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  • _rainfrost_ 47w

    P.S.- Won't be replying to the comments, I'm sorry.

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    It's been a good time with you, mirakee. You gave me so many things to be happy for: made a better writer, gave me true friends, happy memories, soo many things.

    But it's time to go ig. Thanks for everything. Sorry for not staying. Got nothing much to say.

    Goodbye. :')

  • _rainfrost_ 49w

    Ho ho ho! Belated Merry Christmas to y'all! ���� I'm back ( ik I'm very late) and I hope I'll be a little consistent this time ��. For compensation, I got your Christmas present ready!

    Here's track 10. ( ꈍᴗꈍ)

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 10: �������������� ���������� (....������ ����������)

    I stand at the white door, my feet rapping the marble of the hospital floor. Fall feels like a numbing cold wrap around my whitened knuckles. Your hand-woven scarf around my neck is the only warm thing in the world I know of. But my hands, they won't stop shaking and I keep closing them in fists.

    My prayers bustle under the cold lightings of corridor. Nurse told me to have faith and I'm trying my best to keep hold on to strings of hope, but they're leaving cuts of flashbacks somehow.

    Three months back when the doctor said this with a heavy sigh for the very first time. Halfway through the summer, time got worse, so did your cancer. Gradually the smell of this pungent October sneaked in our lives. And now you're closed behind these four flushed walls, fighting for your life. While I'm out here anticipating for the only thing in this world that's mine.

    This is the darkest day, and I'm looking for sun through the blurry window. But all it does is hide behind the trees and skyline. I can't decide if these nervous whispers are worse or the empty, cold silence.

    But there're voices and reels playing inside my head, louder than my thoughts. You tying my braids as I'm sitting in my little jacket on your lap. All those giggles in our sunlit yard. Roses growing under your embrace in pots on the windowsill. I haven't forgotten a thing, but just how did we get so far in a blink of an eye.
    And I know we can't go back to those small moments, and they aren't small to me anymore.

    It's 11 a.m. The newspaper's still lying on the doorstep. The leaves of the oak tree are all scattered on the ground. The blackbird, who lives in the nestbox on our tree, is looking for berries on the ground. And your beloved bourbon roses are dying without your cognac eyes watching over them.

    Every moment, it's getting colder, but I know this will pass. And if things ever turn back to normal, I'd just hold you tight and keep you close with me forever.

    The door opens and all my thoughts come undone. I stare inside with a little mist in my eyes.


    Inspiration: @veloc1ty_ :')

    Thank you @writersnetwork! ��❤

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  • _rainfrost_ 53w

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 9: ������������������'�� ��������������

    Life never shows its colours until you decide to start living. Warmth never knocks at your rusting door until you decide to melt your blue clouds into vials full of rains. And if everything lush in your life is wilting to fall apart, still there's beauty in it.

    There's beauty in the leaves of fall, shriveled and skinned, which flutter down to touch the ground. Their mild hues of apricot and honey orange paint the streets into a shattered artwork.

    When goldenrods are swinging in winds and welcoming a sour daylight, you know an another ephemeral season is coming, clenching a feeling so faint yet so overwhelming. Mist saunters on the streets so glamourously and sunshine flickers through it, like a holy enchantment. This is how the inception of September looks like.

    September is a florist's shop with a melange of blooms, foggy windows where little droplets skim off the surface like saturated feelings, and a vintage lighting bathing the room. Little shrubberies lie on walnut wood shelves, and the delicate ceramic pots contain a homely smell of soil. Walls are painted in chocolate brown. And the fragrance of sage and rosemaries hang around, alongwith a whiff of peace.

    Everything has turned beautiful in fall. September's sinking in the wineglass of every emotion. In the streaks of sunlight, you see golden glitter and it soothes you somehow, even though you know it's only dust. There's sadness in autumn's breath, and there's pleasure in its velvet palette. So similar to life. And the most haunting thing about it is that every beauty in it is ephemeral. Life does the same thing. It sprinkles every beautiful emotion at once, it's your choice to live them, for it's not your choice to keep them forever with yourself.

