Tag Archives: Instastories

Regrets & Regards

Let’s think about regret. Decisive people rarely seem to have regrets. As a decisive person myself, I weigh what a situation is worth & if dithering will help. Regret seems to not be worth it. Who has time to regret the past when a lesson can be gleaned for the future? FOMO life doesn’t allow for regrets.

Yet you may come upon a time when even your speediest, most decisive self isn’t able to escape regret. You call it age catching up. You name it fear or cynicism. You realise that you are no different from others trying to escape people and feelings they don’t like. Your nemesis is regret. Escapism always looks like running away, no matter what the cause.

I am sitting in a garden of regret now. I call it a garden because I’m realising this is a feeling, an emotion that grows in me, from me. I’m trying to keep from bolting. I’m looking around to examine what is growing around me. Blossoming & festering are two words for the same act.

I thought we regret the bad things in our lives. But I’m finding regret in the times I’ve trusted, the ones I’ve loved, the hopes I’ve nurtured. Honest self examination means allowing every possibility to exist. I must admit that regret grows even in the most decisive, courageous, responsibility-taking, careful self that I’ve created.

Regret means admitting there may have been better choices. It means acknowledging your decisions weren’t always best. It means accepting that you weren’t always your best self. And what of the selves that aren’t the best? They cannot be escaped or ignored. They are the bigger part of you. The ones enduring mistakes, making even more. The ones personifying the messiness of living. Of emotions, memories and navigating a way forward.

f I didn’t have these, my life would have been a straight trajectory from adolescence to death, choosing the most optimal roads, going to fixed destinations. The mistakes cost me time and effort and many rewards. In coping, I found other paths, other gifts I didn’t even consider, let alone work for.

Maybe regret is a reminder that living is never going to be a simple sequence of right decisions.

View this post on Instagram

REGRETS & REGARDS Let’s think about regret. Decisive people rarely seem to have regrets. As a decisive person myself, I weigh what a situation is worth & if dithering will help. Regret seems to not be worth it. Who has time to regret the past when a lesson can be gleaned for the future? FOMO life doesn't allow for regrets. Yet you may come upon a time when even your speediest, most decisive self isn’t able to escape regret. You call it age catching up. You name it fear or cynicism. You realise that you are no different from others trying to escape people and feelings they don’t like. Your nemesis is regret. Escapism always looks like running away, no matter what the cause. I am sitting in a garden of regret now. I call it a garden because I’m realising this is a feeling, an emotion that grows in me, from me. I’m trying to keep from bolting. I'm looking around to examine what is growing around me. Blossoming & festering are two words for the same act. I thought we regret the bad things in our lives. But I’m finding regret in the times I’ve trusted, the ones I’ve loved, the hopes I’ve nurtured. Honest self examination means allowing every possibility to exist. I must admit that regret grows even in the most decisive, courageous, responsibility-taking, careful self that I've created. Regret means admitting there may have been better choices. It means acknowledging your decisions weren't always best. It means accepting that you weren't always your best self. And what of the selves that aren't the best? They cannot be escaped or ignored. They are the bigger part of you. The ones enduring mistakes, making even more. The ones personifying the messiness of living. Of emotions, memories and navigating a way forward. If I didn't have these, my life would have been a straight trajectory from adolescence to death, choosing the most optimal roads, going to fixed destinations. The mistakes cost me time and effort and many rewards. In coping, I found other paths, other gifts I didn't even consider, let alone work for. Maybe regret is a reminder that living is never going to be a simple sequence of right decisions. 🎶: YESTERDAY – The Beatles #theideasmithy

A post shared by Ramya 🏊🏽‍♀️🌱📚 (@ideasmithy) on

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

A Garden of Abundance

I like the word ‘abundance’. It signifies so much more than wealth or any other kind of material possession. Abundance is not about owning at all. It is a state of mind, not a state of finances.

Feeling abundant is feeling like you are everything you need to be. The universe is being exactly as it should be . All things are okay and good and in harmony. It is a state of being undisturbed without that meaning unmoving. It is peacefulness that can exist in silence or noise alike.

