I've reached the point where I memorized every single colour based on the texture of their voices. Mama used to say, yellow is like my big sister, her voice, her cackles as lovely as ever can brighten up every corner of your gloomy mood.
White, that's my pretty little brother. Listen to his tiny innocent voice, whether he's crying or laughing, you can sense the pureness among the pure.
My father, as serious as red, you can feel it from his hollow and rigid voice snaking on the epidermis of your skin. For my mama, she never said what colour she is, but sometimes I think she's blue, I can feel it in her so serene voice, but most of the time I know she's silver-grey. Especially when at times I become like a starving montivagant, wanting to know and explore here and there, her patience is as long and as expandable as her silver-grey hair.
But, on days when I can't feel the hues in their voices and other people that surrounds me, I colour myself, concocting all of them to form a rainbow I've heard how beautiful but never really seen.
I've borrowed happiness from poems that I've weaved. Jumping from syllables to syllables, creating little bliss with every similes.
Crouching in a corner, fervently searching for words to play. I can't help but smile in each metaphors that rhymes. Clinging onto little joys within the imageries that lies between my fingers, pen and paper. Only a writer understands the pleasure of knowing that peaceful music underlying in their very own words.
but then, again, each comma made me doubt and sigh, inevitably there's always gonna be a last fullstop. In the end, I'm gonna console myself to weave another poem, to again, borrow happiness, a classic shougania.
Shougania is a japanese word means related to fate, or something that can't be helped.
My legs search for a home I don't have a connection to. They keep walking the distance on their own, tired yet restless, without any hope but with a will to keep on marching indifferently. It's been a while since I've taken a breath of relief, my legs have started to stutter, my lips have been totally sealed.
Words don't find a way out of my mouth now, they keep echoing inside my head. It seems like they have found their home there, inside of me while I myself struggle helplessly to call a place my own.
But while I'm failing to find solace anywhere, my mother, she seems to have found a home in me. While I struggle to see myself as anything more than a waste of space, my mother, she begs to differ, she puts all of her pride in me.
"So...." Sitting across her in the mall cafeteria, a syllable leaves my mouth and manages to break her attention from the book she's reading. (The book----The fault in our stars---my favorite. About to be hers as well, as soon as she finishes it.) The curiousity in her eyes spells out the word 'yes' followed by a small question mark.
"How far have you reached?" I ask.
"Chapter ten" She answers, "Hazel and Augustus are going on an expensive date. None of them paid for it though."
"Ah! Amsterdam." I smile, reliving a brief glimpse from the pages following after the chapter ten.
"Listen..." I murmur under my breath, touching my hands together in nervousness. She notices it without fail.
"You look like you're about to confess a murder or something" She laughs." Should I be scared?"
'Close.' I think, 'Well, I am about to report a crime. But it's not murder and it's not committed by me. It's theft and I believe you're the person behind it. My heart's been missing since I met you. I know you've stolen it.'
I dismiss the thought knowing it could potentially bring out nothing but laughter from her. I stick with my regular dose of awkwardness, the one she's used to.
"Uhmmmmm."I murmur again. "Would you be mad if I say I like you?"
"No." She replies instantly. "Why would I be mad? I like you too."
"No." I raise my voice a little. "I mean. Not in that way."
I gather some courage to pump out the heavy words stuck inside my throat. And I start laying them down on the table, "I like you more than a friend. I like you like Hazel likes Gus. And like Gus likes her back."
She closes the book and slides it away to make space for her hands. She takes a minute to process it. Then turns her head away for a few seconds and then looks back at me, "Go on." She says. "I'm listening."
Thinking that it's now or never, I start pouring out all the remaining bottled up feelings in front of her. "I'm not entirely sure if you feel the same way but I can sense a deep connection between us that I hardly feel around anyone else. I've always found myself bearing a heavy weight on my chest, the good kind ofcourse, everytime you've chosen to smile. It's like your joy is somehow interconnected with mine. Everytime I'm with you, in person or on the call, I become the happier version of myself. And between meeting online and offline, I prefer the latter coz when you're close to me, breathing at a palm's distance, it feels like spring."
