Where The Lost Thoughts Go

(This is a story (edited version) I wrote for Diamond’s Photostory contest. It was very much an impulsive write and I apologise in advance if it appears nonsensical).

I saw him from a distance. It was a mere glimpse, but I registered so much of his face in that tiny fraction of a second. He had a lost expression as he sat staring into space. As I approached him silently, I searched for what it was that had his gaze enslaved.

It was a solitary cloud.

It looked like a thick white blanket that had been rolled and crushed repeatedly, until it had frayed ends and stray threads in all the wrong places. I couldn’t get over how incredibly magnificent it looked, in the messy state it appeared to be in – at first glance, its beauty was in all, that was wrong about it. It was far too different from all the shapeless clouds I’d doodled away when I let my thoughts wandered.

“Hey Sandy.” I’d been so dazed I didn’t notice I’d been standing next to him the whole time. “Hey.” It’s a half-hearted greeting, but I can see he hasn’t heard me. I sit down beside him and we continue to stare at the lonely cloud that appears faintly translucent from the last rays of the setting sun. “Would you miss me if I float away, Sandy?” The question hits me from out of the blue and I’m disoriented at what he’s asked. Did he actually say, ‘float’?

He turns around to look at me and I know he’s searching for an answer in my eyes, one that I’m afraid my brain can’t formulate into words. “You can’t float“, I say.

“I could with balloons.” It irks me how quickly he replies. The fact that he’s actually thought it through, that he anticipated what I would say, annoys and touches me at the same time.

Of course, I would miss you. All of us would.” That puts him at ease for a second before he tenses up again and sits rigid staring at the last few wisps of the cloud, he’s given so much of his attention to. I suddenly catch sight of a few balloons next to him and the realisation that we’re sitting on the roof hits me like a bus. He can’t have been serious.

“Don’t you think it’s unfair they’re born to soar the skies, that they get to break themselves and stitch themselves back again and disappear and not be asked why they left?” He’s not himself today, but I can hear a pained love in his voice. He just wants answers.

Life is unfair.” I know my answer is too open-ended and I know it’s not what he wanted to hear as I see his face scrunch up in thoughtful anger. “But it’s still unfair?” He wants me to say yes. “Not to them, it isn’t.”

I feel myself losing patience, I don’t understand where he’s going with this and I can’t walk away, not now that I’ve seen the balloons. “The balloons can’t take your weight.” I blurt out. He stares at me again and it just hurts so much to see him in wordless agony struggling to convey what his thoughts are screaming.

Photo by diya-pokharel on Unsplash

Cloud, are you okay?” I ask, trying to count the balloons. He stands up and hands me a balloon. “I think it’s cruel I was named for a fluff of white that goes around exploring all day and here I am stuck with no place to fly away to, when the voices inside demand a space to be let out.”

He starts blowing his balloon and beckons me to follow suit. I hold an inflated one out to him with a questioning eye and he shrugs as he ties their strings together. “They’re not for me”, he whispers. We blow up balloons till there’s enough to fill our home.

He takes out a few scraps of paper from his coat pocket and secures them at the end of each balloon. I can see something scribbled on each of them but they’re folded and hidden from view. Once all the balloons have paper scraps of their own, he hands a few of them to me and looks me straight in the eye and says, “Set them free.”

We watch as the balloons float away into the sky without a word of thanks or a farewell stare. ”I felt bad we were keeping them in a drawer when they had so much potential. It felt wrong we were condemning themselves to a sedentary life when they were created to soar. I figured I might send them away with a message or two for the clouds they pass through.”

Seriously? He was guilty about the balloons in his desk drawer? My anger vanishes like the cloud did, as I see my brother staring at the last few balloons. The sky’s a strange tint of royal blue speckled with wispy clouds and an occasional star. For a brief moment, I’m suddenly made aware of the thoughts and efforts he must have channeled into organsing this little escape, because his little heart couldn’t bear the fact that we were ‘holding a few balloons captive.’

He looks perfectly content, his skin giving off a slight glow against the blue sky and we watch as the last of the balloons disappear at the horizon. “You have no place to fly away to, Cloud. But you have family who’ll brave any storm for you.” He turns to me and I go on, “Like the stars that are always there but never seen on sun-soaked mornings, by your side brother, will we stand through thick and thin.”

Dear clouds,
Please take our worries with you the next time you drop by, and set them free. Keep these balloons safe till they arrive at the place the lost thoughts go.
Cloud Star Stone

And now, meet the siblings of this story!


Source: Build A Bears Furever


Thoughtfully yours,
Introverted Thoughts aka D


“I’m done.” Her house keys landed on the entryway dresser for the final time. She noted how the jingle made its usual ‘welcome home’ sound…

Yet she was running in the other direction.

“I’m finished.” He pulled up in his tattered red station wagon, the homiest sight that could have welcomed her. The screen door clicked, an outcry sounded from the kitchen, her jean jacket hugged her protectively.