I know the feeling of abundance even if I don’t always live in that mind state. My worries and feelings are things I carry in my head. Sometimes I get lost in them and forget that I’m always standing in a garden of abundance. Plants are a good reminder.

Any gardener knows a plant is a daily source of wisdom. It is a constant reminder of the miracle of life – how a seed can combine with mud, a little sunlight and water to make a paradise of colour and fragrance and good food. Gardens tell us how the beauty of life is in the fact that it is not forever. Standing among plants makes me feel abundant for being among and a part of this joyous, unstoppable, finite thing called living.

The image on the right is a tarot card called ‘9 of Pentacles’ and among other things, it represents abundance. When I saw myself in the photograph on the left, I thought how much like this card it was.

Remembering my state of abundance helps me move past things that usually slow me down like worry, anger, pain and regret. Feeling abundant allows me to experience these and still hold hope, joy and love for myself, for other people and the world. 

I hope you find your garden of abundance. 

View this post on Instagram

THE GARDEN OF ABUNDANCE I like the word 'abundance'. It signifies so much more than wealth or any other kind of material possession. Abundance is not about owning at all. It is a state of mind, not a state of finances. Feeling abundant is feeling like you are everything you need to be. The universe is being exactly as it should be . All things are okay and good and in harmony. It is a state of being undisturbed without that meaning unmoving. It is peacefulness that can exist in silence or noise alike. I know the feeling of abundance even if I don't always live in that mind state. My worries and feelings are things I carry in my head. Sometimes I get lost in them and forget that I'm always standing in a garden of abundance. Plants are a good reminder. Any gardener knows a plant is a daily source of wisdom. It is a constant reminder of the miracle of life – how a seed can combine with mud, a little sunlight and water to make a paradise of colour and fragrance and good food. Gardens tell us how the beauty of life is in the fact that it is not forever. Standing among plants makes me feel abundant for being among and a part of this joyous, unstoppable, finite thing called living. The second picture is a tarot card called '9 of Pentacles' and among other things, it represents abundance. When I saw this photograph, I thought how much like this card it was. Remembering my state of abundance helps me move past things that usually slow me down like worry, anger, pain and regret. Feeling abundant allows me to experience these and still hold hope, joy and love for myself, for other people and the world. I hope you find your garden of abundance. 📷: @anubha23 🎶: HUM HAIN RAHI PYAR KE – Kishore Kumar #theideasmithy #nature #naturelovers #naturephotography #greenhouse #greenlife #greenparent #garden #gardening #gardener #abundance #gratitude #mindfulness #mondays #mondaymotivation #motivation #nature_good #natureza #nature_photo #greenhouse

A post shared by Ramya 🏊🏽‍♀️🌱📚 (@ideasmithy) on

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

A Song Of Silence

What does loneliness sound like? 
A scream that no one seems to hear. Gasps that don’t make it past the throat. Sentences written in invisible ink. The redacted words on a page.

It’s feeling unwanted, unnecessary, irrelevent even. Then you remember. You still exist. The print under the graffiti, the face under the veil, the writing on discarded applications. The breaths you leave behind in desolate corridors hang in there, unobliterated. Loneliness can sound an awful lot like peace then.

Who are you when the screams die down, when the words fade? Maybe we are all lonely.

I found my insides erupt in rapture, during conversations about maths, punctuated with memories of every mood. And through everything a steady beat, because what else is mathematics but the joy of patterns, the collective staccato of beating hearts? Rhythm reminds you of the notes you only pretend don’t exist but you hear them in your head anyway. Always.

Afterwards, I walked in silence by myself, briefly entering conversations of eyes and lips while crossing roads and running an errand. Still on beat. The shrill taps leading the unheard booms.

Later, I read a book sitting in a bookshop. Periodically I’d look up, watching other people like myself, readers moving through bookshelves, each in a dance of their own thought streams. These were the skipped beats, the pauses that make up melody as much as the notes. 
The romance of this, is what drives musicians and writers to wax eloquent. It is the null state of mathematics, the shunyata of meditation.

Loneliness is its own song, when you learn to hear it.