    Like bunches of oakleaf hydrangeas blooming to life one by one, it'll give you reasons to love, and live. Memories to keep between diary pages and pressed petals, feelings to lace around dust-filled chest. Soak yourself in warmth, from the fire-breathing grates, till you feel like September's sinking in your blood.

    �������� �� ������������ ���������������� ������������������, ������������ ������ ������ ���� ������ ���������������� ���� ���� ���������������� ����������������.


    Inspiration: @shashagilbert_ :')

    Thank you so much @writersnetwork! (◍•ᴗ•◍)

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  • _rainfrost_ 54w

    Here's the new track! And I'm sorry for making you guys wait so much, I was in writer's block. *sighs*

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 8: ������������

    All I know is, life was never the same. It was an ever-changing season, it was poetry written on the park benches in fall, one moment it's surreal, the next it's just emptiness. And I, I've tasted the happiness when I was young, and kept holding on to the aftertaste till I was seventeen.

    It was so sweet living life as a child, loving things without any reason and knowing nothing. Everyday was perfect. But perfect things, they come to fly far away and leave you with just memories.

    I had to move to Paris, leaving my small town behind. I worked at a coffee-shop, to earn a little money for my big dreams. But who was I to know you were the one I had dreamt my whole life.

    I saw you for the very first time in the coffee-shop, your baby blue eyes looking through mine, your child-like smile when you sat there with your love, sipping latte coffee with your love. I adored you from a distance, for I knew all the things you love aren't made for you.

    I remember the night when I wrote a letter for you, twisted in confessions like "I've loved you from a long time"s, but there was no guilt, and I had spilt coffee all over the sepia paper by mistake. And I left the letter on your seat, the next day.

    I was waiting for you in the rain porch, while the autumn sun was dying slowly in the cold river of breeze. The candles were fiddling their flames inpatiently inside the dim room, waiting to blow out when you come. And the sun had promised me to fade away when you show up. For you didn't want to see me in lights, you did't want anybody to know that I'm not mine; I'm yours. And somewhere inside I knew you could never be mine, and I'd lost the game before even rolling my dice.

    The evening light dying a little every minute, whispered to me if I'm sure. But how am I supposed to be now, when I've never been before. You showed up in your kermes-red car. Wheels crunched the jacinthe leaves underneath. You stood there, your hair golden blonde moving in the briny air. And the look in your face was bittersweet. The fall trees manifested a red sign in the last drop of afterglow, before turning to silhouettes.

    You came in my room, poured your heart out to me. Would've got drunk on your wine, but it wasn't for me. And then you took my heart off my sleeve and held it in your hands. You saw the love in my eyes, and placed a crown of poems and metaphors on my head. You let me in your golden cage, and I pretended that I didn't know the gold was fake this time.

    That night you held me like a cup of caffeine; those were some fleeting beautiful moments. But now, as this train tries to run on broken tracks, as the butterfly tries to fly higher on broken wings, everything seems to break a little more. I'm lying next to you, killing myself for I want to linger in your golden town. Hair stuck all over my sweaty cheeks like cobwebs, my heart's burning alone beside yours. I'm screaming silently but you don't seem to notice, or maybe you choose not to.

    Love is the loneliest and darkest trench, when you know you know you're the only one falling deeper into it. Maybe one day you'd leave me alone. For everything comes just to pass one day. And I always knew my love was a paper boat, and I made home on a sinking ship.

    Tell me when you're broken, I'll take you to a paradise where you aren't meant to belong. And I'll let you break the rules, just know that my world's always been yours.

    ɪ'ʟʟ ꜱɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴛɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ,
    ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɴɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢᴀʟᴇ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴅᴀᴡɴ.
    ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴇʟᴏᴅʏ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴꜰɪɴɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ꜱᴇɴᴛᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ,
    ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɢɪᴄ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ꜱᴏɴɢ.