The single suitcase she toted was fastened to the car roof in the same amount of time it had taken her to decide she was through.

Image from Unsplash

“You’re finished?” Her best friend raised his eyebrows, so nonchalantly, like she was merely deciding which soda she wanted to order.

The seatbelts clicked, the gear shift went into drive, the road was wide open before her.

“Never again.” She flicked on her sunglasses, avoiding the rear view like a seasoned pro. Her smile reflected mirth seasoned with regret in the glare of the noonday sun. “I… am…”

His fingers stretched forward, mirroring the sun’s rays over the auburn steering wheel as he said: “Free.”

Being set free from the chains that bind us come from a beautiful combination of important factors:

  • One or more persons caring for us.
  • The desire to be set free.
  • The legal and situational means to do so.
  • The ingenuity and bravery to leave optional pain behind.
  • Opportunity and timing.
  • Hope for the future.
Image from Unsplash
What does being free mean? I see it as freedom from our circumstances, the ability to navigate our emotions, and the strength to live our lives in such a way that our surroundings do not define us.  

There are greater things for us on the other side of our fear, hesitation, and greatest doubts. There’s a beautiful life we can lead that does not include anxiety, worry, and not trusting ourselves. It begins with the ability to recognize the actions we can take today, guiding us toward freedom with every small step.

WHATEVER IS HOLDING YOU BACK IN LIFE IS WORTHY OF YOUR ATTENTION. You can seek freedom from any number of things. Pursue it with everything you are! Do right by yourself, care for those who love you, and live every day seeking the peace and freedom you can live and reside in. I love you! Don’t ever give up 💕

It’s about time I introduced myself! Hi there 👋 I’m Maggie! I’m a blogger who’s passionate about writing, all things creative, and making a positive impact on the world! I have absolutely loved getting to share my writing on D’s blog today. Thank you so much for reading it!

After I saw her post inviting others to participate in her Thoughts Gallery, with the intention of showcasing write-ups that leave an impact, this story hit me!! I immediately got out my phone, typed the whole thing out, then got to writing the guest post in full.

There was so much more I wanted to say in Free than I did. I intentionally left out many of the little details that would have fit the story, but I realized what a beautiful opportunity Free gives me to talk about freedom!

I want you, the reader, to hang on every word of Free and find yourself in it. What’s her story? What’s YOUR story? What is she seeking freedom from? Where is she going? All of these poised questions and more are the beginning of what I hope to be a journey of exploration for you. Fill in all of the details and understand Free in your own way!

I can’t wait to chat with you guys in the comments, and while you’re at it, check out the rest of D’s incredible blog! Random Specific Thoughts is seriously one of the coolest poetry blogs around 😍❤️

Thank you, thank you again for reading!


The Pen’s Lament

(please click here to view this post on the site along with the podcast)

The Pen's Lament | Short Prose Random Specific Thoughts

Please click here to check out the rest of this series!

Words make you think. Music makes you feel. A song makes you feel a thought.
― Yip Harburg

With every word I pen down, I see how your innate melody distorts them to fall in line with the tune you were born with. In all its splendour and glory, I see your music seeping into the hearts of the grieved and happy. The music whose essence I create. As I write and scratch off words, I see you in the distance, giddy with the impatience of not being called sooner. I see you held prisoner at the threshold of the paper that shelters your would-be lyrics while I struggle to find that perfect word that sends pangs of warmth and sorrow flying to every listener, kind enough to lend you their ears.

My heart grieves with every syllable I give birth to, on this magical night, knowing they won’t be mine after you enslave them to your tantalizing beauty of rhythm. I can feel myself running out of ink while my metal nib continues to write and scratch words over and over. Oh, how I wish I could make them sing for me like you will.

Through parchment after parchment, you sit and watch as I grow wearier and wearier exhausting myself to hunt for that perfect word we both know doesn’t exist yet. Word after word, syllable after syllable, period after period; oh how we toil through the moonlit night! I’m at the last verse now and I hear your heart flutter with the joy of completion as I admire my handiwork.

“Won’t you help to sing these songs of freedom?”
― Bob Marley

Source: Pinterest

I find myself letting out a long, sad sigh of relief as I put that period at the end of the last word of the final verse. I survey my piece of work and watch as you soar into the words, breathing life into every nook and corner of every word. I take my place on the chipped wooden box reserved for me and listen as you’re sung, every word falling into a place of its own. I listen as the music drifts and drips down my soul, seeping into my heart and enslaving my mind forevermore.

My soul twirls to the rhythm of the song, you make the skies sing tonight.

Oh, dear song, how I wish I could write you all over again.

Perhaps it is how we are made; perhaps words of truth reach us best through the heart, and stories and songs are the language of the heart.
― Stephen R. Lawhead, Merlin

Thoughtfully yours,
Introverted Thoughts aka D

Quick note: My friend, Diamond @ Build A Bears Furever is hosting a photostory contest to observe her fourth blogiversary! The best part is, you get to choose which of her bears play your characters (if you want) and believe me when I say, she’s got all sorts of bears with different outlooks and personalities! I’d absolutely love it if you could check out this post and participate!