View this post on Instagram

A SONG OF SILENCE What does loneliness sound like? A scream that no one seems to hear. Gasps that don't make it past the throat. Sentences written in invisible ink. The redacted words on a page. It's feeling unwanted, unnecessary, irrelevent even. Then you remember. You still exist. The print under the graffiti, the face under the veil, the writing on discarded applications. The breaths you leave behind in desolate corridors hang in there, unobliterated. Loneliness can sound an awful lot like peace then. Who are you when the screams die down, when the words fade? Maybe we are all lonely. I found my insides erupt in rapture, during conversations about maths, punctuated with memories of every mood. And through everything a steady beat, because what else is mathematics but the joy of patterns, the collective staccato of beating hearts? Rhythm reminds you of the notes you only pretend don't exist but you hear them in your head anyway. Always. Afterwards, I walked in silence by myself, briefly entering conversations of eyes and lips while crossing roads and running an errand. Still on beat. The shrill taps leading the unheard booms. Later, I read a book sitting in a bookshop. Periodically I'd look up, watching other people like myself, readers moving through bookshelves, each in a dance of their own thought streams. These were the skipped beats, the pauses that make up melody as much as the notes. The romance of this, is what drives musicians and writers to wax eloquent. It is the null state of mathematics, the shunyata of meditation. Loneliness is its own song, when you learn to hear it. 🎶: SOUND OF SILENCE – Simon & Garfunkel #theideasmithy #silence #loneliness #lonely #alone #aloneness #lonelynights #lonesome #peace #peaceful #peaceofmind #maths #mathematics #conversations #meditation #solitude

A post shared by Ramya 🏊🏽‍♀️🌱📚 (@ideasmithy) on

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

You Don’t Know Me

We’ve spoken. You’ve looked at me and I, at you. You probably thought of me later. Weeks or months later, remembering, wondering why you remembered. If that thought made you smile, and I think it did, yes, I’m that one. And if it worried you, don’t anymore. It was just my perfume, a light scent that you barely notice but it lingers. Just like me.

We’ve had a conversation. We both listened. We both heard. Except you were listening to a recording. And I was listening for the raw, rough notes of being human. I found it in your breaths that were too loud and the sighs that weren’t. I know how to do that. What you heard was just the white noise before a song begins and then you don’t notice it anymore. The song you wanted to sing, that you were always going to sing and I let you. I spoke a lot but I never said a thing.

We’ve touched in ways minor and dramatic. We’ve collided. We’ve danced. But you won’t catch my fingerprints anywhere in your life. Only inside your mind and maybe not even that. You never looked at my hands.

You may think this entails an understanding between us. That’s partly true. You see, I understand you. I wanted to. But you never dived beneath the surface, never peeled back a smile layer or listened beyond my words to my pauses. You don’t know me. You don’t know me at all. 

==============================================================

View this post on Instagram

YOU DON'T KNOW ME We've spoken. You've looked at me and I, at you. You probably thought of me later. Weeks or months later, remembering, wondering why you remembered. If that thought made you smile, and I think it did, yes, I'm that one. And if it worried you, don't anymore. It was just my perfume, a light scent that you barely notice but it lingers. Just like me. We've had a conversation. We both listened. We both heard. Except you were listening to a recording. And I was listening for the raw, rough notes of being human. I found it in your breaths that were too loud and the sighs that weren't. I know how to do that. What you heard was just the white noise before a song begins and then you don't notice it anymore. The song you wanted to sing, that you were always going to sing and I let you. I spoke a lot but I never said a thing. We've touched in ways minor and dramatic. We've collided. We've danced. But you won't catch my fingerprints anywhere in your life. Only inside your mind and maybe not even that. You never looked at my hands. You may think this entails an understanding between us. That's partly true. You see, I understand you. I wanted to. But you never dived beneath the surface, never peeled back a smile layer or listened beyond my words to my pauses. You don't know me. You don't know me at all. 📸: @unstable_elemnt 🎶: YOU DON'T KNOW ME – Cindy Walker 1964 #theideasmithy #city #cityliving #citylife #Urbanliving #urbanperspectives #lonelycity #identity #intimacy #loneliness #lonelygirl #solitude #defencemechanism #emotional #emotions #relating #relationships #people #introspection #life #living

