I turned a blurred mystery back in my raw gardens, It took me a minute to hold on myself, What a jerky turn did my feet rest into, Would I just brag about the sand weeping in my hands or rather nurture the sapling of only hope that arrested my body, What was it? It has been 23.4 hours past it, I still am recollecting the bits around, A million miles of brokenness and a trillion breaths I revisited within the moments.
After being 24 hours harsh on myself, I turned around and looked who and where I made myself fit into. It wasn't pounds of jealousy or lost focus. All it was just insecurity. Something to be deprived of, something to loose a feel of, a "high" or even that esteem. And I grabbed myself a cup of warm water and sat on my ramshackled chair, laid my head on the white furnished desk and rested my weakened palms. That moment had a momentum, it made me reciprocate a lot of things. The world had never seen it easy, never do I expect it would, it just taught everyone to be with the flow, to come and to survive; and in this battle of surviving we forget how much hollow the insight of a person becomes. Maybe it was you too today, being harsh on yourself; but in this battle of you and the world never stop plummeting against the odds.
There are 1001 lies and a journey of discovering what people want you to become. Im still covering my wounds, wrapping it up in a blanket of the boundaries they admire me to be in, Finally facing the existing cultures of this adulthood, of how some unsaid words build a trash in your head. I walk past the road, sobbing with the only piece of torn handkerchief realising the testimony of this "Realistic" world.
Lost its way, my soul tentatively wilted its path, In awakened hopes the only light; carried me through, Withering away from every rub, it took me long; longer and then in a circular jigsaw, It reminded me of you; intriguing, appealing and dark. Im tired looking at the lights, they purposefully murmur a glimpse of you. The magazines remember? I quacked thinking that coffee cup stain kindled your presence.
The teary eyes that never were a home, found a mundane schedule, In yearning meaningful reasons, it found a resemblance to the paradigm, The cherry you discarded, tasted better with the show alone; In hoping that your scent left my body, found home in the bedsheets I always hated. Wondering what part is it, my unhindered access to your presence or your surrealistic absence?
//Answers that feel cold to your seasonal heart, speak volume in my homeless skin. Skip materialistic reality, this part still feels homesick.//
It is what evening, I sip another cup of my bitter coffee, in wonder how will I narrate my bittersweet scars to the sky?
And if you and me would walk past the bridge eating up the conversations in silence, without breathlessly thinking about the world for once, And without me judging the water's depth and you joking about my sulky behaviours would just feel the warmth that moment held.
Can I turn back the hour's hand, betwixt the present and a dark past, and ask for some sunrise again? For me that river, the ecstasy in the random talks, is hurriedly taken aback.
And when I cross the bridge, it yearns for some nuisance in its air. A motion in my pulses that drops or rises systematically, I again ask myself, the same questions, looking at the crimson sunset, the dew, that never failed to catch my attention, astonishingly did for the very first time.
It made me realise, how much more that existence ever felt, just in those milliseconds, and how much more it was neglected, The Aura, The Air, The Brightness.
/Sometimes it is okay to go numb, feel nothing, Breathe in lies or walk in slience, There isn't any wrongs in wobbling your heart out, even on days your it weeps in fumes of failures or hurt. Forget it, sometimes; sometimes are okay!/
i'm thinking of a pronoun that i can refer to it, a nothing, not-a-thing. which kind of interjects the purpose of this write-up, because i shouldn't be referring to anything at all. that's why it's oblivion. but in that case, there may not be any underlying interest for this. i mean, that should make sense because a letter is supposed to be "a direct or personal written or printed message addressed to a person," or a thing in another case, as merriam-webster dictionary dictates. but if your recipient doesn't end up reading it, will you still find the same essence in those words?
there can't be anything i can accurately describe it. not even emptiness when there are gazillion micro-things in this adjacent void, swipe that out and you may have dark matter. i know, it's not something that is completely understood other than a zero being the midline between the positives and the negatives. can't multiply, can't divide; and against itself, it is stuck in an endless loop, over and over in repetitive thoughts.