Her cheeks start turning pink, the colour of the flowers that bloom during spring. I lay my hands on top of hers and press them into a tender grip.
"There's only one life we are rewarded with. And I don't want to waste a single year from it being tied to someone who isn't you. I want to see you in the memories that I'll be creating in the future. So when I'm on my deathbed, I'll get to smile looking back at every single one of them, even shed a few tears, but only happy ones."
Her eyes begin glistening in the light above us. Visible tears layer up at the end of her eyes, waiting to jump and slide down her cheeks once she finds a way to speak.
I kneel down on my knees, putting all of the faith I had saved till now for this moment. I take out the ring from my back pocket and hold it up before her soaking wet eyes.
"Uhmmmmn" I murmur, "Would you be mad if I say I love you?"
"No." She smiles, wiping away the pool of tears, "Why would I be mad? I love you too."
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.
Good Afternoon People, How are you all doing. Hope all of you, beautiful readers of my profile and content are hail and healthy at their place. World is experiencing a pandemic and everyone is bound to stay safe while maintaining social distance. It’s been a long time since I wrote anything worth, today I am trying to pen down some inner thoughts. Hope you enjoy the read. Post is partially fictional, I aspire to be an author in future and expect no plagiarism from anyone. Keep reading and stay blessed.
*Have written something after a long span of 6 months, please pardon me for grammatical mistakes*
To, God CC: Dear Hansika.
Any of the supreme powers who I can name, I hope you are doing good at your place. A Life is in danger. My , Oh should I designate her as MY? Maybe, I shouldn’t. I have no relation with her. We aren’t even friends par se, but a heart understands a heart. And, I can claim that I have one.
Yesterday, I had a chat with her on instagram. Now, I really don’t think Instagram is social or a place that really connects a person. You can’t see, you can’t touch, you can’t hug a person who is in need, in dire need of that act. Anyhow, that;s a technological limitation. She was sad. Ah, I understand, you made her life like that but is it your justice? Is this what you would have loved if it happened with one of YOUR own? I expect the answer to be NO. Even, I would not expect anything of this sort or a life of this stature to be granted to someone that too at such a young age.
She is nineteen something. In your era (if it happens to be one), the human race had a life span of over thousand years. But as its ‘Kalyug’ life has been concentrated to mere 65 years something. But why only 20 for her? Did she do anything wrong? I expect not. She was devoid or her parents in her childhood or maybe at birth, I don’t know and I can’t even ask her, because she is so naive and dumb, she doesn’t remember anything related to her. She only knows that she wants her mumma. And you, of god, you are taking her on that part.
She spits blood. Her vision is leaving her helpless. Her immunity is on the verge of breakdown. She lives alone, all ALONE in a place that is called God’s own home. Yesterday, she didn’t even have her dinner. Why? Not because she didn’t want to. Because, she had no one to ask her for food. All her own people, her so called ‘uncle-aunt-friends’ everyone were busy in their own life, their own celebrations. She could have eaten on her own, she has done that since her birth, but why did she leave that ritual too, do you know? I assume you don’t. Well, I will tell you. Because, her body has left her. She is no longer able to move. She has no more capability to even rise and have food. She can’t digest solid earlier, now even liquid has put her aside. A girl is bound to bleed, ah I am talking about menstruation. It is natural, but what made YOU, YOU dear Jesus, to make her bleed through mouth. Does it make you happy? Does it make you feel elated to put down a person's hope when she has already succumbed to fate. The time isn’t far away, when her soul will actually bleed.