A post shared by Ramya 🏊🏽‍♀️🌱📚 (@ideasmithy) on

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Where I Lay My Hands, Is Home

Much gets said about the frenzied pace of a metropolis and its coldness. But every big city is an organism of parallel layers, bubbles even, that jostle along, seemingly oblivious to the others’ presence. My city is Tinsel Town, it’s the financial capital, it’s the safest city, it’s a port, a tropical island, an organised crime base, a place starved for time and space and a mental border between South and North India. I inhabit a few of these bubbles and only occasionally, with great effort, do I cross over to the others. Because they are all Mumbai and anything that is Mumbai is mine to witness, to touch and experience and love.

In 2009, the BMC, Mumbai’s civic body invited citizens to come paint the walls of an arterial road abutting the railway track. I jumped at the opportunity to splash paint and spend a day on the streets. A lot of friendships were made that day that we spent whitewashing, priming and rendering street art on the rough wall of Tulsi Pipe Road.

View this post on Instagram

WHERE I LAY MY HANDS, IS HOME Much gets said about the frenzied pace of a metropolis and its coldness. But every big city is an organism of parallel layers, bubbles even, that jostle along, seemingly oblivious to the others' presence. My city is Tinsel Town, it's the financial capital, it's the safest city, it's a port, a tropical island, an organised crime base, a place starved for time and space and a mental border between South and North India. I inhabit a few of these bubbles and only occasionally, with great effort, do I cross over to the others. Because they are all Mumbai and anything that is Mumbai is mine to witness, to touch and experience and love. In 2009, the BMC, Mumbai's civic body invited citizens to come paint the walls of an arterial road abutting the railway track. I jumped at the opportunity to splash paint and spend a day on the streets. A lot of friendships were made that day that we spent whitewashing, priming and rendering street art on the rough wall of Tulsi Pipe Road. The paint has since worn away and been covered and recovered with other such wall projects. The pavement dwellers who were displaced for this day of fun for the more affluent, have eked out their homes again too. Bollywood posters come up now and then and in the past year, election campaigns as well. The city grows and breathes with every newcomer here. I just got to lay my handprint on it for a day. Even if it lies buried under layers of others, the city and I communed that day in September. 📷: @wanderblah 🎶: MA REWA – Indian Ocean #theideasmithy

A post shared by Ramya 🏊🏽‍♀️🌱📚 (@ideasmithy) on

The paint has since worn away and been covered and recovered with other such wall projects. The pavement dwellers who were displaced for this day of fun for the more affluent, have eked out their homes again too. Bollywood posters come up now and then and in the past year, election campaigns as well.

The city grows and breathes with every newcomer here. I just got to lay my handprint on it for a day. Even if it lies buried under layers of others, the city and I communed that day in September.

Featured image picture credit: Shirley Dcosta

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Transactions Of Hope

Do you say all the things to the world that you wish somebody would say to you? Do you spend your moments putting out what you’ve been told will come back to you, manifold? 

It can feel like a lonely world when you find yourself sole custodian of cheer and hope and joy and good humour. The thing is, people don’t always mean to be exploitative. But we live in a starved world where to see something means to covet it, not be inspired by it.

How do you keep hope in a transactional universe? Even the principle of karma which is about taking control of and responsibility for your own actions, thoughts and feelings has been turned into a debit-and-credit column of good acts and returns owed. How do you find hope in a world that’s unwilling to give it to you? I’ll tell you.

Close your eyes. Close it to the impoverishment of hearts. Close it to the starved souls. Close it to the morally bankrupt, the ethically careless, the selfish and those who would live from fear instead of hope. Close it, pull yourself in for a minute. Pull back all the good sentiment you put out into the universe. Feel it return to you in silvery streaks of caring, in gold threads of loyalty, in star-studded clouds of faith, in bow-tied ribbons of connection. Feel them nourish your soul, feel them bind together the fragmenting pieces of you.

