when fireflies at twilight swoon in circles like little moon rocks reflecting the desires of lonely children, the grass of my backyard smells of ashes from the pyres of all the hunches and organised crimes, of all the times when the roads diverged and rights didn't feel righteous enough, or the lefts I left behind, of all the times my heart overpowered my senses, or words that I gulped down before reaching any ears; what're we if not a graveyard of dreams? a smile that perished before blooming and a party that was sucked by the ennui of wandering teenagers, and it's appalling how my memory works; it makes me question every moment— "Did that really happen?" and I lay back distracted, from being distraught, because nothing seems real: it's just have been dreams after dreams, or perhaps it's merely a method of denial, to ignore the obvious and obnoxious, and of course, to bury regret in an endless pit; maybe I'll wake up from this dream to another one, and as Billie Holiday said, "Death is no dream," but life is, I'm certain, maybe tomorrow, when I wake up, you'll be a dream too, that I don't quite remember now.
with blurry sight, you dared to glare deep into the cracks of the erupting mountains, and the white-rabbit waves, and the blinding stars; crossed over at all the possibilities, when death was merely a mistake away.
with hands such small, you encompassed the entirety of the universe, inside your palms.
where does this strength, immense enough, come from? whereof is it born?
this power that compels you to believe in happy tomorrows, flushing with dreams; with blurry sight, you see the future— ten years, ten minutes, ten blinks; you gamble with time, but time steals every round, and whispers in your ears with a wicked smile, "Carpe diem!"
you know what plan works the best? no plan at all, because no blueprint has the bridges that break apart at the edge of forevers.
with blurry sight, discard dreams, behold reality.
there's an end to suffering— if only Dazai had believed it, perhaps then he'd not have given up on living, maybe he'd have found his happiness hither or thither, and bloomed a few roses out of his gloom, maybe then it'd have been easier to see the silver lining in one dark cloud, but as it stands, there's no end to suffering, or so I'd arbitrarily believe.
when the curfew ends and the knell is hushed, and the warplanes retreat into their dens, and the roads are a bloodbath, will ye be there to spell out peace letter by letter in your nonchalant voice, will ye be there to clean the reluctant stains off my cloak, will ye be there to whisper in my ear, that the war was inevitable— will ye be there?
on the crossroads, sometimes there's this the-world-is-ending high pandemonium and cataclysm, that makes me press my palms on ears to let my sanity from drifting away; other times, it's silent— as calm as a cuckoo's nest after her mother croon is sung, or the sky at twilight; the sole sound heard far and wide is that of verbs manifesting themselves; still I stand betwixt a stream of passers-by, and in that moment, I live, before the silence is consumed by the hullabaloo yet again; I dwell in the pauses, the silence that they oft call awkward, the spaces that they consider unnecessary, the countable seconds before the dusk or dawn or the breath of a shooting star; I live there; and I live in your eyes, that possess the prowess to hush the needles of time whenever you please; I live whenever I look in your eyes.
your worth is like a dragon, but it's tattooed on the nape of your neck— and you won't see it, but I can, so would you believe me if I said, you're a fierce dragon, with mighty in its wrath wings, and fire in your guts; there's warmth in your embrace; time plays ring a ring o' roses around you, and the sky holds up a little more than usual, gazing you; you are a pause, a pause that always rushes and slips away from my fingers.
the last patches of fresh sunlight routed away, summer anthems whisked off from radios, and the morning coffee began cooling down sooner.
I tore from my cocoon, to face cold winds against my skin; cold breeze, harbinger of tears; sliding the curtains to the sides, I saw outside, and I saw nothing.
it was Viserion's breath, that enveloped all enclosures in sight; and I strode cluelessly, like a ghost with no history left behind and no history to manufacture, I just walked.
and they say the best poetry is found in the simplest things; I saw something glittering betwixt the thick layer of vague compromising my vision, and had a flashback, of a textbook saying, "beware! all that glitters, is not gold." and I wondered, what if the greed for gold didn't drive me, but the curiosity to find out what sparkles, and parallels the sheen of gold, and isn't gold, so I could push and become that thing, because I sometimes glitter too but they say I'm worthless, because the proverb will always have gold, but I'm merely a piece of corroded copper.
cars zoom past, and the drivers they raise eyebrows, and they smirk and ask, "why do you have to see poetry in everything, what's wrong?" and I fall back on silence, because poetry seeks you and you are a mere vessel, who when breached by beauty is supposed to feel it, and not withdraw, it seeps and soaks like candy in your veins, so how can I not be a romantic, even for catastrophes and disasters? "why do you not see poetry in everything, what's wrong?"
Viserion's cold blood, and freezing skin is scorched from Apollo's wrath, and his mighty breaths retreat, I take the bridge that doesn't burn from passion, and passing, and throw my shoes in the river that travels the world, and kisses the sea at last.
from far, I see the doorknob of my dull asylum, but I spot a swallowtail butterfly swooning in the balcony around a sunflower, and pass the door of gloom, with brazen footsteps, because I know, there'll always be a poem, anywhere, for everyone who craves it.
in a sea of plain faces— all as featureless as the ones Bond's Mr. Oliver saw on a dark, eerie night, but the difference was that it was broad daylight; a handful few would sigh at the feeling of bathing in light, feeling trapped in the dark.
in blacks, a sea of unknown faces, there were voids in my heart and each one a living night of its own, I couldn't see anyone's face because above their necks there was nothing but darkness, no eyes to stare, no lips to argue, no nose to scrunch, and then they all stood up to leave; bumping against my body, as if I was unwanted, unowned, orphaned, abandoned, deserted, and everything became strange, so strange.
I turned to the only face I could see, covered up in the smoke from the incense sticks, stuck inside a frame, wept and mourned with white-knuckled wails—
"firefly, you left soon, but the night is growing cold, no light to hold on, the sunrise seems faraway, why must fireflies die so young?"
It all started in October of 2017 when I saw a whatsapp status of my English teacher. She had written this beautiful poem and so I decided to download this app, with this beautiful logo. I and my sister are not the ones who wrote poems or quotes but we loved writing essays and English and so that was the motivating force to our joining mirakee. My first username was raika_ashraf and my first ever quote was on the word of the day: Rivers.
After that I and my sister collaboratively wrote two to three quotes and she went off on her own from then. The first ever person or friend I made was satyamdharia, he was a really good friend but him and many others when found out I was from Pakistan, were very hesitant from there on. Satyam was a really good friend of reshamthegreat and I admired Resham so much, she was the celebrity of that time and hence I got to know her slowly and it was the beginning of my journey and then I got to know so many people.
I wrote really cheesy and stupid quotes at the start and now when I look back I creep myself out but I think that was when I grew and became the person that I am today. In the first year on Mirakee I met this amazing group of friends (zafarkhan, shafia_khanam, shivam, yash, sehaj and milo) and we called ourselves Stalkers not because we stalked people (okay we did but not in the creepy way), what we did was read the people who were here before us and talked in comment boxes that one time we exceeded the limit of comments, I don't know how we did that! Those were really good days and my parents absolutely had no idea what did I do on my phone all day.
Suddenly, oh so suddenly things began to change and my group left mirakee, and so did so many other people - my mother found out about mirakee and read some chats with nivi where he said, 'You will be fifteen in January right?' and my mother scolded me for talking to guys and strangers and all that stuff and hence I took a break (my first ever break) from mirakee and this was after I wrote the post on Men's day.
When I came back nothing was the same, people I knew had left and believe me I do not exaggerate when I say I knew hundreds of people and when I came back I knew only a handful. Mirakee was a strange place to me and hence I left again. That was also the time when I wrote my first ever good write ups, the ones I myself like such as Mirakee-A writers paradise, Paper Planes etc. But I was not consistent and really sad and angry on mirakee and everyone who had left. I once commented on Shivam's post and then I posted those words too, they went like, 'When and why did you leave?' I remember people commenting on my write ups, we miss you come back and then finally I came back after getting over all the people who left and started writing one write up every day, and met sangfroid_soul and then slowly other friends of her and slowly more people on mirakee and zohiii of course. It was a new era, a new lifetime on mirakee which will not make sense to most of you, but everything changed for me. I had this rant account and this anonymous account which some claim to be my alternate personality. There was this phase when I changed my usernames so much and landed on raika but mirakee stopped allowing five lettered usernames and hence the underscore.
Debjit, Gaurav, Tarun, Avitaj, Moi and some more writers are some who were here when I started and they are still here (somehow). I remember reading old writers such as Bluebird, Nightwriter_i, Shizane, _nishta, and so many more (I have a whole list of these amazing writers if anyone needs) and I read them and missed the old mirakee even more. I used to read them when nights were hard to go through. So yes, a thankyou to these old writers, who are the real celebrities for me.
People started leaving yet again but this time I wasn't that bothered because I knew I would leave too, someday, maybe.
But in this second life on mirakee, I once again met this amazing group of girls, also known as Drug Divas and I'm so happy I was one of them. Writersbay being this really nice motive for me to write.
My mirakee journey has had alot of ups and downs, from being harassed because of nationality and religion to being respected by readers who love what I write to making friends, and finding my best friend Shafia.
I have been typing for a while now and it has gotten really long and yet I want to write so much of how I admired tengoku and never thought her and I will be friends and how I have this beautiful and huge block list and about the times when likes and reposts didn't matter, (they should really not matter) and how I got to talk to Bluebird (a huge fan moment) and also Avitaj, haha but yes! I have grown so much in these three plus years of my life and I will never regret downloading mirakee though I really hope they give us free drafts(trying my luck).
I don't know when I might leave mirakee or this world but mirakee for me has been this other dimension where I met people of all kinds especially from India and I am grateful to everyone, to the people I love and hate, adore, and those who creep me out and those I creep out and everyone. It has not always been a good journey but I think, what is a journey without any hardships? So I would like to say
*ink runs out*
What better day to write about mirakee than on Valentines day. My love, you have been really hard on me but then again, I have been really hard on you too. Forever and always, mirakee. (cheesy enough?) I know you love me Mirakee. Miss me when I leave.
The man in blue comes by every second Thursday with a bundle of envelopes and a rose for my sister
Three letters, we snatch before he puts them in the box, the ones with flowers drawn on the bottom left corner
I, eurus and mum sit by the fireplace that night and read out loud the three poems that survived
He is away on war, the poet - my dad and the words he sends are the promises he couldn't keep
It's been a month and the post man hasn't come my sister's flowers have withered and mom's heart beats slow
Four poem less thursdays pass and the phone rings eurus holds my hand as mom talks eurus screams as mom falls
I am eighteen and a half sitting by the hospital window near the bed where lay mom and E, with a promise in my hand
' My death will never be my own but of the three flowers I never saw bloom
I see the sunrise everyday but I'm scared to see the sun set when the waves take me away, take care of our little east wind, she's meant to fly, high and free; read the poems I have written, to our queen before she sleeps
Thunder, when the waves take me away, will you be the peace in the war their hearts will seek?
-the last words of a poet on war-'
A tear escaped and wiped, I nod towards heaven and smile
"your death is not your own." a line by Sherlock Holmes. Gladiolus is a flower which symbolises strength.