhood dreams. But today, movies have taken that place for a lot of people. As someone who loves both, I couldn’t help but wonder: What is it about movies that books can’t quite offer? Why Are Movies Winning Over Books? Super Fast Express We live in a world where ev...

It’s not about the roses, Not the petals soft as whispers, Nor the scent that lingers like a dream, Fading in the morning light. It’s about the hands that picked them, The quiet pause before the gift, The unspoken hope in trembling fingers, Will this make you smile? It’s not about the grandeur, Not moonlit serenades or diamond rings, But the way your name sounds When said with love, The way silence hums between us, Full of things we never need to say. It’s not about the roses. It never was. It’s about the love that stays Long after the flowers fade.

Those beautiful smiles, A powerful reflection, Love, care, and affection, Truly portrayed in the proud faces. Eyes that glisten with stories untold, Hearts that shine in hues of gold. Watching me rise, step by step, Holding my dreams with hands they kept. Their voices echo, strong and bright, Whispering faith in darkest nights. Through every fall, their hands remain, Lifting me up, easing the pain. The pride they wear, so pure, so true, In every word, in all I do. For I am their hope, their endless light, A dream fulfilled, a future bright.

There was a time when pink felt like a forced identity, something the world expected me to love simply because I was a girl. It was everywhere, from the clothes gifted to me as a child to the stationary sets labeled "for girls." It felt limiting, as if I was being boxed into an idea of femininity. Pink felt powerless, fragile and limited. So, I resisted. I distanced myself from pink, almost as if rejecting it would prove that I was more than just a stereotype. Before, I used to love Barbie dolls and during this 'pink hate era' I acted like I hated it. I simply didn't want it to define who I was-- Fragile, weak and trapped plastic.  But then, something changed. Maybe it was growing up, maybe it was realizing that strength and softness can coexist. One day, I saw pink not as a label but as a color, just like any other, but with a charm of its own. It was warm, nostalgic, and full of quiet confidence. The same color I once dismissed became the shade of my favorite s...

This is a personal book review of Red Verses by Pearlina Gracelyn. Pearlina is my best friend, but did I truly know how deep her thoughts ran? No. While reading this book, it felt as if I was not just turning the pages but unveiling the chapters of her life. It’s raw, real, and straight from her heart, something you can feel with every word. The words are beautifully yet simply crafted, resonating deeply with the reader. This is not just a collection of poems but an outpouring of emotions printed onto paper. I could sense how much courage and vulnerability it must have taken for her to write these pieces, and that makes the book even more profound. I don’t know if it was mere coincidence, but I truly loved how the poem "My Wedding Day" ended with the verse "As husband and wife." That single line, placed on a separate page, made it so much more impactful. The simplicity of dedicating one page to such a significant line brought out the true essence of the poem’s subje...

  The sun brushes against winter's chill, a quiet warmth that holds no urgency. Beneath bare branches and silver skies, it lingers softly, turning frost to fleeting gold. A pause in the season's breath, a whisper of something tender, not meant to stay. You close your eyes, letting the light settle on your skin— a gift without demand. In this stillness, you understand the language of the sun, its fleeting promise, its silent offering of presence.