You are good. You are well. You are okay. Your quest for hope and love is not about handing them out to other people, in return for their reciprocal gifts. You are on a journey, not a child’s birthday party. Your lesson is not to find hope. It is to become HOPE.

Close your eyes and feel it become one with every cell of you.

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Walking The Minefield

We glorify anger. We present and consume revenge sagas, hate politics. This is an easy narrative because feeling hard done by is a universal experience and few other things incite people to react as blindly. We justify rage reactions, arguing for the right to be furious and citing catchphrases like ‘tone policing’ and ‘right to expression’. We dramatize and applaud wrath.

We even turn emotionally shut off, violent, abusive people into role models for masculinity and how the ideal human being at the top should be. Behaving the way your oppressors have behaved with you only makes you part of the problem. Yet, we prize anger like it’s a value.

First, there is dealing with your own anger in a healthy, constructive way rather than allowing it to make you a ravening monster. And then there is navigating a world that prizes wrath.

You can’t avoid angry people or situations that make others and you angry. But you can remember that anger is always, ultimately poisonous. And choose, keep choosing not to consume it. When you do, spit it out like any other rotten thing you may have eaten, sneeze it out like that fiery bit of chilli you breathed. Cry a little, wipe your tears and breathe afresh again. You can own your anger.

What about the anger of others? You do not have to be defined or cowed by other people’s wrath stories. Hold your precious self above the world’s reactions. Protect your hard-earned peace of mind, body and spirit from from those who have not yet learnt how to do that for themselves.

There are people who will treat you badly, because they think they’re owed a revenge opportunity against the world. It is not your job to educate them. It is not your place to deny them their life lessons. But it is your job to get out of their way. Maybe that is your life lesson.

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Don’t Call Me TamBram

I am not a Tamilian. I’ve lived in Mumbai my whole life and am the third generation to live outside South India. Tamil is my 5th language, after English, Marathi, Hindi and French. I also understand some Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali, languages of states I’ve never lived in, so linguistic identity is not a good identifier.

I am also not Brahmin. Not all Tamilians are Brahmin and to assume they are, is to erase the history of Brahminical oppression faced by other castes. Members of my family have faced caste discrimination. Small children have been refused water in the hot summer owing to their caste label. The state of my ancestry has a rich culture (Tamil is one of the world’s origin languages and the only Indian language not derived from Sanskrit) and it also has a history of caste violence. My ancestors were people who opposed that discrimination with their language, their customs and identifiers. The Tamil my family speaks, is distinctly and proudly non-Bramhinical. Our skin colour echoes what is supposed to have been the original Dravidian, unlike the Brahmin fairness (theoretically Aryan descendants). I’m not a Brahmin so stop erasing my history by calling me one.

Let’s come back to state identity. I can’t call myself Maharashtrian because my home state has its own rich culture that I do not adequately represent. I do not embody the silent Maharashtrian identity struggle on the national landscape. Mine are not the pains of the starving farmers, the once glorious Maratha warriors, the ungendered Warli tribal art. Even professionals dealing with population (like researchers) divide this state into Mumbai and ‘Rest of Maharashtra’. I represent the urban, undeniably exploitative corner of this state that is its capital. The corner still struggling to maintain a semblance of connection to the state it leads, amid cultural impact of the neighbor state and interference from the centre. I represent Mumbai and it represents me.

If you must give me a label, call me by the city I love, the one I write and talk about the most, the one I call home. Call me a Mumbaiker.

