Aarjavee Chankeshwara

As the year draws to a close, unfinished drafts have a way of resurfacing—poems abandoned in phone notes, stories rejected and forgotten in folders, and ideas scribbled away with quiet hope. This blog is a gentle yet honest reminder that creativity doesn’t have to bleed into the new year unfinished. Through reflection, delegation, and the power of professional editorial support, it invites writers to finally close old chapters, polish meaningful work, and step into 2026 lighter, clearer, and cre

Poetry doesn’t only live in books—it slips into your everyday life when you’re not paying attention. It hides in spilled coffee, in noisy auto-rickshaws, in strangers holding elevator doors, and in the moments you once dismissed as ordinary. Somewhere between rushing through your day and remembering to breathe, life turns quietly poetic. And once you learn to notice it, you’ll realize poetry has been following you everywhere—waiting for you to look up.

Some movies don’t just entertain us—they move in, rearrange our inner world, and quietly stay for years. This essay is a love letter to four films that became emotional landmarks: The Sound of Music, Interstellar, Little Women, and Dead Poets Society. They shaped who I became, each teaching a different lesson about joy, love, ambition, and living deeply. This isn’t a review; it’s a memory map of the films that stitched themselves into my life.