A prestigious affair

In the chaotic silence of the classroom, two solitary individuals strode up to the teacher's desk, in vile murk, discreetly concealed beneath a deceptive sheet of confidence. Neither looked at each other, the entire class stared at both while the teacher choose to let her sight fall on either, with that 'either' varying from time to time.
Those two pent-up souls were the final candidates contesting for the post of the class President – Martina Homes and Peter White. In the eyes of the teacher, Mrs. Sullivan, it was Martina who seemed to stand as a valid candidate, with all her goodness and talents to speak for themselves, for she was indeed one of those polite, yet confident and popular kids of Austin's college, while on the other hand Peter was a thorough ruffian, unpopular and disliked, in short, as the others of the school had labeled him, he was the school bully.
The two contestants delivered their vote appeal speeches and walked back to their respective seats amidst loud applauds, after exchanging a few hard looks. However what seemed strikingly cold was the devilish quietness that surrounded Mart, who although was Martina's twin, had failed to match her standards in any field. Martina had definitely set the bars too high. The silent mischief maker that he'd always been, made it considerably easy for anyone to realize that some devilish thought was taking its final forms, in his impish mind.
As the clock struck 2 o' clock, the class dispersed for the day, but while all the fourth graders trotted back home, Mart followed Peter. In the corner of the Lewis Lane, which was where he could cease the first convenient chance to have a word with Peter, Mart approached the bully and said,
"Hey Peter! Listen up, what if I help you win this election?"
"Tell me how would you do that?"
"That'll be a piece of cake on my part. There are always several advantages of being a convincing speaker!", chuckled Mart.
"Goodie-Good. I'm prepared to give you whatever you ask in return, of course, anything that would be within my limits."
"I'll help you win the elections and you will give me your video game."
"That's neat"
"Wait... may be a hundred bucks per month"
"A little too much, I say. For how many months?"
"As long as you remain the President. It's a prestigious affair after all!"
"Deal"
"Yeah..."
With this the two parted.
A week later, the classroom bore an air of austere silence. Indeed, it was a serious ambiance, with streaks of significant tension among the kids. One after the other, the children poured their carefully folded chits into the secret ballot. There in an isolated corner, stood the frowning boy, Mart. And Mrs. Sullivan announced the long-awaited results.
The elected president of the class was... Master Peter White.
Two months and three weeks later, Peter White resigned. It was not because of the growing burden of responsibilities but of the hundred bucks per month, which unfortunately for him, yet fortunately for the class, Peter couldn't afford!

From a Rich man's Diary -

When you know you are drowning in opulence so very titanic that an eternity would not be a success at swilling it all, you could well afford to bestow your pensive mind with the leisure of maundering through a plethora of mellow reminiscences under a caramel sun. My reader, I believe I just did the same. Reminiscences though evanescent are charming affairs – they blissfully sing a song of a life time and all the whims, smiles and tears it gives refuge to. But you see, mine are adorned with a special charm, the charm that douses the air with giddy amusement as it sings a fairy tale voyage of a rag picker to his fortunes.
It wasn't my first tryst with the ivory moon against the grotesque darkness of the sky and the grey silence of the pavements, upon which she smiled. It couldn't simply be for any rag picker of Victorian London and as you can now assume, I was no exception. These neat patches of concrete beside the insignificant Lance road were always my silken beds. But that certain night, they seemed silkier still, by grace of the encounter with fortune, I had earlier in the day. A change is the spice of life, and the mundanity of the life I was leading, sure kept killing the sang-froid in me. I was in search of a slightly better job and higher wages – a very natural instinct for a meager lad. Lady luck had smiled upon my unfortunate self while I had been rummaging the rubbish heaps that stood at the further corner of the road for an old worn out wallet. Wallets in the rubbish heaps may seem useless but they often make you richer by a couple of pennies. However, it wasn't the wallet but a maimed cardboard sheet that caught the attention of my sight. It read – "Full time servants need. Please contact Mr. Dominick Calvert for further information. 876-E3, Boris Lane, South Kensington,"in an ostentatious red. Well, that was all I needed... a modest wage and a respectable vocation to offer it.
Within a few unconscious hours, the orbed maiden of the night died and for its ashes, like a phoenix arose another caramel sphere. I didn't whine over the loss of a beautiful night; instead, without depriving myself of time, raced down to the end of the street, crossed a few lanes and roads and finally stood before my dream destination, ogling at the Calvert mansion, like a blissfully ignorant toddler would ogle at a candy parlor. It had the mediocre beauty any palace would behold. As I entered the mansion hall, the incoherent whisperings of the two guards made me wonder. Mind you, though a rag picker, I always kept myself presentable and my aplomb high, so probably they were musing over it.
"Oh Robert! Back aren't you? Freshen yourself, you look a mess my boy!", sprang a pleasant voice from nowhere.
Mr. Calvert himself, wasn't it? I pondered over the intentions behind him addressing me so very affectionately. Unsurprisingly no one did explain it to me and keeping my mouth shut for good I enjoyed the bouquets of luxurious cares and unexpected affections that were bestowed on me for the rest of the day, the day that followed and the next and so on. My new quasar had left my mind swim in a farrago of perplexity, joys and more perplexities, until one fine eve when a servant of the Calvert mansion approached me and mumbled, "Listen Mister, your luck's swell I tell you. You sure hit the looks of the man's nephew. Old Man's a pleasant thing, he's no one except the nephew, I said just now, but the boy was a menace. A real spoilt brat I tell you. Hush! Listen here, the oldie's left all his fortune to him. Unfortunate lad, he died last week, but old man doesn't seem to get it down his throat. He thinks he's alive, thinks you're his Robert! Anyways, great going fellow. Thumbs up. You’ve got a neat fortune awaiting you!"
Weeks passed and so did the years. And as inevitable, Old Calvert embraced an eternal sleep, leaving me in an arrant euphoria that basked in an endless magnificence. Occasionally, a zephyr of guilt sweeps across my whole being, cursing me for keeping the pleasant old man in oblivion. But the candor in the fact that he got deceived instead of me exactly deceiving him, gives me an arcane solace. At times, chimeras in few vales, assume a reality and makes some lives beautiful. Life is not always a sordid ocean of strangling tangibility and redundant encumbrances; sometimes, its also an enchanting fairy-tale where a rag picker picks up a fortune from a rubbish heap, a pauper becomes a prince and misfortunes become the pleasantest of fortunes.
Old Mr. Calvert – did he ever know? I couldn't know whether he was aware of the truth or not, all I could know was that he was a victim of Alzheimer's disease. Anyways, I presume the latter discovery answers it all.