    Anddd alsooo, I've made a trailer/intro of this album that I've uploaded on insta. Link of my Instagram acc is in the bio. You can check it out, if you want to. ����

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  • _rainfrost_ 56w

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 7: ������������

    I drive quietly in my car, no song's playing on the radio, 'cause this time I give silence a chance to whisper what it wants to say. This mid-fall gust touches my chapped hands and cheeks and hastens away leaving no trace of warmth. On both the sides of the track, stalks of grasses have bled to parched yellow and canopies try to hold flaming red pieces of time, but they fall apart landing tragically on the ground where they are trampled by sad footsteps and car-wheels of brokenness.

    The moment I pass the crossroad, I take my car to St. Benedict's Park. There stood a church-like building, partly dilapidated and begrimed. I drive past it and some tall torsos of ginkgo trees, and soon reached a lake, still as everything. I left my shoes in the car and walked, feeling the sod and dust brush my soles.

    I sit on the wooden plank, coffee-coloured, and dip my toe in the cold, mirror-skin of the lake. And it shudders, with me, as ripples circle around on the surface. I dip my fingertips too and find them stained with a deep blue fluid, and it reminds me how I had painted you in midnight blue. And then it reminds me of your love, and you.

    There I was just a year ago, covered in velvet blankets with you, hiding away from my fears. And now the invisible demons follow me around in the withered daylight, and I'm sitting here alone by the water watching my reflection haunt me. You knew me so well. Like I was a statue made of glass with a glass-heart. You turned me to gold but now I'm rusting.

    Swallows skim around in the monotonous grey sky, burying their heads in clouds. I see every piece of everything trying to run away and not lose touch with a merry fate, but beautiful things, they are made to break into sad proses before a poet's eyes. And just like so, I see my love breaking before my eyes, so blue and moist.

    I was a lonely mere bluejay, with chandeliers of poetry flickering over my head, never knew I'd crumble my walls down and take the chain off the door, for a girl standing at the golden gate of my imagination.

    I swear you were my everything. I was just so frustrated to think anything. Usually, you made me feel warm and loved each night, but I was too cold that night so I chased the only scintillating star. Who knew it would take me to the wrong track. And now I can't go back.

    I loved you for your lips spoke things we most feared of, and the way you held my soul like a lamp in your hands, lukewarm fire and melting metaphors. Autumn rains on your auburn hair and from your mellow eyes. And you played wild games with me when we got all alone. You listened to my dreams and nightmares so patiently even though I forgot half the part of it.

    I wished that the time would freeze. But time, it's the amber, it sets just to freeze the past not the present. And all my life I've been afraid of mishandling perfect things, afraid of dark clichés, afraid of loud silences. The more I tried to hold the sand of the hourglass back, the more it escaped. Things started to smoke and burn, and weeds wrapped the bars of my cage.

    I told you to stay close to me in these hard times, but you were only slipping farther. I called you to know what's on your mind but you didn't pick up. I felt like I can't mend anything now. So I drove, wheels on cobblestones and broken gravels, to a different place. And I poured my heart out to her. She made me feel alright.

    But now I realize it all was a mistake. You were my only star. And now that I've lost it too, I'm stumbling in the dark. I'm just a homesick wanderer.

    I've stopped drinking coffee for it reminds me of you, but still I stay up late. I used her like a drug, let her carry away my pain with herself. But it seems so hollow nowadays, this feeling, this love, everything. And I know you were the one, but I realized it a little too late.

    It has started raining. Clouds rant a bit and the droplets, they touch the lake and create a symphony so sadly soothing. I close my eyes. I feel the cold water numb my skin. But before I open them, I wish everything turns still, the winds, the rustling foliage, the rain, the creases on the lake, alongwith time; I don't want anything to move now. I don't want to go anywhere now.

    ᴀꜱ ᴍʏ ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇꜱᴛ ꜰᴇᴀʀꜱ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʟᴀɴᴇ,
    ɪ'ʟʟ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴍʏ ᴄᴀʀ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ.
    ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ʟʟ ᴄʜᴀꜱᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ
    ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴍɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ʙʟᴜᴇᴊᴀʏ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀᴄᴏʀɴ.