if you think about it, space is much more closely defined as infinity rather than absolutely nothing at all. there are times that i can use this word against and with myself. contradicting points to the lack of purpose, or any overpassed bias, because maybe nothing is only a figure of speech we obtain to define something we cannot afford to describe.
there is a blank slate between you and the sky whom one calls nothing when it's dark, and the properties of people being subjected into dreams that may or may not simplify the concept of barely existing. ask the little child which flying kite she'd choose when the moon was learning to peek under the tree trunk's arch, and the light was preserving not a single string. she'd tell you she couldn't choose, because the night was sleep deprived.
it's easy to fear oblivion, as if it is a choice to be afraid. perhaps it's just the same concept as to key holes and baggage counters, off to a limited phase that tells one your purpose isn't the definition of somebody else's things. you are ought to be remembered, cannot not be forgotten, all things as it shouldn't naught remaining in succession to a was, an is, as it will be.
i tell myself often that perhaps i am nothing in this world, because i know not my grand importance. but the absence of a particularity doesn't magnify the concept of nothing. there might be no root in my words. no thing, no order, no interest, no matter, not-a-single-thing to be objected as anything. but it should, at least, be a collection of undefined words. any kind of worth you can divide right above this zero, will remain oblivious when always in an adjacent state.
and to this oblivion, most people might end up fearing. it is, therefore, a gift. a pronoun you can use to write a letter to, when the rest of the explanatory matter doesn't make more sense.
I know your dark circles and the people behind them. I know your straight lined face, and the emotions behind them. I know your wide open smiles, and the more genuine tears behind them.
I know the nights you text "goodnight" aren't often the nights that are good to you. I know the days you wake up, texting "good morning" are the days you wish were really good.
I know the people you send hearts to, both the beating one, and colored ones are the people you wish would be there when your heart lacks colors. I know you see the sky, in a few hard moments and wish you were anything about you.
I know you wish to be someone people loved coming back to, and not easy enough to leave like an envelope gets delivered under doors, only to be ripped. I know, you also know that such envelopes manage to carry the truest of love written in letters.
I know you have seen pain upfront, like a friend who sleeps next to you, whose snores keep you awake many a night. And I know, try as you may, no number of pillows or blankets help you cover its voice. And, I know you know, that it is because you let it have a voice and let yourself be the echo.
I know you want to be free. I know you want to quit. I know you look at the sky, the soil and nature and whisper your struggles to the wind, in hopes it shall reach another stranger and the wind shall carry back a stranger's message to you. And, I want you to let me be that stranger to you.
The wind has been kind enough to let me in on how your heart feels heavy, even when left empty and how your life seems like a rollercoaster that you never wanted to ride.
Trust me, love, I know all that and more. But, I also know that the pain you face isn't the only thing that defines you.
I know you have faced a lot, and I know you have fought a lot, while losing many. But, the sky is still yours. It hasn't given up on showering you its blue stare, even when your skin turned red. Let its showers wash away pain, but not the scars they leave behind.
I know you own stories along your skin, and I want you to know that they aren't meant to end with pain, but begin with them. The fullstops you yearn aren't the endings your heart deserves, because trust me when I say, beating through the dark isn't something all hearts can do, and yours did.
I know this letter is long. I know this letter sympathises more than it should. But, I just want you to know, this too shall pass only if you let it to. Allow pain in. Let it break you. And the voids it leaves are the places you must fill in with life.
And, whenever you see the wind brush against you, I hope you be this stranger that I am to you, and I hope you tell them how you know they are a soul of glass, not because they break easily but because light finds it easy to pass through them, just like through you, too.
Love, A stranger :) _____________________________________ _thoughtfulbrain
Just a reminder to all the Beautiful soul here that *you are love*❤️also I don't want likes I just want that people atleast read this post once :)
I began bleeding, at 7:00 in the morning. The red leak of existence didn't let me sleep. I got up, I had to.
I washed down the blood. As I did, I thought if men ever lost blood as much as women in their lifespan. I thought if they could feel the hurt. I thought of the times when it feels as if we are being stabbed over and over again, but we still have to roam around pretending it's all fine. And still be called weak.