The Puppet Heart

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.
― Martin Luther King Jr., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches

He found her on the roadside, many thoughts ago. Like a flower frozen in spring was she, with blond ringlets and stark blue eyes. He could see her story the moment he laid eyes on her. She had been brought into a home loved, she was used and finally discarded with. His mind was penning her destiny as he inspected her, rotating her ever so slowly so he could get a good look at her features.

He took her home, cleaned her and changed her into clean clothes. She looked 6, but neglect had taken years off the fragile child. He set her up on ledge and shone a soft amber lamp on her dainty face. As the bell tolled midnight, the man sat and toiled through the night to sketch her pretty face.

Photo by Susanne Jutzeler on Pexels.com

As the world was beginning to be bathed in the gentle glow of a new day, the streets saw a lonely man and his newly acquired treasure walking barefoot, plastering posters on walls high and low. He was charging a penny per person but it had been weeks since he had had a meal or a drink.

He held on close to the broken doll and prayed children would want to know her story as badly as he wanted to be the one telling it.

Into a little shed were they seen going into, a box and a princess came out, a man almost lost under the huge box shuffled stolidly and set the box on the street where children were known to stop for a popsicle or two. Into the box did the princess go, the man on the floor and the show was off to a start with an audience of a thrush and two early worms and one cat. The man distorted his voice to resemble that of a child to say:

“On winter’s death was this story birthed
As a little human decided he was in need of a daughter.
Needles and fabric were summoned,
Blue buttons and golden yarn.
Silk frills and sapphire eyes were brought in.

Day and night did my father toil
As the cuckoo sang on the second morning
With a child’s touch, was I brought to life.
Days and years did I live to be
Her sole advisor and friend.
On nights when thunder rattled the earth,
I held her in my arms and
And sang her to sleep.

The child fell prey to an evil I was safe from.
On growing up, she lost sight of life
And I was dumped in the shed I was created,
Only my father was no longer there to breathe new life.

On streets and foster homes, did I die the rest of my life
For the world sees not the heart of a puppet
But it’s beauty that age takes away.”

Here, a gentle whisper, unlike the forced childlike voice that spoke till now was heard.

“For the child that said heaven is a toy store,
Bless you, darling.
I shall welcome you home
And hold you close till your heart breathes in peace.”

Photo by Flora Westbrook on Pexels.com

As the overhead sun bore witness to the little souls dropping their precious pennies and waiting to give the puppeteer a hug, the angel of death had just finished a song of his own making and watched as the poor man nodded off, to a slumber, not of Earth. The little child clung to his hand as his soul went in search of what dreams called home.

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.
― Robert A. Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

This was inspired by a stuffed monkey that’s been laying around our house for a good while. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to write but it ended up being a tale that (hopefully) portrays a puppeteer’s tender love towards an abandoned doll he found on the roadside. I didn’t want the ending to be tragic but it just seemed fitting that telling the girl’s story after all she went through, set the story-teller free of all earthly obligations and seemingly breathed life into the puppet girl as well. I’m not sure how this comes across in general but I hope you enjoyed reading!

aforementioned monkey
Christened Mr. Pink Monk by Evin, stuffie photo approved by Diamond (thank you so much, guys!)

Speaking of love, I wish you all a very happy Valentine’s Day! Love comes in all shapes and forms; be it for a person, a pet or a toy, love is making the bright side of life shine stronger!

Photo by Gabby K on Pexels.com

Thoughtfully yours,
Introverted Thoughts aka D


One never reaches home,’ she said. ‘But where paths that have an affinity for each other intersect, the whole world looks like home, for a time.
― Hermann Hesse, Demian: Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend

Where the skies rain beauty,
Where the trees shed joy
And man bleeds greed,
Peace, we await your return.

Where destiny’s hopes
Are written in the cosmic fabric
For the sun who radiates dreams,
Fate, bless us with your mercy.

Where artists bleed on
Pastures and skies,
Magnifying life in crimson glory,
Love, be who you are.

Where souls are cleansed
With the morning dew and
Autumn rains,
Goodness reigns over one and all.

As we approach our disintegration into
Stories and stardust,
As we add a glow to our fading fantasies,
Home, here we are.

I live in my own little world. But its ok, they know me here.
― Lauren Myracle

Thoughtfully yours,
-Introverted Thoughts aka D


Confined to the
Shackles of societal norms,
Bound to a life
Etched in stone,
And prevented from
Exercising her basic rights,
She is suppressed
And her voice silenced.
To her,
Freedom is but a stranger.

“It was cruel. Like opening a birdcage to let the bird fly out, whilst all the while it’s tethered by the leg, and freedom is only an illusion.”

― Laini Taylor, Strange the Dreamer