This was a page from the beloved diary of a certain rich man, in Victorian London who encountered his fortunes in a magnificently surprising manner.

Symphony of Love

A spoonful of moonlight
A slice of fluttering silence,
Words imprisoned and all so
Drenched in a lingering essence -
The forbidden essence of love.

Some words are mingling,
With the song of my heart,
Some fading, shying away,
Yet willfully reluctant to part
With the sonnet of the soul.

There's a shower of the petals of
Undying confessions and love,
Amidst notes of an unsung song
Floating in bliss, with a dream above.
Of embedding you in my heart.

A sweet insanity it so is, and
I'm not unaware of its acrimony
But the smell of summer mirth,
Foils me from leaving this symphony.
Ah! The rhythm of invincible summer.

I've assayed hard to decipher the
Euphony that its warmth sings,
But even the sound of its silence
With it, mellow reminiscences brings.
A silence, mellifluous beyond belief.

If I had to paint love on a canvas,
It would be all so artlessly obscure,
For love's a sane insanity, that would
Arrest all mingled colours with its lure.
So sane, that I'm also its prisoner.

A beautiful melancholy or muffled
Raindrops of mystifying serenity
Or bohemian thoughts that take me
To my romantic neverland of amenity-
Ah! Love conspires to saunter undefined.

But life has conspired to capture
Me in the cocoon of this sweet vice;
Not complaining, but relishing the wine,
Tonight I'm in my divine paradise…
Hail the scent of love's exotic wine!

A cadenza of life

The grandiose abstract opus of
An ethereal euphony of candor,
That no flowing sheet of canvas
Nor muslin enrobed in splendor,
Would ever thrive in embedding.
No gust of the unruffled maiden
Nor blaze of the golden sphere,
Could ever define nor enlighten.

Worthy not is an illumination of
Its undefined mystical existence.
Perhaps it is a voyage across two
Worlds of obscurity, vastly dense.
Or a dream carved on the walls of
Paradise, destined to mingle away
Into the heavenly aroma, whilst
Dusk hurls its shadow on the day.
Perhaps it resembles the essence of
Ever-flowing streams, liable to perish,
Or any of myriad other assessments
Earthlings offer and dotingly cherish.
If such resemblances deem essential
They may be held out to linger behind
Drowning in irrelevance, as a consequence
Of the undying folly of the mortal mind.

Dancing on shimmering amethyst petals,
The fortune fairies flout on the mortals
For assaying to reign over their
A liberty offered merely to the immortals!
When they who rule the sapphire sphere,
Choose not to define but live, learn and strive
Why do we earthlings feign ascendancy,
And assay defining, rather than realizing life?

Blooming rationality...