I am not complaining. I am no one to question your justice. It is you who made this world, and you have complete authority to handle it the way you want. But I think I have freedom to at least remind and ask you that it is ENOUGH. IT IS ENOUGH! What wrong did that girl do? Anyhow, I know you will not answer back to me. It has always been like this. You can take her life. I used to believe, death is certain but life is full of possibilities, but when there is no one to make that life beautiful and all he/she gets is miseries, a clean certain end is far better.
But, I will not leave it as it is. I hope you will at least do something better for her or must have stored better for her. If she happens to come to you soon, please, let her sleep in her mama's lap. Let someone caress her head and say, you were a warrior. Let someone cuddle her so that she can sleep a beautiful night.
Well, I don’t believe in afterlife, but if it is a concept in your world, make her mine. My daughter. I would happily love to give her all that she didn’t get in this life. I will not ask you to make me that much rich or anything like that, because I can be rich and I will be. Even if that doesn’t happen, I will be an author and keep her alive in my book. Presently she bleeds, then my pen will. But, I will keep her light inside my soul. Because , we all are connected. She may shed all hopes, but I am positive and will always be.
Take Care, We will settle all if buts when I come to your world. Until then, do whatever you intend to.
I have been gawking at the calendar for a while now, anticipating, when did it all start. Eleven years should have been a long stretch but here I am, standing nowhere, holding a burnt candle with a goofy grin. I know I am a poltroon, hiding behind the perfect demeanor.
While flipping through an old, dusty and forgotten photo album. My eyes met with familiar faces. Happy faces. I strolled towards the mirror and looked into it. Looking straight at the dark, lifeless orbs. I dropped the book when I realized the girl in the mirror is me and those are my eyes. I wanted to destroy the me, so I punched the mirror hard, gaining nothing; but deep cuts on my knuckles. I heard someone's footsteps and squeaking of the door. Mom's worried eyes met mine and she started crying. Yet again. She traced my spine with her soft feather murmur like she was calling a alarmist into the mist. She asked,
"Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Tell us, what can we do for you."
'Then help me please.'
I begged pathetically. I knew my world's always been numerous shades of grey. There was no change in the frequency. The only change was the intensity of the pain.
The tire swings near my house; someone burned them. I lit the candle and smiled a bit. Maybe this is a ritual to loosen the reins of my memories. I didn't understand, how tough would it be, to ask for a therapist. They know I need help, but "the society" and "what will people say" tainted their moral judgement.
"Why? What changed you? What will it take to fix you?
I hated winter, it reminded me of long, longing nights and excruciating short days. The chest ached like the sea salt against rusty corners of an embankment. Someone left the door ajar yet again, allowing the chilly breeze to freeze my beating heart. Snow seemed dry, so I decided to wet it with my tears. I called it, crying my lungs out; they called it a "break down."
"What is wrong with you? It's all in your mind. Why can't you be normal? Tell us what do you want?"
I smiled when mundane words met my ears, vibrated my ear drums hysterically. I am not someone who writes long letters again and again, then admire the handwriting that doesn't even match my personality. I looked straight into her eyes and said,
At 3:39 am, I gulp the night with some stars and katydids. They start walking on my diaphragm and the lonely moon gazes at me continuously. And you cherish the moment while sitting inside that unnoticed morgue. I scream but you never listen.
At 4:27 am, I drink the ocean with some off-white coloured seashells and they perforate my lungs by their sharpened edges. And they sprinkle bloodstains here and there. My stomach change its colour into red. But I don't clamour.
At 5:13 am, I vomit some melodramatic metaphors and try to adorn them with your callous heartbreak and cold-blooded kisses. I am the blank verse of your sonnet ; neither rhymes nor exists. But I smile because those verses look gorgeous.
At 6:01 am, I wake up and come to my balcony to perceive the morn beams. The sumptuous sunshine pierce my smock and enter into my abdomen. And I sigh.
//not ephemeral, a permanent wound i'm ; holding some uncherished melancholies and kissed by an intolerable heartbreak//