I could feel the knots in my stomach. But I was so used to it, wasn't I? As I clutched my belly, I thought of the times when mamma would be so soaked in pain, yet she would be working in the kitchen to feed us. I thought if men could understand that pain.
I wrapped my hands around myself. Atleast I wasn't banished. I thought of the times when a woman would bear all that pain so that one day she would give birth to a man who would grow to tag those 5 days as a shame. How she had to do all those stupid things for those 5 days. I thought if people would ever understand how serene a thing they preached as disgraceful.
It ached. All of it. I felt like I was being stabbed right through. Again and again. And then I thought of the ache it must cause when a child is given birth. How beautiful and painful at the same time. I thought of the men who could understand that beauty, and thanked them. I thought how could people have the cheek to call something associated with so magnificent a thing as a sin.
I just wanted to sit and do nothing. I couldn't bear to stand. I thought of the times when I would have to pretend in front of boys that I was fine, even when I was not. I thought why do girls have to hesitate. I thought why couldn't they just say it.. "I am on my periods. And it hurts. " I did it once. And it was all okay.
I just lay there. On that bed. Trying not to cry. Trying to focus on beautiful things to overshadow the soreness in my belly. I thought of all those times when periods were not talked about. All the times when the shopkeeper would try hiding the sanitary napkins as if it were gold.
And then, I thought, if those times would change at all. ______________
This post is not meant as a disrespect to anyone. I know there are a lot of boys and men who do try to understand. I have just written it on a general basis, and some of it also refers to the past, not the present.
I wrote this after listening to 'This City' by Sam Fischer. It makes me feel hurt, broken, torn yet wants me to hold onto dear life for a while longer. I lost myself while growing up, I hope you don't. Don't let the world change anything about you.
She is the toddler who creates world from sand castle, twinkling dew drops and winter fog, she dreams to catch those clouds and hold them close to her heart. She is the little girl who paints the clouds white and the sky pink.
She is the beautiful dusky maiden who is potpourri of metaphors and tales ,who drinks syrah and spills shades on the matronly believes. You will find her eating Vada Pav in the beach wearing her favorite bodycon dress, styled with her mustard sling bag.
She is the lady poem who is not from your fantasy, she who weaves yellow dreams of future for her children like Van Gogh yellow starry sensitivity. She never braids her daughter's hair because she believes that they must be free and independent just like the dates of early December when she chose her happiness over the black, intimate, patriarchal and grey dreams of her husband.
She is the old vintage woman whose lips set in straight line which she doesn't bother to moisturize because it speaks the raw tales of courage and bravery, her wrinkles glows like the golden trinkets.She now stretches her arms to catch the clouds and hold them close to create thunders of kalbaishakhi.She is the wildflower who is in her 70s wheeling the pages of revolutionary ideas where she seeks for equality. She creates her own story where she would even call the darkest shades as her "Sunshine". She is as colourful as the hues of pink, violet and blue.
She is a woman. ~ wallflower01 P. S. : may i take the bg art credit. ❤
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 18 April 2021 13 : 05 pm ( Sunday )
she knits the laughter of sunbeams into the tulle of her long and sleek dress and when her beauty would enwrap you within a fragile amazement a laugh would be kicked out of her , saying "I'm a mess"
she would be sauntering in the milliseconds between your heartbeats canoodling the lousy earth with the mud laden boots she wore the world would be there but your eyes would be on her and you would be crowded with a recklessness to read her more and more
when your gaze would be pulled into her hazel eyes you would find the depth deeper than a well her pondering irises eclipse a juggernautic library birthing stories she's afraid to tell
then you would figure out how your heart faces the greed to hear all the escapades dwelling between the folds of her mind the world says how there prevails no magic maybe because it harbours deep down inside her heart to find
she cultivates saplings of felicitations upon her chuckles the selfless silent prayers sodden those dainty blooms but it never occurred within another heart to thank her for sheltering them from the cloudbursts of an unbearable gloom
she never thought she was someone who would be needed "I'll be gone and no one will care" and you would be taught about this world's oblivion for never knowing how her light was always there
just like you never know how much you need the earth until it enwraps you whenever you fall you would never know the worth of the sun until it refuses to rise at all