Life is a composite of four words, two realms of fantasy and reality, and some smiles and sighs. It's more of an ostentatious abstract painting, that doesn’t need a definition, but needs to be deciphered; and all it takes to decipher the code of life is a slice of common sense and a whole lot of logic and rationality. For life is to be understood and lived realizing it's worth, not lived by merely defining the live we live.
There lies a thin line of discrimination, defining the two realms of fantasy and reality and erasing this lie would muddle you up as to on which bank do you stand. So, what does it take to possess this whole lot of rationality, as we've put it? What does it take to realize this tantalizing essence of life and be on the right bank? Life can't be possessed, for it saunters into us by dint of its own whims and fancies and departs in the very similar manner. So, terming it tantalizing wouldn't be phony. What does it take... what? Muslin sheets of well-crafted success, an ocean of bliss, dearth of any fleeting grief, the health of King Henry, the eighth or the wealth of Midas? No... the Wisdom of King Solomon is all that you need, and any sane soul would proudly assure you that! To put it in bare British, knowledge and knowledge in true sense is all you need in the twenty-first century, to really live life, that is let yourself live life and not allow the ship of destiny set sail and drive you to the bank she desires. Framing it into one precise and highly appropriate word – 'Education', which is the call of the day.
This enchanting word that lies as the secret of the world's prosperity, unlocks the basic necessities of the human mind, of a rational creature. Basic necessities usually refer to shelter, food and clothing, yet that bears allusion to the physical and not the mental concept of a rational being. Necessities of the mind would be the crystal clear answers as to how to face the scenario he lives against, understand the life he lives and render his own meaning to it, face the world he dwells in, express his own notions as well as realize the others of the 'he', the 'she' and the 'they' but most notably, the significance of the word, 'me'. The slice of education while shimmer on his soul, with the pride of perfection. It's melt away to seep into the individual's soul and answer his burning question of the meaning of his own life, need of existence and definitely the purpose. Education will answer him his own significance and hold of himself and his senses.
So, this is the mystic lure of education. The essence that binds reasons and indispensable reasons as too... the essence that binds wandering souls to life itself!

A gist of yesterday dissolving in my today

Questions and questions, some unanswered and some left unquestioned itself! Every heart has an emotion and every eye a motion – yet here I stand today as some solicit poetry scribbled on a spoonful of sand, destined to mingle away into nothingness, when night casts her shadow of obscurity and murk. They say, there lies a thin line between the reality and the fantasy… once erased you never know where you lie. That is, as per my notions, you get yourself mingling up your dreams and reality, emphasizing on dreams, ignoring the real as well as leaving dreams as dreams and not molding it into actions.
Numb and lost am I now… Perhaps I’ve never questioned, perhaps never pondered over it as well, yet I plunge myself into the essence of this placid early spring day and enquire of my dreams.
Yes, I've dreamt. I've dreamt and lived my dreams, dreamt and left them as mere dreams also! It's only when I won that I smiled, least it were tears of grief, exhausted in any trivial loss resulting in a significant loss of sangfroid. Well aware am I that these beads and crystal clear pearls of turbulent emotions no mirth for tomorrow, rather deepen the wounds of today; yet any trivial failure compels me to cry my heart out in some corner of room, in an attempt to blow away the murk in a corner of my heart. It's definitely easy to smile amidst mirth, never grief... just as it's easy to spread your wings and fly along with the gusts of wind, rather than against them.
Still then, live... live to the fullest... live for the today in hand, live to see a smiling tomorrow, not to regret and brood over the dead past. 'Forget the past for the past is dead'. This is something whose significance I am least aware of, allow me to rephrase, I am reluctant make myself aware of. Don't they forget that people live for certain fragments that the past has buried with the flow of time, certain memories of it that don't pose but essentially are the exalter of life? As for the unpleasant moments, forgetting would be a lame option. Let us give ourselves a chance to trust again, relive the wrong times yet without the wrong, and restore our fading confidence over matters that didn't deem it essential to allow our emotions to consider it.
After all, that's supposed to be life, an unpaved circle – it starts from a point, saunters away, but dissolves into its beginning, which is the ultimatum. So, probably, the petals of love and wrath shattered within are each of the same demeanor, that's beginning to end in the same point and enclosing a whole lot of unfathomable intensified emotions, in the process. At times, life seems like some enigmatic race amidst forbidden fantasies. Well, perhaps this enigma is life – the most emphatic word in the nothingness of space.

Blood and ink...

The strike of a sword can annihilate life from lands, drench the soil with innocent blood and reduce mighty kingdoms to mere ashes. The venom of this blood thirsty creature can destroy almost anything and everything that stumbles across its path… But Alas! That's it! That is all it is ever capable of. It's fame is by dint of its notoriety - nothing but a weapon of destruction and discord is what it can be defined as. It can stir waves of resentment, grief and revenge, but never a slice of realization. It can ignite the flame of wrath and rage wars but never skim across the crystals of peace, not to mention of controlling and bringing about a positive change. Unsurprisingly, we mortals bow to the sword, but believe me and believe your hearts, it's out of sheer fright of the wrong, not respect for the right. That's because the sword conquer lands, it’s not an instrument of the true philosophy of life.
It doesn't require an Excalibur to permit the dawn of realization; all it needs is a piece of paper and a bottle of ink. To jut it down precisely, all the world needs today to restore its lost sanity and cooperation as well as enhance its prosperity is the motion of the slim metallic beauty-the pen. Swords fight battles, win triumphant victories and conquer endless stretches of land, while a single pen may ignite the war, concentrate its intensity or for that matter, even subdue it into feathers of peace. The words it carves are more than enough to convince the minds of people in any direction it desires. The miraculous powers of this insurmountable pen are definitely victorious over those of the sword, for written words hit harder than the strike of the swords and imprint a never-fading mark on the minds.