"I won't retire this early, besides I have a book to write"- saying that, Richa started to skim towards our hotel. I could feel the cold breeze on my skin, it reminded me of our first kiss.
It was during Christmas of 1989 on our way back from a party where we first met. We were intoxicated. I stumbled on a rock and was about to plunge. Richa yanked me back on the side and rescued me from a speeding car. Realising I was not in my senses and had lost control, Richa clutched on to my hand as we marched. We were to reach my house any minute so I stopped, standing there Richa turned around and found me staring into her eyes but to my surprise she giggled and pecked me.
Now that I spotted her all merry, rushing back to the hotel, I decided what I forgot was not important.
"The supper is served honey", I called her out. She tramped towards me and what I saw was someone I lost on Christmas of 1989. She painted her nail red, my favourite colour. Not that she knew it, but an accident. An accident that made me who I once was, now I remember why I stopped her that night, she wore a red lipstick and a red smock, Monochromatic Richa.
I finished my feast and saved the fingers with red nails.
Promise! Ah that's how the uncertain "thing" begun. Well, I called it love then. Maybe I was right that day and wrong now, but the truth is for the one who will judge. Right or Wrong is what you feel and not what's 'Just'. Doubts and questions are contrary, if you know you know, if you don't then you won't.
I ate an unicorn for my lunch. Quite disturbing right? Well if NOT, you're are totally a normal being. I don't know what is right/wrong, just/unjust. Something done can't be undone, it was a result of someones decision which was a choice from various options they had. Well, don't think much about the circumstances they had because you're really wanting justice which is(might be) so unjust to the doer. It ends if you leave it, but furthers because you won't.
Humans go dirty to manage their fancy. We are reluctant so we perform the unexpected. The greedy gut that most got, Is what that's chewing us hollow. We keep supplementing our useless necessities. We work for rapacity. And the famished voices, hope. This sphere is no more humane towards man. Everyone's looking for blood and not for love.
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.//
This is a piece that I wrote back in November of 2016. I felt a need to repost it today. Thank you all for reading; and thank you always for your support, kindness, and your presence and contributions here amongst us. You are all very appreciated. ♥️
I hear a sound over the hill. On tracks that haven't been used in years, even decades. A chugging engine roaring softly. Then gradually louder and louder as the moments pass by. The brightest light appears around the corner. Pointing in the direction of the way that it travels, heading into the realms of nowhere. A transparent body of a train can be seen. Though it is clearly there, I can see right through it. Smoke bellows from the chimney as thick as coal. As it passes by, I wait. I wait to see the caboose, and what it looks like. But, that never happens. It disappears half way through. Where did it come from? Where was it headed? So many mysteries of this sight. This mind now wonders of this mystical ghost train.
Follow me down through the graves, to the river. Into powdered snow blankets with howling winds. See the places that make me silent, no, nothing to discuss. Screeching cold winds blow the screams of insanity. Do you wish to retreat? Can't go any further? That's fine. I've come here alone so many times. Where inspiration had taken a vacation. Where in the darkness I resigned to stew in melancholic madness. I will be back with you soon. Just a temporary trip to the recesses of this minds dark winter.
Self-inflicted battle scars serve as reminders. They remind us that when we battle ruthlessly against our own selves, we inflict wounds that can be difficult to heal. The healing balm of self-love can save us though, as it salvages the wreckage of our ailing heart and mind. In time, if we apply it often, self-love reduces the gaping wounds to fading scars; and those are battle scars that we can be proud of, because they show that we learned to stop fighting with ourselves, and start surviving and thriving instead. If the battle of a lifetime leads to a lesson of self-love, then we truly have won the war and proven ourselves the victor. There is no greater glory than that; so wear your scars with pride and teach the importance of self-love to one and all. Copyright Carolyn Glackin 1/9/2021