i think i've lost this, long time back

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  • summersin 13w

    23'feb, 22

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    poems are incomplete. a part of me i used to hide because i never wanted to face a situation where i no victim but a liberal liar. it's a place, we know we don't belong yet i choose to stay. i stay within unsaid.
    whenever i run away, i like to continue this. the run. maybe i'm tired today. maybe i don't know if i ever will reach to the end but till then i've learned to move from person to person.
    i'm tired, this tiredness seem to be like a void. every person i've met used to lodge their stench in this apartment. that day i saw you, two benches beside mine, i think you were trying hard to hide your sorrow. i think we were hiding our flaw like feeling/s.

    "do you know its answer?"

    "uhm, will you repeat?
    i didn't hear it properly"

    probably, it was true. i don't listen the things properly. maybe it was me who seemed to be more flawed. i was the one who always wanted to be listened but is it any crime to think like this?

    you stood up as if you have always known its answer. i saw you picking up the chalk, lying on the floor which might have get unnoticed until or unless i met you
    a screeching sound of chalk which you made by drawing a silence on the blackboard, i looked towards you and said

    "it's annoying, a complete noise"

    "perhaps, people are the same. perhaps, we are the same" you added, "you know, every person could be like this chalk. we make noise, isn't our voice supposed to be this? i guess, there's nothing wrong to have the desire of being heard. we are enough of complaining this, anyway"

    you went back to your seat.
    i followed you.
    it was hilarious, how we didn't talk the whole semester but from nowhere we started talking that day. except your name and hair colour i knew nothing about you
    but there was a lot i wanted to ask
    to be honest, most of the time i used to have so much to say and you had enough patience to listen
    i guess that what makes you and i so different from others. maybe we could have been friends earlier as well however by that it might have lost its touch

    i looked towards you.


    "you have drawn silence now?"

    it was confusing. if silence could be painted, what colours will you choose?
    will it be red, blue, black or white

    i turned back, you were busy talking with your friends. i never thought of approaching you, then.
    we excelled at this art of keeping our emotions in a cage.
    i went back to my place while watching you from far,
    continuing your silence.

    THE END .

  • summersin 16w

    *The goddess Hecate is one of the lesser-known goddesses of Greek pantheon. The only child of the Titans, Perses and Asteria. Hecate was the goddess of magic and witchcraft, and so much more. Her functions extended beyond the realms of the heavens, earth, the seas, and the underworld.

    *There might not be any figure in Greek Mythology that is as misunderstood as Hecate. Her name has been connected to dark magic and disturbing rituals in the works of Shakespeare and well into modern times.

    It's my first collaboration and I'm really thankful towards @morosingvice_ for doing this collab.


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    Life - The detachment taken for granted

    To the Hecate that ran away from life, at the end of elysian field. To the begetter caught between Scylla and Charybdis, the story, it's his silence. He had death. C'est bientôt fini. Misunderstood. Lies. Life. Her.

    Her soul clinging to the eternity called stalemate. The girl was alive, with her bronchi mingling with the air of atmosphere. The girl can sense feelings, the factuals and flauntings of the illusionary forebodings. She was handed with responsibility, the right to slay the stereotypes with her quill of quignog. With the refillngs of ravagers, and the larceny of leviathans, she wrote the phrase of existence. Quoting the conspectus of animation and coupling it with locksteps, she marked period on the colloquy. She had been told to sin shamelessly, so she did the same. She had herself in contempt, with her character on line, her purity demanded renunciation. So with her broken pride, she seduced the satan. With the blessing of darkness, she indulged in jouissance with jeopardy. They had fallen for each other, they opted vividity over veracity. But what of life then ? What of later and goodbyes ? What of death? Where is the gore ?

    Death gave her pardon to them both. The girl
    has the charm of world, for which she will
    happily slay her own siesta. The saints too
    approved the blasphemy of spectre. Their life
    overjoyed with the outcomes of odyssey. They lived for long, with their dreams fulfilled and love intact. They are the predecessors of eden, bringing over the era of saltation. They graced demons, they have studied the saints, their story was obviously forsaken. And when the masquerade came upon them, they cherished it with transparency. They left the matter and mass to oblivion, with their soul caressing the symphonic synchronity. Their goal, all achieved and abstracted. Their gods, grinning yet grateful. Their viability, ungranted evenly, yet unscathed still.

