The things I've said and the things I left unsaid The things I've done and the things I shouldn't have The memories we had, good and bad... They're all over my head As I hold your hand for the last time The warmth poked my heart I couldn't stop crying, realizing this is the end of us. What's more painful than seeing your sad eyes bidding farewell to mine. I don't know how to handle the pain our hearts is bearing No third party involved and that hurts even more Knowing the problem is within us and our love isn't enough to keep us together.
I don't wanna lose you, But I don't wanna lose myself either. Letting go of each other's hand is the toughest thing to do.
It's when the night devoured the fading daylightーI found myself walking through a dark alleyway, finding my way back home. I tripped over a stone and fell on the cold cobbled ground. Still bleeding and in pain, I searched for light and strived to walk my way out of the dark.
Reaching the border between darkness and light, I streched out a hand to the other side.
Pale silver light spilling from above then gently touched my hand.
I decided to look up and saw the full Moon smiling at me. I was astonishedーshe looked like a gleaming halo resting in the velvety night sky, illuminating the pitch-black streets with her soft shimmering glow.
What a mesmerizing view, I thought.
Starting that night, I tend to gaze at her in astonishment, like it's always my first time seeing her. Some nights she's half, some nights she's crescent. She did have many shapes, but still nothing changedーshe's the moon and she's always beautiful no matter what.
Little by little I realized, it was her all along, lighting my dark path, like a beacon leading me home. Little by little I felt something was blooming inside my chestーsomething deeper than the night.
But cloudy nights came, surrounding the sky with puffs of gray. Those gloomy nights where I couldn't even catch a glimpse of her made me realize, I didn't have the privilage to see her all the time.
As I walked beneath a starless sky, still staring and hoping to see her one more time, I tripped and fell again. There wasn't a single wound, but an unbearable pain that I couldn't seem to find.
The pain poured like frigid rain, waking me up to realityーshe'll always be up there; I'll be stuck down here forever.
I should just be contented with her moonlight,
but was it wrong wishing to be her Sun?
That moment, I didn't know which one hurt the mostーthe pain from falling or the fact that,
This one is close to my heart. I write this straightforward without a lot of metaphors. Because this prompt really speaks to me. I'm a frustrated artist and I can't help but compare myself to others. I know that's wrong, but seeing how well they are really makes me feel small. I'm sorry if I feel that way but, that's me being honest with myself.
If you ask me to nudge whole nine yards of chores someday, I shall walk through boulevards of alphabets before summing up how to fill empty vessels or cut through the blunt edge of knife.
For to walk on a lane we must know in which shoe our feet are placed, to rain our tongues which clouds should be hold on, for perceptions are born from the womb of words and when perception fail to sail, tides of actions must not raise.
Actions may step in from the corridor of Newton's third law of motion, whereas the home belongs to motility of words, where attachments are flaunt- ed by chains, chains hooked up by thoughts and etiquettes.
Thoughts arrive first to shores before waves make an effort to sail, even though ripples create louder sound but without the blow of rhythmic air it shall collapse and faint. ~Purva
Kabul, T̶h̶e̶ ̶p̶a̶r̶i̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶a̶s̶i̶a̶ ̶ the hubris of Asia
When the leaves turn brown and the evenings bleed orange, I'm robbed up by the admirers of mountains, desserts, rivers, bazaars and everything else.
I'm settled to be a paradise with gun-lights on highways, a castle indebted to freedom and a pilgrimage invaded by, once, twice, thrice, till every- thing fades, while Soviet sighs.
Dine in the world library, and trail migrating dynasties on the snippets of my bare skin, call me a coal-tar but you'll excavate diamonds in men on my lands while women are hindered from rebels but often preyed for their beauty.
The sky curls up in blue and the autumn in auburn shades, snow melts upon the empty walls of exhausted palace, and village huts carry too much. I feel like I'm an ordinary city.
But I'm more than museums and mausoleums, maybe a chronicle of vague dates, millions of places, obsolete tongues and unheard wars, hungry for prayers and peace yet served with another history. ~Kabul