View this post on Instagram

DON'T CALL ME TAMBRAM I am not a Tamilian. I've lived in Mumbai my whole life and am the third generation to live outside South India. Tamil is my 5th language, after English, Marathi, Hindi and French. I also understand some Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali, languages of states I've never lived in, so linguistic identity is not a good identifier. I am also not Brahmin. Not all Tamilians are Brahmin and to assume they are, is to erase the history of Brahminical oppression faced by other castes. Members of my family have faced caste discrimination. Small children have been refused water in the hot summer owing to their caste label. The state of my ancestry has a rich culture (Tamil is one of the world's origin languages and the only Indian language not derived from Sanskrit) and it also has a history of caste violence. My ancestors were people who opposed that discrimination with their language, their customs and identifiers. The Tamil my family speaks, is distinctly and proudly non-Bramhinical. Our skin colour echoes what is supposed to have been the original Dravidian, unlike the Brahmin fairness (theoretically Aryan descendants). I'm not a Brahmin so stop erasing my history by calling me one. Let's come back to state identity. I can't call myself Maharashtrian because my home state has its own rich culture that I do not adequately represent. I do not embody the silent Maharashtrian identity struggle on the national landscape. Mine are not the pains of the starving farmers, the once glorious Maratha warriors, the ungendered Warli tribal art. Even professionals dealing with population (like researchers) divide this state into Mumbai and 'Rest of Maharashtra'. I represent the urban, undeniably exploitative corner of this state that is its capital. The corner still struggling to maintain a semblance of connection to the state it leads, amid cultural impact of the neighbor state and interference from the centre. I represent Mumbai and it represents me. If you must give me a label, call me by the city I love, the one I write and talk about the most, the one I call home. Call me a Mumbaiker. 🎶: MAHAGANAPATHIM – Morning Raga #theideasmithy

A post shared by Ramya 🏊🏽‍♀️🌱📚 (@ideasmithy) on

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Hey You In The Dark

I’m talking to you. That part of you behind closed eyelids. Inside a deep inhaled breath. Tucked away into a memory so intense, you don’t look at it often so it becomes a secret. Who are you in that darkness?

I think we’re all the same. The same disproportionate halves of a body. The same anxious uncertainty. The same disorganised desires. The same imperfection that makes comfort and poise look like two opposites.

Is it a good thing or a bad thing to be seen away from the light? Is there something slightly magical about the eyes adjusting to darkness even as the mind adjusts to incompleteness? Is it intrusion to be seen in the dark?

I guess that depends on you. Me, I crave being understood. I am terrified of being misunderstood. I fear being miscounted, being left behind or being carried along with a people and to a place I don’t belong. I burn to fit right, to find my tribe, my home, me.

I also know the tricks our minds play on us (before each other). I know about camouflage. About defence mechanisms. About confirmation bias and seeing only what one is looking for. About becoming fluid, chameleon, mercurial and being whatever the eye demands. And I know these are the endless games of living, the repeating charades of relating. Maybe clarity is possible only when a story is over. Or maybe not. Thank the universe for a sun that shines on us all equally.

Hey you, with the bored shadows rising in your eyes. Hey you, fallen into the cracks of your own fractured dreams. Have you looked my way lately? I exist.

View this post on Instagram

HEY YOU IN THE DARK.. I'm talking to you. That part of you behind closed eyelids. Inside a deep inhaled breath. Tucked away into a memory so intense, you don't look at it often so it becomes a secret. Who are you in that darkness? I think we're all the same. The same disproportionate halves of a body. The same anxious uncertainty. The same disorganised desires. The same imperfection that makes comfort and poise look like two opposites. Is it a good thing or a bad thing to be seen away from the light? Is there something slightly magical about the eyes adjusting to darkness even as the mind adjusts to incompleteness? Is it intrusion to be seen in the dark? I guess that depends on you. Me, I crave being understood. I am terrified of being misunderstood. I fear being miscounted, being left behind or being carried along with a people and to a place I don't belong. I burn to fit right, to find my tribe, my home, me. I also know the tricks our minds play on us (before each other). I know about camouflage. About defence mechanisms. About confirmation bias and seeing only what one is looking for. About becoming fluid, chameleon, mercurial and being whatever the eye demands. And I know these are the endless games of living, the repeating charades of relating. Maybe clarity is possible only when a story is over. Or maybe not. Thank the universe for a sun that shines on us all equally. Hey you, with the bored shadows rising in your eyes. Hey you, fallen into the cracks of your own fractured dreams. Have you looked my way lately? I exist. #theideasmithy 🎶: VIENNA WAITS FOR YOU – Billy Joel

A post shared by Ramya 🏊🏽‍♀️🌱📚 (@ideasmithy) on

==============================================================

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

%d bloggers like this: