I first saw a glimpse of you in grade 6, one afternoon in my English class, inside four pages of your diary in our textbook. Something was stirred in me that day, I was curious about a girl who confided in paper, never knowing she will be heard for ages to come.
In grade 10, somewhere in the corner of a library, I found a maroon coloured worn out book on the cover of which I found a girl, looking at me with a smile. I felt I found a treasure that day, one that will change many things in me.
As I met you inside those pages, a more vulnerable, scared, brave, funny you, I found a friend. Your stories warmed my heart, your fears haunted me too, and with every turning page I saw you, living, breathing, laughing, muffling your cries on a pillow, I saw you.
Many times I imagined what those years would have been like, inside walls of a permanent fear of getting caught, holding on to that fragile piece of hope that one day war will end, and there will be sunshine on your skin , a clear sky above. I imagined you sitting in your attic, aware of all whats happening behind those blackout curtains, unaware of what your future held, with a pen in hand and a diary on your lap, writing how much you want to become a writer. How will you ever know that you became one, a special one, the one who gave voice to 6 million Jews who lost their lives for the sake of human cruelty. I imagined you peeking through the window at night, on a dead city under moonlight, and I wonder what you thought at that moment.
You made me start journaling, for the mere reason of being able to tell, things that needs words, not people. You made me stand in bright sunlight and savour the sunbeams, to take delight in the beauty of the sky, to feel gratitude for this mundane but colourful life. I've read authors who were great, their words moved me too but I want to say that you Anne Frank will always hold a special place in my heart. With love just_words_
Sometimes I don't want to be me. I've been around people and wished I wasn't near them, they don't tell me I am wanted, sometimes I don't want myself too. Maybe I have never truly found myself, maybe I am painted with so many layers of colours, I've forgotten what was the first one or maybe there was none like an artist's empty canvas that sacrifices its emptiness for the artist's sake, but what if the artist doesn't like what he has drawn, what if all the colours were wrong, how do you go to that emptiness again? Sometimes I make peace with myself, forgive my every cruel remark, whisper at night how all good stories are sad, and I see myself like a ghost, lying on bed, moist eyes, dried throat, and I feel pity. Next morning when I see smiles and laughter, I feel sad. So sometimes I go easy on myself, sing how beautiful the world is, say how its okay being your unwanted colours, that maybe emptiness might feel worse than this.
Drops dripping down the window-pane As i walk through a nearby lane Soaked supple surface setting in preface As i tap my feet flat on the terrace Panaromic petrichor perfume drowns me in As i feel zephyr puffing a kiss to my chin I ponder how softly it falls on the ground Dressing the green in a dreamy crown Magpie chirps melody as it pins to it's nest With raindrops filtering away her day's dust Legion pits enticing rain to fill them up And i bring back a souvenir clutching the cup Sizzling symphony pours the lonely hearts And a wisteria wills an aid of healing arts Does the wind make bells chime or it's the sound of Rimjhim? I wonder how it turns me up His love or the sirimiri heat? I find myself flitting to every beat ~SG
On days like these when the sky looks clenched ; like it's trying to hold back what's inside and not break open in front of those who always admire its beauty through camera lenses and naked eyes ; My mom looks out of the kitchen window while she manages to make three different types of tea for three different people in my home and just stands there thinking something .
What ? I wonder Does she remember the first night after she was married ? The new hopes and dreams weaved in red silk threads painted with sweet smelling vermilion and clinking in golden bangles ? Or the feeling of my feet inside her abdomen the joy of brining a new life in this doomed world ?
The last words of my grandma as she died in her arms or the first words of my sister when she smiled a toothless smile ? The nights when dad came after drowning all his worries in a bottle of brown liquor Or the mornings when she found broken china in the hallway ?
I guess she remembers all the times when she was a little girl with emerald eyes and long mahogany hair making crowns of dandelions and looking out of the window as she hoped ; one day she'll live like the Austen characters .
Now she stands here ; a smile always plastered on her still beautiful face ; but her mind lost looking out of the kitchen window stirring the tealeaves ; living Plath .
as I stand in the doorway and feel like looking into a mirror .
I was going for a higher level of cynicism , but this has to do since the purpose is just marking my existence .