    Inspiration: @eclipsed_sun :')

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  • _rainfrost_ 57w

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 6: ������������

    Do you remember the moment when our eyes met for the very first time, last October? Do you remember when you placed your lips on mine in your little apartment room, your face drunk on chatoyant city lights, when you were showing me the Eiffel Tower through your bedroom window? It all comes back to me in shattered flashbacks, like polaroids burnt at the edges.

    I was walking with you, on the Paris streets, while autumn was landing softly on the sidewalks. I had found my true love, so beautiful yet dappled with quaint mysteries. You were a poet living inside a world of your own, and I was a cardinal who knocked at your door and you let me in your sweet birdcage.

    September slid away like a sidewinder with you. We used to meet in a coffee-shop every morning. Cups of latte coffee with you, felt just like the touch of chambré poems and wine on a fall day. There was a waitress who worked in that shop, a pretty brunette, and she used to look at you with a pellucid infatuation floating in her hazel eyes. And you stared back at her, an unfathomable poetry etched upon your blue eyes. I used to be afraid that I'd lose this beautiful love one day by the hands of a dulcet chicanery.

    Insecurities grew in our cage like wildflowers painted in a shade of dusty rose, and they burgeoned until the sun was obscured, the light was faded and gold was rusted. And we pretended as though we'll forever be this close. You asked me why I was so drenched in midnight blue, but darling you didn't know I was trying to breathe an eternity in every ephemeral moment I spent with you.

    And it was days when I realized every single light was out, we moved our hands in the darkness of miscommunication, tried to get hold of each other. But it was cold.

    Lately you're far away from me than ever. One day, I saw you walking down the crossroad, looking so lonely. I would have flown to you but I didn't see which way you took. After some days you called me to meet you at the coffee-shop, but I didn't show up, for I was back there in my office. When I was home I called you back but you didn't pick up.

    Few days passed, as blank as mist and mizzling water. But then I saw you there in the coffee-shop, sitting with that brunette, drawing a heart on the window-glass, and the last leaf of our wonderland withered away, the last streak of light got swallowed by the darkness. But now, after a week full of crying, and your ghosts haunting me in the smoke and darkness, I take the rusted crown of your muse off my head. I let your pictures burn, and now I never stroll through that street, so that I don't chase your shadow in the coffee-shop and walk this same love, like a dead-end. You're calling me again tonight, with your sweetest apology, but, I let your beautiful world break, would you want me still?

    Now this love story's all in the past but all I can think of is this: You read me the escapism chapter every night, till the day you let me escape your bittersweet fantasy.

    ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄᴀʀᴅɪɴᴀʟ ʜᴀꜱ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙɪʀᴅᴄᴀɢᴇ, ᴡᴏᴜɴᴅɪɴɢ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ.
    ꜱᴋɪɴ'ꜱ ʙʟᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ ꜱᴄᴀʀʟᴇᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ʟɪʟᴀᴄ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ
    ʀᴇɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ; ᴡʜɪʟᴇ
    ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏꜰ ɴᴇᴡ ᴅᴀʟʟɪᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴀx.



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  • _rainfrost_ 57w

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 5: ������������ ��������������

    I think I've seen this castle standing tall with dignity and pride. A blue fabric rippling over the highest pinnacle, the barbican letting the daylight in, just a holy summer ago. But now it's crumbled by the hands of a bittersweet betrayal. Now its trampled walls and cleaved towers float in a brook of fog. And my voice echoes between these rickles of stones, "Rest in peace, my kingdom and its grace."

    I hang my head low, as I lost the war, with scars and calluses lingering on my skin, like letters of bad memories you don't want to keep. There are cuts on my fingertips, that I got from the thin strings of my twisted fate I was trying to untangle.

    I choose to stare at the ground, where autumn leaves are scattered, where my self-esteem is shattered, where my heart's lying battered. Because the sky is frozen and harbour-grey, like a perfect portrayal of this unclear ending.

    Flavescent trees cover the sad ridges, cursed mist carries the bitter scent of falls. The golden locket, a guerdon from king, is resting on my neck like verglas over withering foliage. My vows left undone are haunting me like calls of every nightmare in my head, turning true.