    Being alive, a mercy of the uncharted idols or the curse of curious kinds maybe, you can curse Hecate, berate her will you, or would you like to humiliate diablo? Spat on the past, strike fear in the core of dreamers, have them submit their souls to stereotypes, have them on the stand of ethics. You can burn the will of truth to cinders, commit to the last rites of liberty, if you will. You can pray everyday, you can play god, so that no one else will have the luxury to be by themselves. But, what's next then ? You can't control this titan called time, you can't tame prophecy. The course is charted, life has been dispensed and love will prevail. People's dreams, they never end. Their life is not the boundation, they are everlasting with their lives, their ambitions. Was it good that they claimed life? Is it okay to cherish their legacy? Should life be granted to all? Is it a boon?

    Who knows? Blood will tell. Life goes on.
    So long.

    We demand ourselves in sake of their existence? To the begetter, being alive isn't given. The Heart, it had tragedies. I believe and I believe Hecate sold the suicide so we could augur the time, their titan, his death. We Human. The Thrace stored the perception wherefore we human bring alive the being of daughter of death. About the conspectus, she did never thought of consequence. At the price of denuding, would you hate Hecate? The act of getting the right in hands, we disavow the beseeching of Asteria Heir. She kept herself in retch in order to survive the land. The land who misunderstood their heads in hands, you believe the devil? You believe their guidance? Wherefore we are. What we bring her into? Is it the sin that we delineate in three-thorough story? Was it her fault to make a dimension by our own flesh? The reason of being uncharted until the end of Earth. I wrote the story of aesthete the death, across the crossroad, the heathen had arrived. Of accusing Hecate in the end, the parched assumption we had taken for granted. The Thrace told the history, the tragedy of reasoning the existence had always sentenced life. Had given the tragedy. We spend sympathy like life then why we couldn't corrupt ourselves?

    Today, we write. The language less than the lies of let it happen, of happening in torment. We write the throwaway sight, whichever we choose, We pay it. We. Pay. It. Today, we write to not on the behalf of birth but to believe the justice of jouissance. Of repercussion, Hecate assures. It torment the underworld, Heart of Hecate. Misunderstood? She had the life, too.

    Hecate Is Here. C'est la vérité.

    ©morosingvice_ & ©summersin

  • summersin 18w

    ᴛ-ʜɪꜱ ᴡᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱᴛᴀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ʟᴏɴɢ

    के साँझ इन दिनों ज़्यादा ठंडी है।इस शब्दहीन से दृश्य में अक्सर वो अलग आसमान से किसी को खोजता है क्योंकि फ़िलहाल उसे एहसास नहीं कि अल्फ़ाज़ विरह लीन नहीं मगर उसकी ध्वनि से अधिक है।शायद इन रंगों में किसी एक रात सा है वो।खैर कहने सुनने की बात नहीं ना उसे यकीन है आब ए आवाज़ में, हक़ीक़त ये है कि बहुत से शामें वो अपने नाम कर रखा है।उस कविता की सेहर वो संग रखता और सोचता कि कोई अलग आसमान है भी?

    के कई साँझ अब नारंगी नहीं किन्तु कोहरे से जमे, काफ़ी कुछ कह रहे है।उसके गिरफ्त में यहीं कोई रंग मानो जैसे ज़िन्दगी से जुड़े घनेरी सुर्ख़ मान रहे हो।वो समतल किसी की पारिजात की शाख सा।उसका आसमा अब अद्वितीय था।यकीन ये है कि कभी वो वृक्ष झुकी हुई गंभीर घनेरी विराम सा, शायद उस अतिस्तब्ध अर्श में कई व्यक्तियों में कहीं वो अनजान आज भी तलाश में है, अलग आसमान के?

    के साँझ अब किसी के कारण बेवजह दरिया नहीं लाँघता।वो जब लिखता तो सारे शब्द कोई समुद्री रेत से एक एक सिमटते है, ये उन हर समय से उत्त्पन्न शून्य-अनंत का मेल प्रतीत होता।उस कुल्हड़ की गरम चाय एवं इलायची शायद एहसास था कि ये शाम आज खत्म होने को है। वो ये मानता कि आसमान अभी अलग है, मगर उसके भी कई कारण होंगे?

    ~सुमन, १६/०१/२०२२