    I walk through the trees, through the spectral thickets. As my tired footsteps make hollow noises over crunching leaves, I feel myself getting lost, in this dark tale. The eerie cadence of winds running through the gaps between the woods, whisper of something dark, just as dark as the demons beneath my skin. I'm wondering how many times I let my demons run wild. And they hurt you too, don't they?

    I'm locked inside a cold autumn day, in a bittersweet feeling, and this sadness feels like a toast of wine to the dead king. I trudge till I find the darkest part of this book. Through the fog which smells like gunsmoke and regrets, I see a silhouette of a black gate.

    I push the cemetery gate open, with my hands trembling slightly. I sit beside the king's grave, but I have no flowers to offer him, his headstone as cold as my blood. I stare at my empty hands where some words are etched upon it like a sin, "I killed the king."

    I write the last page of this glorious french folktale, which I'll burn down, myself.



    Inspiration: @zohiii :')

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  • _rainfrost_ 58w

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 4: ������������ ������

    I leave my home, donned in my little Breton shirt. I trot down the narrow twichel with fall placing its warm arms around my shoulders. The sky is wearing a cornflower blue and beech branches are singing, "Bonne rentrée!". The leaves are so vibrant, it makes me dance. But I think I won't risk it, my bag is a little bit heavy.

    I pick up a fallen leaf, perfectly painted in yellow, and keep it inside my pocket. Everything about autumn is so cinnamon sweet and sunny. This indeed is the golden age.

    As I step in the country-town street, I watch old Mr. Chastain fill jars with greengage plum jam in his small cottage. I listen to the tune of French harp played by a man in red. There's a tweed coat seller, standing near a bakery shop, wearing a warm smile over her pretty face. Everyone is so happy.

    I scrutinize the desserts on the baker's stall. Honey orange macaroons with pumkin spice cream, and croissants all golden-brown like the bark of oak tree in my yard. And I want a caramel apple so badly now. I hope my mumma would give me some coins, so I munch it happily while I'm on my way home.

    I'll be meeting my friends after so long. I'm wondering how tall would they have got in all this while. We'll play many games and have fun. And I can't wait to meet Miss Lane's cute briar.

    Everything is so full of life, on a golden day of September. It's like happiness is sinking in the world, and the earth's wearing its best dress. The sunshine glowing through the withering leaves, the bliss floating over the cobblestone streets. I feel the earth's calling me. To the new colours of autumn, to a new little life.



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  • _rainfrost_ 58w

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 3: ���������� ��������

    Put my heart back into my empty chest where the sounds of this innocent village I live in, echoes. There's dust in my lungs, that I've breathed standing on the city streets over years, selling coats of tweed. There's a blush and curve on my lips that I've earned, standing in the autumn fog, whenever I saw a pure smile on someone's lips. And there's a woodland of frolicking dreams in my green eyes.

    The city where I go, flecked with fierce and gentle hues, thrives in the hullabaloo of car-horns and distorted silence on the sidewalks. People hide their feelings beneath the cuffs of fake expressions, and the scapes drip in French poetry. I stand on the pedestrian streets all day, selling hope, so that people would feel warm.

    I leave my home at 9 in the morning. Today too, the village is bustling with the same homely pleasure. The kids are dancing in the velvet sunshine of fall and grown-ups are plattering sweetly. I talk to a baker who has a shop near my home, then leave for the city clutching a clear umbrella in my hands.

    I walk on the path, where heaths lie with their fall breath on both the sides. Some dandelion bushes are crocheted around at the edge of path. Slowly, the countryside path merges into city streets.

    I take out my umbrella, as the surreal beauty of this season embodies as drops of rain and flamboyant leaves rest on my umbrella top. The dusty path metamorphoses into cobblestone streets. A birdbath fountain perches in the middle of street, like a statue of innocent faith, where people are throwing coins and whispering their dreams to themselves, with their eyelids closed.

    Marble white buildings stand tall in a vintage fall, and ginkgo trees spread their golden hands out of the park walls to the street, golden pieces floating down to the black and white crossroads. I give a sideways glance to see a faded and pale Eiffel Tower, standing upright to the hoary sky.

    In this cold and crepuscular afternoon, the headlights are flickering through the mist like amber bunches of light. The shops with foggy windows and metallic sign boards whose Albescent white paint is chipping off, all align in a straight line with yellow lights coming out of them.

    My eyes rest upon a coffee shop with a bottle green door and cinnamon brown walls. Within it, there's a dainty brunette standing with a charming boy with golden blonde hair. The girl's eyes are glistering with a hazel shade of love, but his, as blank as fog manacling a beautiful sight. There's a beautiful tragedy in the bittersweet scent of coffee coming out of the shop, and there's a beautiful chicanery in a frangible affair.

    There's beauty in the way things mend; there's beauty in the way things break. Like, when gossamers of emotions tie two people at their first glance. Like, when memories try to hold on to the breaking bricks, when a castle's crumbling down. And I've always chosen to look at the beautiful side of things.

    I walk a little more and stand outside a florist's shop named "Champ libre Fleuriste", feeling an ounce warmer because of the bonfire burning merrily inside. I take the coats out and hang them in a line. I stand there as people pass by without noticing me and the coats waiting to wrap them in a warm embrace. The pigeons flutter to the walkway to peck at the crumbs of food. A man holding the leash of a white dog, with a brusque face; a newspaper seller looking contented because all his papers got sold; an auburn girl whose eyes look like they cried recently, walk past me.

    Slowly, the dim daylight disappears into a twilight lit by headlights of cars. My pochette has no money in it, and the tweed coats are still hanging there, though their warm hope is slowly splintering off.

    It's an another night when I'll just have a dry piece of bread on my plate. But afterall it's fall, deceitful and bittersweet. I'd paint my eyes again, with ample forest-green hope, and I'd hold a blue moon's light in my hands like a windfall. Maybe I'll have a heavy bag singing a happy jingle with me tomorrow. Nevertheless, my heart will always be filled with the echoes of the innocent village I live in, and the cobblestone streets where I've spent my life, selling fabric of hope.



    Inspiration: @eurusgrey :')

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  • _rainfrost_ 58w

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 2: ���������� ���� ����������������������

    I breathe out a warm vapour filled with sighs, as the air collected in my lungs smell strongly of heartstopping grief. I'm sitting inside these four walls, soaking my mind in peace. The woodland of emotions, that has grown right within my mind, is growing dense by every passing moment.

    I'm a mess made out of burnt candle threads, ink wasted on crumpled papers and all the thoughts a person doesn't want to keep. Even when my saltbox house is drowned in the afternoon silence, my mind's dripping with chaos.

    My room's semi-dark. All the windows are closed and there are creaks of tiptoeing proses, dressed in wrinkled paper, on the floor. There's a paper on the table with lots of blanks between the words, and the candlelight is frozen over it like set wax.

    The world outside the window has daubed itself in russet, lovat and gold, but I'm an artist who chose to paint the leaves with mauve, sunflowers with blue and the stalk remained colourless out of my indecision.

    Just like a maple leaf through a freefall breaks the mirror sheet of a lake into thousands of ripples, a single insecurity, burning red, makes me a clutter of brokenness. I've been insecure about my perfect things, insecure about them getting lost in changing times. Afraid of misunderstandings, afraid of miscommunications. For I knew, if I lose them, I'd have to find myself again, I'd have to trust myself again.

    But now I feel like I can't hold their strings forever, I guess I never had my fingers clutching them. All I had was faith and a little hope in my palms, and they coloured my hands in calluses brown as coffee seeds, which linger like a feeling, bittersweet.

    As I take the noose of insecurities off my neck, I drape a lilac sequin fabric around my bruised hope. My skin, coffee-stained, my eyes pristine after the rain, glimmering in the candlelight.

    ꜰɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴀʀʙʟɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʀɴʙᴇᴀᴍ ᴛʀᴇᴇꜱ ᴏᴜᴛꜱɪᴅᴇ,
    ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ᴅ ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʟʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴘᴀʀᴄʜᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ.



    @mirakee @writersnetwork
    It seems unreal. It really does. Thanks sooo much. :')

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